Screenland (Apr-Sep 1924)

QLike all great men, Griffith is a bit pathetic. Hehas made very little money compared with the directors who have done much less for pidtures than he. r. GRIFFITH keeps his Date Bj/ Sydney V alentine IT was the opening night of "America." The audience, slightly hoarse, was still cheering. It had been applauding more or less, off and on, all evening, as parts of the picture inspired it to enthusiasm. It went quite, quite mad at the ride of Paul Revere. But now, with the final scenes flickering off, it wanted more. It rose to its feet — its dainty little feet in French slippers, and its bigger, broader feet in shiny shoes — and demanded— ''Speech ! " For a while there it looked as if there would be no response. And then from the wings came a slow figure — a rather gaunt man with flushed cheeks and unnaturally bright eyes. "Mr. Griffith!" greeted the audience. He bowed. He placed one hand over his heart in a familiar gesture. He waved for silence. His lips moved, but for a moment no sound issued. Was he overcome by emotion? "Thank you," came in a hoarse rumble, hardly audible. Then he added, though only those in the first rows could hear, "Can't say more — cold in chest — thank you." That wasn't the half of it. While the audience was out there thrilling and sighing and smiling over the fortunes of Revolutionary heroes, there was a little heroism going on behind the scenes. Back there, in a little draughty dressing room, the master of the movies was still at work. At the very moment when the friendly folk out front were applauding his patriotic screenplay, the director was actually cutting the final reels of the film for them to view a few minutes later! Griffith always works up to the very last minute. "America" wasn't really ready at the time of the premier. But the theater had been rented, and if the picture didn't open at the scheduled time it would mean the loss of much money. Besides, its premier had been advertised for the eve of Washington's Birthday. And all the Daughters of the American Revolution, and important personages from New England, not to mention the eastern film world, were already assembled. "America" had to make good; it had to keep its date with New York. It did. But Mr. Griffith came very near not keeping his with the audience. For weeks before the world saw his latest picture, he had been working, a steady grind of sixteen to eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. Occasionally he took a Sunday off. But mostly he was at his studio at seven and sometimes he worked all day and all night, too. It was even more strenuous on location. He toiled more earnestly than the most ardent of his extras. He did as much riding around the camera battle fields as Paul Revere on his famous sprint. And all the time he was vaguely aware that he wasn't feeling as fit as usual; that, in fact, he seemed to grow more and more tired as the filming of "America" progressed. But he brushed it off. He couldn't be bothered. Besides, it was just a cold. But it was a rather tired man who sat in the dressing room in that New York theater the afternoon before the opening. The last few days and nights he had done nothing, thought of nothing except "America," which was in its final stages of cutting, titling and editing. And now he sat there in a little corner backstage supervising the last-minute work, and often taking a hand himself in the actual mechanics of cut Behind the Scenes: (\JVhile the audience at the first showing of America was out in the front thrilling, and sighing oner the fortunes of Revolutionary heroes, there was a little heroism going on behind the scenes. Back there, in a little draughty dressing room, the master of the movies was still at work. At the very moment when the friendly folk out front were applauding his patriotic screenplay, the director was cutting the final reels of ting and sPIicins the film His staff i £i r i • r was w*tri him. Griffith's staff is the film for them to View a Jew composed of quiet, clever people who minutes later. know their business thoroughly and know what he wants and how he wants it — they have all been with him for years. But would he give it up and leave it to them? Not on your life. He was going to stay with it until the finish. The doctor said it would be his, too. Someone had sent for a doctor the day before. Griffith didn't want one around. But he came, anyway; and after one look at the director he assumed the sternest expression and growled, "You're a sick man. Go home and go to bed." Mr. Griffith paid no attention to him. He just went on cutting. The doctor became less stern; almost pleadingly he protested. "But look here, man! You're all in. You've got a bad throat and your lungs " "Doctor," said Mr. Griffith — not very loudly because he wasn't talking much above a whisper just then, "I never felt better in my life." He coughed as he continued, "Besides, even if I didn't, do you think I'd leave this picture? I can't. I've work to do." The doctor told him just what he thought about his picture and pictures in general. Then he added, "Well, be a fool if you want to. But I'm going to stick around here and see that you get the best attention possible under the circumstances. Open your mouth. Say a-a-a-h." {Continued on page 89) 37