IV

STAGING A PICTURE

The cost of producing a motion picture which provides a full evening’s entertainment averages between ten thousand and twenty-five thousand dollars. One-reel pictures, which require about fifteen minutes to show in a theater, usually cost in the neighborhood of a thousand dollars to produce. It may easily be said that this money is spent by one man—the motion-picture director—yet, with all his responsibility, the director is a character little known to the layman.

Within the picture ranks the terms “director” and “producer” have become interchangeable, though not always correctly so. Directors of the best type are deserving of the title “producer,” because their completed productions bear evidence in every branch of their imagination and creative ability. But the more common type of director is really little more than a “stage-manager”;he takes the story as it comes from the author’s hands and, “following instructions,” stages the manuscript for the camera. He tells the players what they are to do in each scene, lays out the scenic requirements, and so on, but injects none of his own individuality into the pictures. Between the two extremes there is the average director, and it is of his work that we shall treat here.

Who, then, is the motion-picture director? We have explained in a preceding chapter that he is “the man in charge of the making of the picture.” But here we shall see him at close range, from the time he receives the story from the photoplay editor until he finally turns his negative film into the factory for developing and editing, after which the positive prints are made. Between the manuscript and the completed film many an interesting event has happened. Perhaps a factory has been burned to the ground, and the heroine rescued from almost certain death; mayhap a daring criminal has run amuck, only to be brought to bay by the noted detective and captured after a thrilling fight; or it is possible that armies have clashed in battle before a battery of cameras. But one and all—heroine, criminal, detective,and soldier—have answered to the beck and call of a director. “The world’s a stage,” and the picture producer’s world is limited only by the imagination of the author.

With his story in hand a director’s first task is to select the players for the different characters in the plot. Each studio has a large staff of “stock” players—that is, actors and actresses who are engaged permanently and who may appear in as many as fifty different rôles within a year. The most important of these players are grouped into smaller companies, placed under the charge of a particular director. Each of these players is suited to a particular type of characterization, and the director now assigns the principal parts in his story to the players for whom they are suited. For the minor rôles he will draw on the stock players not assigned to any particular company. If the story has scenes calling for the use of hundreds of characters, such as a ball-room scene, the Stock Exchange, or a battle, he will call for “extras,” who are engaged by the day, either from the numerous applicants always to be found waiting expectantly around the studios, or through agents who make a business solely of supplying these supernumeraries to the picture producers.

In the case of long pictures, or “features,” as the trade term is, a prominent stage-player is often engaged for the leading rôle. In the selection of his supporting company the director will now be forced to consider the type and characteristics of the “star,” and if the latter be gifted with “temperament,” the days following are likely to be anything but pleasant. One of the classics of studio history tells of a famous actress, probably one of the best known in America, who was engaged to appear in a picture to be made abroad to secure the correct atmosphere. The company planned to produce the picture in six weeks, but the leading woman’s uncontrollable disposition held up the work until six months were actually expended on the undertaking. Petty fits of temper caused this actress to refuse to appear before the camera for days in succession, while at other times she would abandon the work in the middle of a scene, and scarce a move was made that was not preceded by a wordy argument with the director. But, while comparatively common a few years ago, such occurrences are now very rare, with the dividing line between players of the screen and stage not so sharply drawn.

Several preliminary details still await thedirector. A “scene plot” must be laid out, to let the studio carpenter know what settings will be required by the story, and a list of furnishings and small articles necessary is prepared for the “property-man.” Most directors will now read the complete story to the principal players, both that they may understand the action and to allow them to make preparations for the different costumes they will need. A decision will also be made at this time on the particular places that will be used for the exterior scenes. The directors study closely the country around their studios, and some even make use of card indexes to catalogue the spots that may be used at some future time as backgrounds for picture scenes. A house of quaint Colonial architecture, a picturesque brook, or a winding road shaded with stately trees, all will find their place in the director’s list, for who knows what scenery his next story may call for?

