Picture Play Magazine (Oct-Nov 1915)

Interviewing Ince CLAMBERED into Inceville, California— a veritable frontier town — fter a fifteen-minute ride by automole along a primeval stretch of coast jne. Wondrous scenery hereabouts. Huge ■ountains, great ranges of amethyst -ouching down to meet the Pacific, ainted a sapphire blue. An ambernted coast, flecked with breaking seas ; nd — eternally clear skies. Into Inceville, incorporated city of notion pictures, and a minute later into le presence of a dapper young Amerian with the frankest of countenances nd penetrating eyes. No introduction *as necessary. He could be no other nan Tom Ince — the Ince who delighted lousands in vaudeville ; who now is • • elighting millions with his picture prouctions. "I know you're busy, Mr. Ince," I •roke in, "but all I want is a hundred vords " Bang! went something outside, and he wires got crossed in my spinal colimn. "That's nothing," Ince laughed. "A ittle dynamite — that's all ! We're runting off a picture down in the canon. A'hat is it you " Into the office rushed a disheveled person, sleeves rolled up, completely jooted and spurred. ''Got 'em all lined up for scene one, Mr. Ince — will you come 'n' have a look?" "Be up in a minute, Kennedy." And, turning to me again: "I haven't much time, but I guess " A loud trumpeting commenced just outside the office, and the entire building tangoed as if struck by a mighty temblor. "\\ hat the " I exclaimed, as I made a hasty break for the door. Then , I changed my mind, and faced about double-quick. A huge elephant rubbed his starboard flank against the side of the building. "We're used to this," explained the picture impresario, half apologetically. 'Have a chair. Five years ago I came out here to — produce pictures and " Knock, knock, knock at the door. Enters a super — tall, ebony-faced mdivid By E. W. Hewston ual. with beard disappearing into the folds of a multicolored turban. He delivers a kotow, followed by a salaam, and emits something like the following dialect : "Maharajah, from my people I come. God of the wonderful pictures, I bear a message from Babble-Singh and Dabble-Singh and Gabble-Singh and their followers, for who desire more rupees. In patience, completely subdued, I await your pleasure." "Go back, jemadar," was the reply, "and tell your friends that if they will do their best in this picture I'll give each of them a raise — and a present, as well." Exit the jemadar at joyful speed. "Those fellows," Mr. Ince continued, "are like children if treated properly. Treat them any other way, and they will " "The Hindus are a temperamental people," I interrupted, having a keen eye to getting the picture magnate off the siding onto the main track. "Is it a fact, Mr. Ince, that President Wilson has requested you to " Boom ! went a fieldpiece outside, and my ears began to chorus something. Shouts rent the air, and what little quietude that should have been left in the atmosphere was bubbling over with such ■ noise effects as clattering hoofs, discharging firearms, and directorial thunder. Half of that hundred-word interview was already up, and I was commencing to show visible signs of nervousness. "We manage to fill in the day pretty well out here." Ince volunteered, after the bedlam had disappeared farther down the canon, followed by the camera men. "Picture making is a fascinating and exciting ordeal. As a tonic for bad circulation, there is nothing to compare with it." "I quite agree with you," I vouchsafed. "As a producer, Mr. Ince, what are the most salient features in connection with the art of film making?" That question still remains unanswered, and a second later I forgot that I had ever asked it. A hubbub of excitable voices was heard outside, and then into the office burst a score or more of infuriated foreigners— Turks, Austrians, • Russians. Germans, Frenchmen, Japanese, and an Englishman. It was a case of near war precipitated in Inceville between Teuton-Moslems and the Allies ; and they had brought their troubles before the Ince tribunal. "Dana-san Ince," orated a Jap, "sacred Buddha, the insult begets from son of Germany — I accept insult some more — not on your life, I swore by Fujiyama !" "One at a time — one at a time," shouted Mr. Ince, as the more agressive sought to renew verbal hostilities in the office. "Ze bloomin' Turk — he calls me ze sardine secretaire — I not stand for eet !" complained a Frenchman. "Lie!" the Turk retorted. "He call me harem-scare'em — insult — ah !" Ince invited the mob outside to hear their difficulties, and a camera man was hastily summoned from somewhere, who ran off several hundred feet of film, full of real action — something a little more than reel realism. Then the belligerents were quieted by Mr. Ince, and were prevailed on to return to their quarters. "The life of a producer is just one hanged thing after another," was his comment on the affair. He put out his hand. "Good-by, and good luck to you !" My hundred-word interview was up, but I had gained a world of experience. For a Cross-eyed Audience. IN a cave scene taken recently at ' Santa Barbara, California, Helen Rosson and Roy Stewart were acting. When the negative was examined after the film was complete, it was discovered that Roy's clothes had been torn in several places, and his flesh revealed as the result. Then it was also found that Helen's dress caught on some rocks in another part, and — well, even Director William Bertram blushed as he watched the picture. Calling the two players to him, he remarked : "This is a retake. I didn't mean it to be a double exposure."