Screenland (Apr-Sep 1924)

90 SCMEENLAN© The Perfect Type— from page 63 My nerves were raw when I arrived on the lot the next morning. I hadn't had any sleep, and there was a wicked taste in my mouth that water could neither dilute nor erase. It wasn't that I had taken too much. I can hold as much as the next. But the stuff they peddle nowadays — well, you know what it is. There were only a few of the company there, and half the actors who were to be in the firing squad. The others hadn't shown — and we couldn't find them any place. We sat around the set, smoking cigarettes, and wishing for something to drink, while old George Howland ran around tearing out his hair, and looking for six soldiers. It would be easy to take the first six extras he saw, but the men of the firing squad had to be six-footers and look like veterans. Howland wanted types. It must have been noon when he got them all. And when he had them he wasn't any too pleased. "Well, it's the last shot," he said. "I suppose I'll have to be satisfied." He was all ready to go when away across the lot he spied a stranger — "a perfect type." A six-footer with saber wounds on neck and chin, and a bayonet scratch running from his forehead down one side of his nose, across the lips, and almost to the point of his jaw ! "A find!" he said, and ran to the man. "What's your name? You've got to play a part in this picture. You don't need any experience. I've got to have you. Give you fifteen dollars. Not bad for an hour's work, eh ? All you've got to do is look like a soldier. Not hard, is it?" He brought the man over to us, intro duced him as Peter Olson, took a man out of the squad, and made up Olson himself and costumed him, while we waited. There was a short rehearsal — and it was easily seen that Olson would do. You remember the part? Dan comes marching out with the firing squad, arms tied behind him. He takes his place, and the lieutenant and the men stand opposite. Dan sneers at them. The lieutenant offers to bind his eyes, and Dan registers deep scorn, and shakes his head. The lieutenant steps back, asks Dan if he has anything to say. Dan shakes his head, calmly, and the lieutenant turns to his men, and snaps out an order. The rifles come up, snappily. Those six extras, new men all, brought up their rifles prettily. Not a slouch among them. The war has done much for the movies. "Take aim !" Dan draws himself up proudly, waiting for death, and not fearing it. "Fire !" — and the empty rifles click while Dan falls backward and the lieutenant steps toward the body. "Very good," said Howland pleased with himself. "Olson, you are perfect." He shut his eyes half way — as though seeing Olson in another role and liking it immensely. He turned abruptly and motioned to his assistant. Blank cartridges were put in the rifles. Everybody looked at himself in a mirror. The camera men squinted through the sights. Electricians tested their lights. The musicians tuned up. 'All right. Action !" The music started. The lights hissed on. The cameras clicked. The firing squad came in through the gate. Grenadiers. Veterans. One, two, three, four ! The march step. Brisk commands. Prompt obedience. Beautiful and awful ! War ! A man is about to die ! Tremaine sneers at the twelve rifles pointing their little holes at his chest. Two lines of soldiers, six in front, six in back. Olson with the saber wounds and the bayonet scar, staring grimly and malevolently. Great work. Thrilling. "Snap out those commands," cries Howland. "Don't spoil this scene." "Take aim !" The rifles are steadied. "Fire !" The rifles spit flame. Dan falls forward, the savage grin on his face giving way to a look of shocked surprise. The lieutenant steps toward the body. A woman screams, comes running toward the set. Mrs. Ehrlich. The lieutenant stops. He looks at Howland, stupidly. "Blood !" he says. And he points. We never could prove who murdered Dan Tremaine. One man out of twelve, of course. But which one? The rifles had been inspected. And the cartridges. There was no question that all blanks had been put into the guns. One of the twelve soldiers had made the substitution. But no one had seen him. And the guns now lay scattered, and there was no way to tell what certain gun any one of them had used. But then — we didn't want to prove anything. Best hush it up, if we could. Scandal "ever did the movies any good. We never should have guessed the answer had not the new man, Olson, the man of the scarred face, walked over to the woman sobbing at the body of Dan Tremaine, and seized her arm and pulled her upright. She looked at him, and laughed strangely, and they walked out of the studio, arm in arm. The Listening Post— from page 8 j a short story and sold it to a fiction magazine for S25. She called it The Rendezvous. Marshall Neilan saw it, recognized its screen possibilities and bought it, for $5,000! The purchase price was divided between the author and the scenarist who adapted it to the screen. Recognizing Mrs. Ruthven's talent, the studio promoted her to the reading department, •.vhere she scans modern literature in search of possible film stories. Girls who are clever with a needle find interesting employment in the wardrobe departments, where yards ana yards of gleaming satins, shimmering tulle and silks are converted into the gorgeous gowns of th? stars. The drapery departments require specially trained seamstresses to handle the heavy velvets and stiff metal brocades. The heads of these wardrobe departments, such as Sophie Wachner of the Goldwyn studio, and Ethel Chaffm of the Lasky plant, have to be fashion prophets and skilled in the art of playing up an actress' good points and concealing her less fortunate ones. Miss Wachner shortens a tall girl's height by dressing her, for evening-dress scenes, in a gown with the skirt short in front and with a long train behind, or by adorning her frock with ruffles running around the skirt. To accentuate height, Miss Wach ner suggests hats that are dark next to the face and brightly colored as to the crown. Chances in Wardrobe Departments A unique position in Hollywood is held by Milba Lloyd in the plaster shop of the Lasky lot. Miss Lloyd designed the sphinxes and the figure of Rameses, used in Cecil De Mille's The Ten Commandments. In the plaster shop, "props" such as the stone art benches and spouting fountains of "society pictures" are turned out.