I know you are impatient to have the camera set up, and to see the action of the photoplay begin. But one more preliminary decision remains for the director before he can do this. He must prepare his “working script,” which will outline the order in which he is to produce the different scenes of thestory. It is a surprise to most laymen to learn that the scenes in a motion picture are not taken consecutively as they appear on the screen. This would appear to be the more logical and artistic method, but a little investigation will show that this is not practicable. Take, for instance, a story in which a hotel lobby scene appears many times. Were the picture taken in the order in which it is seen when completed the expense on this scene would be repeated several times, since it would be necessary to rebuild the hotel lobby each time the director came to that particular scene in his story, or else use up valuable studio floor space for an idle set while waiting for the director to reach the point where the scene was required again. On the other hand, under the method actually followed, when the hotel lobby is constructed the players can, with little loss of time, go through the different bits of action taking place in this setting. Later, when the film is developed, these scenes will be arranged in their proper place in the story.

Many considerations will be weighed by the director in making up his mind as to the order in which he will take his scenes. The weather, of course, is an important factor in coming to a decision as to whether he willfirst take his “interiors,” that is, scenes taken in the studio, or the “exteriors,” the action photographed outdoors. Usually the more simple scenes will be taken first, and the elaborate and costly ones last, this to forestall prohibitive expense should minor changes be made in the story while the picture is being produced. Such changes are not infrequent, for a director will often see ways to strengthen his story while the players are enacting it before his eyes.

We are ready to start to work. It is nineA.M., or perhaps even earlier, for the picture producer does not care to lose any more of the precious daylight than he has to. This is one of the biggest surprises of screen work to the player from the stage. He is accustomed to matinée performances at two in the afternoon, twice a week, but as a usual thing his work is from eight to eleven in the evening. His life is run after the sun has set. Then he enters the picture field and finds it an “early to bed and early to rise” game. Healthful days in the open of green fields and country roads replace the stuffy stage, and even the studio is freedom when compared with the theater. It is the zest and regularity of picture life; yes, even the necessity of awakening early in the morning, thatcauses so many players from the stage to take it up permanently. There is the real home life of the ordinary professional man, instead of the weary traveling and “one-night stands,” and there is employment fifty-two weeks in the year in place of the short season and long lay-off of the theater.

(Keystone)THE DIRECTOR—HIS CAMERA AND CAMERA-MAN

(Keystone)

The sun is shining clearly and the director plans a long day of work in the open. Besides, the studio stages are all in use by directors who have put in their requisitions far in advance. The camera-man and his apparatus, players, and director jump into autos and speed to the first “location.” With his assistant the director has mapped the locations and the order of photographing the scenes there as already explained. His first location is a suburban home, one that may be labeled in his catalogue as “home of a fairly wealthy family.” A caretaker is in charge and the director knows—from experience—that a few cigars, or, if the house is especially necessary, a greenback, will enable him to use it for picture-taking purposes. We will say that the scenes are to show a thief entering the house and later leaving it with his booty. In the story this is probably to happen at night, but tinting the film blue will later attend to that.

Perhaps there is a tall fence around the grounds, and one of the director’s scenes will have to show the thief climbing this obstacle, both on his entry into the grounds, and later on his escape. Perhaps, with the latter, there is to be a brief scuffle with the watchman. A spot for the scene is chosen, the camera set up, and all is ready. The range of vision of the camera’s eye, the lens, is an angle, and care is taken to indicate to the players the boundaries of that angle. Outside those lines the players may group themselves idly, but within the lines the camera registers everything, once the crank is turning. The first scene taken is to show the thief scaling the fence. The player is rehearsed once or twice, perhaps even oftener, until he does the action in the exact way the director wishes it done. When he is proficient the director stations himself beside the camera-man, the scene is cleared, and the thief stands waiting just outside the line. “One—two—three—Go!” shouts the director, and at his last word the thief skulks on the scene, the camera-man starts to turn the crank. The thief peers through the fence, glances furtively about him, and then, as if making a sudden decision, starts to climb. He drops to the ground on the other side, then runsdiagonally until he is again outside the camera line. It is over. During the whole the director has been the busiest man on the spot. Each motion of the player has been accompanied by a command from him, but it is not for the player to let the camera know that he is listening for these words. By holding a slate covered with figures in front of the camera before the scene was photographed this strip of film now bears its own index figure to aid the factory later in assembling the complete picture.

