Screenland (Oct 1924–Apr 1925)

■ ■ 74 SCREENLAND known cinematographer in the industry. Close by his side is Sidney Olcott, brought back from New York to direct Norma Talmadge in her new picture, "The Only Woman." To an old time fan, Olcott is no stranger, for his career dates back to the early Kalem days when he was both actor and director. He was the first to take a company overseas. A series of pictures was made in Ireland, and one picture made in the Holy Land is still being released during the Easter season. For a while the writer, whose fan days go back almost to the inception of pictures, missed Olcott. After several indifferent features he came back with a bang and planted Marion Davies firmly on the film horizon in "Little Old New York." Then followed in rapid succession "The Green Goddess," "The Humming Bird," and the recently completed Valentino comeback, "Monsieur Beaucaire." Olcott is typically Irish, sincere in his work, a fund of good humor at his command, and a marvelous memory. Nothing misses his eye. When he directs a scene, he throws all the fire and fervor of his soul into the action. To watch his facial expressions is indeed a treat. Veritably he is the entire cast, the leads, the bits, the extras and all. He possesses two essentials of the great director: patience and a spirit of co-operation. In spite of the most trying work with some of the extras he very rarely loses his temper, even for a moment. When the scene is shot he thanks every one concerned, allows a short time for rest, ■and then starts rehearsals for the next scene. Seated close by, watching the direction of a scene, is another old time favorite, a star of the early days, Alice Hollister. Her young daughter, Doris, is to favor us with an Oriental dance to the tune of that peculiar fife-like instrument played by the Arabians and known as an oboe. Enters on the scene Eugene O'Brien, hero of countless love affairs — of the screen, followed shortly by his most constant lady fair, the ever charming Norma Talmadge. She is as sweet and dainty on the set as in any of her screen roles. Gene is just as good looking, as amiable, and as obliging off as on the screen. Occupying a folding chair and closely observing the activities was Matthew Betz, who is doing the heavy and whose recent work in "Those Who Dance" has established him as a peer in the delineation of brainy crooks. Leaning over his chair, spilling the newest story of the boulevard, is Brooks Benedict, another member of the cast, and as yet blissfully unaware of the spill in the ocean he is slated for. Benedict, nephew of a certain famous dialect character comedian, has done many fine things on Broadway and had established an enviable reputation before he determined to seek celluloid fame in Hollywood. ' Hobbling along the street in tattered clothes that eloquently proclaim the street beggar is Sam Polo, with a make up so good that audiences will find it hard to believe that he is not the character he portrays. He essays another small role in a later scene with a make up that would puzzle his own mother. And he is only an extra. Director Olcott starts a rehearsal of the action. The writer has a hard role — he carries a jug that smacks of the pre-Volstead period across the scene and then leans against a tree, watching the native dancer do her stuff. The Pasha, very distinguished in appearance, walks down the street and is reverently saluted by the natives and the soldiers. A store-keeper, who strangely enough once owned a store, has a hard time being natural, in a scene where Eugene and the dragoman bargain for some jewels for Miss Talmadge. Finally Olcott is satisfied, and there are one or two takes of the scene and we pass to the next action. A dramatic sequence is explained. A reckless rider is to gallop through the street, scattering a group of children, the smallest of whom is to be saved from injury by the hero. The scene is so excellently done, the excitement so well simulated that for a moment it seemed as if an accident had really occurred. But wait, the rider seems dissatisfied. He is fearful that not sufficient footage has been allotted to him. The dear public may miss his great effort. The scene must be done again. However, he is assured that his every action was caught by the concealed cameras that he failed to see. A few moments later two extras quarrel because each thinks he should have the honor of carrying O'Brien, who is supposed to have been badly hurt. Not so much their How a beginner gets started in the movies is always interesting. Abraham Goldener, who wrote this article, was an extra. He conceived the idea of writing the story of his experience and of sending it to SCREENLAND. Now that it is printed he will be able to show this issue to Mr. Olcott. Do you think he will get a part? concern for the leading man, as the fact that they will be in the closeups and perhaps be noticed by some director in the search for new talent. The colossal conceit of many of the extras is amazing— and interesting. Here sits a woman, no longer young, not even good looking, her face veiled according to the Mohammedan custom. All day long she gazes into her make up mirror, adds a bit of mascara to the eyes, a touch of powder to the brow, because as she says, "they must see our eyes and we are to be in some closeups." Alas, for the lady's faith and hope — the closeups of the eyes never materialized. Here is another young man with an atrocious make up, who confides that the director has been watching him all day and must be* figuring on him for a special bit. Later in the day several are selected for other work, and he is omitted. In this business of being an extra it is comparatively easy to find much the same general classifications that one does in other lines of endeavor. There are the people who try to do intelligently as they are told, others who know it all. There is the one who is continually trying to curry favor with the director or his assistants. There are those whose every move must be explained over and over again, and others whose natural intelligence makes it easy for them to give realistic portrayals of the characters they represent. There is the one who speaks of his great screen ambitions, yet hies himself away to the furthest corner on the set, where he curls up for the day, and wonders why some one doesn't star him. Another for no reason at all tells me all his troubles, where he has worked, how the directors all are very fond of him, and wonders if he will work tomorrow. And of course no list of extras would be complete without one who takes the snapshots that will give the folks back home an opportunity to see their offspring photographed, for one cannot always be sure that the finished production will have all the scenes that were taken ! In the game of real life we all play our little parts with hardly a trace of self-consciousness, but somehow 'm depicting of reel life, which in its highest form should be