Screenland (May-Oct 1929)

SCREENLAND Trkks Of the TalkieS— Continued from page 21 95 inmates merely hopped about and chirped a bit. , . "It's their tin cages," decided the director. "They make such a noise the 'mikes' can't pick up the warbling." You can't put rubber boots on canaries, so the cages were lined with felt. Still nothing doing. A violin player who had had great sue cess with obstinate songsters came over and played solos to them. No luck. A flute player arrived to charm them into melody. They sounded like a pen full of chickens. Several big arc lights not required for a close-up in progress were pushed back out of the way and their warmth fell on several cages. This was in winter and the birds were shivering. Beneath the welcome rays of the arc lights, they plumed themselves and burst into song! One of the difficult talkie shots in "Show Boat" proved to be that of Laura La Plante sobbing at a table with her head in her arms. The 'mike' simply couldn't catch her sobs, until the sound expert cut a hole in the table, put a small 'mike' underneath and covered the table with a thin cloth. It seems to be agreed that a violent noise, such as a pistol shot, will wreck the recording system. Out at Universal they substitute a leather auto seat and a drumstick. At Pathe, a heavily draped, soundproof booth has a tiny outlet through which a pistol is thrust to be fired within the booth. When they made the courtroom scene in "Coquette" at United Artists, the gun was fired into a barrel with the 'mike' at a determined distance. But there's more in this than recording. Technicians may do their darndest and the result, shown in the studio projection room, may be perfect. But you may see the complete picture in a theater where the operator fails to follow his cue sheet and the best efforts will be lost. With every sound film goes a cue sheet containing instructions for the theater operator. He is provided with a 'fader,' a dial with 15 points of amplification. Suppose most of the dialog is dialed for 8 points; a tender love scene may be run with instructions to 'drop the fader' (that means Clare Kummer, the famous playwright, is now in Hollywood writing dialog for Fox Movietone productions. operator shall dial to 5, 6, or 7, as specified). For loud noises, as thunder or shots, or for an exciting scene, he is instructed to 'raise the fader.' The pistol shot in "Coquette" should be dialed at 15. If it sounded muffled when you saw the picture, you know what's the matter. Sometimes the script calls for the simultaneous shooting of two scenes which are to be faded in and out. All very well in a silent picture but the dumb drama no longer flourishes. In "Lummox," Herbert Brenon found it necessary to direct two scenes which were to be recorded simultaneously. Sets were built in adjoining rooms but the soundproof camera 'cough rooms' (Mary Pickford's term) prevented the director from viewing both at the same time. Mr. Brenon devised a dual set plan whereby he can guide voices and action on both sets with the aid of telephone and signals. According to the story, Lummox (Winifred Westover) has been seduced by the poet son of the house where she works: as she goes upstairs, she can hear the poet's sister playing while his mother recites one of his poems. Voices and scenes can be faded in and out. In "Big News," players had to talk above the clatter of typewriters, telegraph instruments and falling rain. The machines were deadened, because the real volume of sound would smash the vibrator; but they tried water on a tin roof. A battery of gatling guns couldn't have roared louder, so the rain was permitted to fall on a layer of felt. Water is a ticklish element to the listening microphone. Some experts claim that a drum full of rice equipped with a screen and wheel will give any water effect desired. By running the rice over the screen at the proper tempo, waves on a beach, rain on a window pane or water in a fountain can be recorded. For the scenes in "Coquette" where Mary Pickford runs across the brook the mikes were opened, but quickly closed when it was discovered that the babbling brook made a racket like the ocean surf. A prop , boy stirring a barrel half full of water made the gentle murmur for which the director yearned. A convict on Devil's Island sent Sam Goldwyn a practical little model of a guillotine when it was announced that Mr. Goldwyn was about to film "Condemned." Just a curiosity, until the sound experts began to prepare for the effects in the new picture. Then it was discovered that the real guillotine made many weird noises not associated in the public mind with the murderous machine, so the small model was set before the mike with advantageous result. There's nothing the sound experts can't do. They're clever. Didn't I say so? The Sivedish Sphinx Speaks — Continued from page 45 vacation, that someone wanted me to write an article giving advice to girls on how to break into pictures. Who am I to give any such advice? What could I say that would help any beginner to get a start? Marriage is another question that con• stantly springs from the lips of interviewers. I answered that once and for all a long time ago — I do not see how marriage and a professional career can be happily mixed. That is all there is to say, it has been said and repeated — but still the questions keep coming. And the very next time I am interviewed it will be asked all ove?» again!" Since returning from Sweden Greta seems to have reached a tranquility sharply contrasting her previous restlessness. She seems to have whipped the melancholy moods that frequently gripped her. She is more the girl and less the woman, spirited, bubbling with good humor, enjoying work and play with a fresh vigor. The yacht location trip she took on "The Single Standard" revealed this to those of the company. She swam, rowed, climbed in the ship's ropes, sang, clowned and romped like a schoolgirl on an outing. To see her perched upon the stern of a speedboat, wind and spray lashing her face, devoid of any make-up, laughing and singing rollicking chanties in Swedish, was like catching a glimpse into the real heart of this strange creature who has spun a spell of magic lure upon the screen that has ensnared thousands of worshippers. Clad in men's white flannels, her boyish cap pulled rakishly down over her pushedback hair, a sweatshirt over her bathing suit top, Greta cut a striking figure pacing the ship's deck as the old schooner lumbered along under full sail. Her eyes struck new fire as the hardshelled Scandinavian crew hoisted the topforsail with a creak of straining blocks and chorus of 'Yo-ho's' and they seemed to reflect the opalescent blue of the waters that slid by the bow as it wallowed through a fleecy trough of foam like a peasant's plow in a potato field. Sea-gulls wheeled overhead as Greta tossed them bits of her tuna sandwich, screeching chagrin at her poor aim. The evening wind whistled through the ratlines and halyards and the great canvas spread cracked like pistol shots when the old skipper jibed to change his course. As the sun dropped behind the horizon with a last crimson splash of glory, the San Pedro breakwater hove into sight just off the port bow. "Is that home?" asked Garbo. John Robertson, the director aroused from a cat nap, nodded. "Gosh," sighed Greta, showing first signs of petulance after a week aboard the boat, "can't we do some retakes?" She is not the strange weird woman of some of her screenplays. There's nothing erotic about her. She has a curious childlike quality — an almost boyish enthusiasm, a real zest for life — that sets her apart from the hot-house variety of Hollywood siren. She is as frank and clean as the clear wind of her native Northland.