Next, the scene showing the return of the thief over the fence, his scuffle with the watchman, and his escape is to be taken. This will probably require many more rehearsals than the previous scene, both that the action be properly vigorous and realistic, and that the players be drilled so that they will not inadvertently cross the camera lines in the heat of the action. An audience would naturally not take very kindly to a scene in which a man was fighting with an adversary who could not be seen, which would be the case should one of the players step outside the lines while the other remained in view of the camera. It is even possible that many strips of film will be wasted before the scene is taken in a manner to satisfy the director.

Now we pass within the grounds. There is a brief scene to be taken as the thief starts to climb the wall on making his escape, and also the short one showing him running across the lawn to the house. He is to make his entry by way of a window, and the camera is placed so as to view the one chosen. The same procedure is followed here—numbering of the scene, rehearsals, including a preliminary timing of the action so that the director will know how many feet of film it will take, and then photographing, after which preparations are made for the next scene. The director and his players may easily put in a busy day about the house. There will be scenes showing detectives, summoned by the householder, examining the grounds, the watchman hastening up to the front door after he has recovered from the blow inflicted by the thief, and so on. When the sun finally gets too low for the camera’s liking it will be a tired but contented party that returns to the studio.

This is but one side of the story. Much has also happened within the house. Though recently perfected portable lighting systems have made it possible to take motion pictures within actual houses, the method is only occasionally used, and our director will probablydecide to take all his interiors in the studio. On his return from the day of work outdoors he will leave his requisitions with the carpenter and property-man and be prepared to start early the next morning with his scenes set and all other things ready. Then the thief’s entry into the window, as seen from inside the house, his theft of the jewels, we will say, his departure, the householders aroused from their sleep by the watchman, and their consternation at the discovery of the theft will all be photographed. Pieced together and shown on the screen, the various strips of film will tell a smoothly developed story, but we have seen how it is really made up of little bits of action, photographed at different times, and in far from consecutive order. We have seen what a world of planning the director must do before he sets out to make even the simplest scene of his story.

(Vitagraph)STAGING A SPECTACULAR BATTLE SCENE

(Vitagraph)

But we have been watching the director while he is working on dramatic scenes that employ only a few players, of whose ability he is certain. Perhaps he has a ball-room scene to take with his interiors, and then there is a busy time indeed ahead of him. He must drill and toil with fifty or a hundred “extras” drafted from the outside and receiving only a few dollars for the day’s work. Or else oneof his exteriors may call for a player to jump from a bridge. The leading woman will not perform this feat; she is too careful of her own life. So a “double” must be employed—a daredevil of about the same build as the leading woman, and to be dressed in the same clothes. The leading woman will perform the scene until about the point where she leans over the railing preparatory to the fatal leap. Then the camera will be moved to a distant point, and, too far away for the deception to be noted, the “double” will make the thrilling jump. If there is to be a rescue the leading lady will now get herself wet, as we are given close views showing her being pulled from the water, apparently near death from her feat. For such “stunts” as even a daredevil cannot be employed to perform, the property-room may make dummies, “rags and bones and hanks of hair,” weighted with sand. Then there are the more spectacular scenes that may test a director’s skill, such as battles, fires, and so on. Here he must fortify himself with numbers of trusted assistants, who, dressed like those in the scene, will be scattered among the “extras” where the voice of the director often cannot reach. Hours, and even days, of rehearsal are sometimes necessary in securing such effects. Forthe battle scenes in “The Birth of a Nation” the producer surrounded himself with a corps of assistants equal to a commanding general’s staff. In addition telephones were strung along to all the trenches so that the producer was in touch with every section of the vast battle-field at all times.

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