Reel Life (Sep 1913 - Mar 1914)

REEL LIFE The Cutting of a Moving Picture F all the things about moving pictures of which the uninititiated know nothing, there is one concerning which their ignorance amounts to less than nothing. It is the cutting of a picture. The idea prevails among the patrons of pictures that the camera takes just what they pay to see on the screen; but no idea was ever further from the truth. The equipment with which the director begins to "shoot" is almost as elaborate as the paraphernalia of a general entering battle. Atid the engagement is not so very different from a tug-of-war. There's the camera and the man who operates it. There's the assistant with the slate on which the number of each scene is registered. He's very much in the picture though the public never sees him. Usually he is more or less a handy man, ofificiating with the "props" when he isn't slateswinging. His facetious little ways, as he poses while the camera-man "cranks" the number of the scenes on the slate which he holds against his breast and beneath his humorous face, all get their picture taken. And, of course, they all appear to more or less advantage on the screen when the picture has its first run in the darknessand seclusion of the projection room. It adds a peculiarly racy flavor to a gold-and-satin drawing-room set to see this useful member of the corps smiling a smirched smile above his slate while his arms are guiltless of anything but shirtsleeves ; and his trousers are noticeably minus the small and subtle touches of the tailor. He isn't always left in for the first run. Indeed, where there are no disquieting doubts of the film, whether it is satisfactory or not for use in the picture, he is cut out. But there are gaping moments, filled with furniture only, before the leading lady trips in ; or the villian creeps cautiously across the threshold. Two to half-a-dozen 'takes' of the same scene may drag confusingly before the eyes of the editor. The best of these must be selected. One is bad because the villian ran cmt the wrong door. Another is bad because the camera-man ran out of film. And, in the dimness of the room, a bluish tint colors the dusk as the director, miserably conscious of what he had meant to do and didn't, makes 'a goat' of the careless camera-man and lassoes him with language because he hadn't sense enough to load his 'gun' before he 'shot' the scene. It might interest the ignorant uninititiated to know that the director has 'some job.' He doesn't take the picture as it finally runs on the screen. No indeed ! He takes a group of 'exteriors,' then a bunch of 'interiors,' then he works off a few 'fade-ins' and 'dissolves.' When all his negative has been carefully released in the mysterious 'dark-room' from its place in the 'retorts,' it is secreted, as carefully as a hen hides her nest, in tin cans-. These carry it to the developing-room where the negative is developed — still in this creepy darkness that makes the business of motion pictures seem even more nearly criminal than it sometimes is with its crooks and prisons — then the prints are made, long rolls of inch-wide film crowded full of little pictures, sixteen to the incih. Into the assembler's hands, these rolls are committed to be put together as nearly in sequence as possible. The numbers on the slate are the guides. The first run of the picture with its excess length of from fifty to five hundred feet — depending on the director and the economical ideas of the firm that hires him — is as exciting as an amateur horse-race. And it seems about as hard to get anywhere at first. A grave-stone shows wanly through the midst of a fade-in. A solemn little figure crouches beside the grave it ornaments. She rises and walks away weeping and wringing her hand. Bing! She comes dancing the simple steps of the Tango back to the nice hand-made grave. That means that the director has uttered the command to 'retake ;' and she is going back to first position. Of course, a good cameraman stops cranking; but all camera-men are not as busy saving 'footage' on the film as their employers might wish. Consequently a lot of funny things that never reach the public are seen by the editors who get the picture into shape. It might interest the public to know that the little monkey which poised so tragically near the edge of the table in the Doctor's study really did fall off with a sounding bump. The editors 'cut-out' the bump — an operation which did not require the services of a hospital corps and cost only about 50 cents — the price of the film sacrificed. Questioned, the editor might have acknowledged that the bump was more exciting than the Doctor who took himself so seriously in the picture. But it wasn't a part of the story; and it had to be omitted. It is indeed funny when a 'grand-dame' in magnificent robes sails majestically down the marble stairs, then gets the order to right-about-face. The way she 'shins' up the stairs with a generous display of — well, what she's shinning with — is worth seeing. Poor public ! What you do miss ! But there are compensations. It gets awfully monotonous for the editor who sits and watches the retake of a scene half-a-dozen times, all because the candle in the beer-bottle wouldn't blow out in the manufactured gust of wind which was keeping three men busy behind the scenes. It's exasperating, too, to have the love-scenes come to a place where the heroine opens her mouth to say — "I love you ;" and the camera-man stops cranking with the gaping mouth sadly and inefficiently impressing the eye of the beholder. If Cupid had not established his power before the day of motion pictures, it's a sure thing that he would be just naturally excavated, curls and bow, plump cheeks and roguish eye, from the dominion he controls. Almost any editor of motion pictures could survive a diet of debilitated clams with more poise and pleasure than he views the osculations and sheep's-eye of the lovers. As the picture draws to a close, he begins to say in his mind if he doesn't articulate it. Lover's arms reach cravingly — loveress looks down — he comes nigher — she looks higher — ^lashed together with the same old lingering look that ought to be extracted by the roots, they approach. Then — they kiss. But by that time the editor has taken the scene for granted and is busy under the low light above his desk, computing the number of inches that can be cut off the embrace to save film and feelings. No wonder the Censors have a rule — 'No prolonged embraces allowed!" It's a bloomin' shame that it isn't shot directly into the director so he will wake up from his antedeluvian ideas of love-making. Don't directors ever make real love themselves that they try to pass off such a bad imitation on the screen ? Who knows ? The Picture Editorj VJ,