Picture-Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1926)

52 The Man who Made "The Big Parade" Photo by Clarence S. Bull .» Vidor appears to be an easy-going dreamer, but he has a determination and a persistence that form the basis of his success. mains, even to this day, something of a mystery,. Although it is known, of course, that since their parting, both of them have indicated new romantic interests. All of this is, of course, entirely aside from Vidor's professional life, which has been consistently progressive. Destiny could not have made anything clearer than that King Vidor was one day to reach a pinnacle. From the very beginning, it might be said, it was not a question of the nature of his ability, so much as it was of his finding the right vehicle for this ability — something that would turn the trick in his favor. The fact that many of his pictures were good, but that none of them was great, was simply due to their subject matter, rather than to any innate lack of fitness on his part to accomplish the unusual. There is absolutely nobody in pictures whose work has shown such high promise right from the beginning. He was literally born to the films, and it really only needed a "Big Parade," or something of equal moment, to evoke the climax of fulfillment. Vidor started making pictures when he was in his teens, down in Texas. He didn't know a thing about films, but he liked them. The first one that he saw was a scenic, and the idea of photography in motion captivated him. To this day, it is this idea of motion that is the guiding theme of all his efforts. The importance of the acting, subtitles, bits of screen business — everything — ■ is subservient. And if you have already seen "The Big Parade," you will recall how in all the war scenes, this theory of his is predominant. The effectiveness of the great scene of the departure of the troops from the French village ; the grim entry of the soldiers into No Man's Land ; the wild hysterical outburst of hate on the part of Jack Gilbert against the enemy, and even such a delicate episode as the mother's remembrance of her son's boyhood, are all expressed in the same terms of moving pictures. Nothing that may be said through action that can be photographed, shall ever be told in words, is the cardinal Vidorian principleIt was with the camera that he started his career. He had no conception of story or of acting. He felt that, with a camera, he was armed to conquer the world, and as soon as he acquired one — made out of an old projection machine cast off from a theater — he set right out to make a picture. In doing this, he fulfilled all the functions of director, camera man, and also actor, with the aid of a group of friends. This happened in his Texas days. Whether the picture actually was shown publicly, I 1 do not recall. It sufficed at least for the entertainment of various family circles — for, having made a camera out of a projection machine, it was only a step for Vidor to change this back again into its original status. He had thrice run away from school during his youth, and had as many times gone to New York. Strong in his likes and dislikes, despite his native affability, he had taken an ardent aversion to his French teacher. That was what, according to his own accounting, drove him to play the long-distance truant. These early visits to the Eastern metropolis, from which he was generally brought back by his parents in high disgrace, fixed it in his mind that the great seaboard city was the goal of all big and new endeavors. So, when he had exhausted the novelty of attempting to shoot impromptu scenes with his companions, he decided he would have to go to New York to give more serious study to pictures if he was ever to go on with them. Hence, the peculiarly pro