Chapter XIXJUST SUPPOSE

Do you actually know what you could be up against if tomorrow you were given the opportunity to direct a picture? What do you know about light, camera angles, makeup, exits and entrances? Could you successfully dominate the stage before a company of wise professionals?

Chapter XIX

Practically anyone who has given any thought, whether serious or not, to picture production, thinks deep down in his heart that he could direct just as well if not better than the fellows that are directing. In like manner, when his fancy turns in the direction of writing for the screen, he is certain that he could write a better photoplay than the “creatures of luck” who are writing photoplays. This, of course, is human nature and can never be changed.

But just suppose, for the sake of argument, that you reader (you representing in this instance one of those everyones who knows he can direct as well if not better than the next fellow); just suppose you are given your opportunity to direct. Just suppose that tomorrow morning you are to start your first picture. You have read your continuity over and again, you have assembled your cast, you have seen to it that the first setting constructed in the studio is to your liking. Tomorrow you begin work on actual production.

You arrive at the studio at nine o'clock (for directors have to keep hours like everyone else, you know) and you step briskly out of your limousine and proceed to your office, where, after divesting yourself of outer garments, you read again the scenes you are to begin work upon. Following this you step briskly upon the studio stage and find your company waiting for you (providing, of course, that the star hasn't decided to become temperamental and be an hour late the first morning).

A RACE TRACK SCENE IN “TURN TO THE RIGHT,” DIRECTED BY REX INGRAMREX INGRAM DIRECTING A “BIT” OF “THE FOUR HORSEMEN.” THE WHITE CANVAS SQUARE IS A REFLECTOR, USED IN EXTERIOR SCENES TO GIVE THE PLAYERS THE FULL BENEFIT OF THE SUNLIGHT

THOMAS MEIGHAN AND “ALL HANDS AND FEET” IN THE SCENE FROM “CAPPY RICKS” WHEREIN THE LATTER PROFESSED HIS IGNORANCE OF THE CORRECT MANNER IN WHICH TO FALL DOWN

You glance over the setting to see whether everything is ship-shape and in readiness. Perhaps it is and perhaps it isn't. Perhaps dust has accumulated on the library table over night and perhaps again the property boy has forgotten to remove it. (Must a director bother about such little details? Indeed, the director must).

The dust removed you turn your attention to the lights. Are the “banks” in the right place? (Of course, you know that a “bank” is the moving mass of light that is flooded in from the side of the setting). You go into consultation with the cameraman and the chief electrician to determine whether they are in the right place or not. And you mustn't betray any ignorance about the placing of the lights to these men. If you do your standing with them begins diminishing even before you have begun work. Well, the banks are all right. So are the overheads. And the sunlight arc. And are you going to use any of the smaller “spots” to offset your star to the best advantage? These must also be in the right place.

You have made sure then that everything is well with the lights. Thereupon you turn your attention to the camera. The cameraman has been told from what angle you are going to “shoot” the scene first and has “set up” his machine according to his own likes. You study the angle and you visualize just how the scene will look on the film, taken from this angle. You may want the camera a little closer or a littlefarther away and so you go into conference with the cameraman and after considerable argument you win your point and the camera is moved. This, of course, necessitates a slight change in the position of the lights again which, of course, you attend to.

Then finally you come to the consideration of the players themselves. You know all about makeup, of course, and you examine the players closely to see whether they know all about it too. Is this fellow who is playing the butler made up properly? Is this girl who is to do the “bit” of the maid all right? No, you decide, she has too much rouge on her lips and not enough mascara about the eyes. You politely inform her of her mistake and beg her to hurry to her dressing room and alter her countenance.

For this interference the maid looks daggers at you and departs. The star strolls restlessly about and looks at you as if to say, “Well, when are you going to begin, anyway?” You look at the union stage hands and realize that while they are standing around here grinning at you they are getting paid for it every minute and their pay is being charged up against your work. And you haven't even started yet and here it is almost eleven o'clock! Still you mustn't become obviously flustered. If you did the whole company would give you a laugh, closely approaching the justly celebrated razz-berry.

The maid returns. She is ready at last so are the others. Now you begin a rehearsal. Your scene calls for the following action.

—maid enters library door and crosses down to telephone. She answers phone. Butler pokes head in door and listens intently as she talks over phone. He is startled out of his position by the appearance of the master of the house back of him. He steps into the room and holds the door open for his master. The maid, realizing that she isn't alone, drops the telephone in confusion, and confronts the master. She makes apologies and exits, followed by the butler while the master of the house looks after her in a quandary.

You explain the parts to the butler and the maid who perhaps are not familiar with the scene. Then you do start. And like as not the first rehearsal will appear impossible to your well-trained eye. The maid and the butler don't act properly. You call a halt in the middle of a scene and explain matters thoroughly to them. The star, playing the master of the house, thinks that you might have explained all this before and plainly shows that state of mind. He is so capable in expressing his innermost thoughts that your sole consolation is the happy thought that he is a fine actor and won't need much direction.

Finally the rehearsal runs smoothly. You then order “lights” and up they all go. And then you order “camera” and your cameraman starts grinding. And then you order “action” and the players start through the scene, every motion of theirs recorded by the all-seeing eye of the camera. To you, the director, standing there watching and prompting now and again, every little fault of the players, every bit of wasted motion, every insignificant gesture, stands out in the shape of a tremendous eyesore. You know they are doing what you told them but still you tell yourselfit could be much better. At length you tell the cameraman to stop in the middle of the scene. The players look up at you as if to say, “Well, what now!” and you step forward and try to explain with the utmost of tact that the maid didn't handle the telephone properly and that the butler didn't listen eagerly enough.

So, despite their frowns, you proceed with the scene again. And this time it is the star who doesn't suit you. He doesn't seem to stop short enough when he comes to the door and he doesn't seem to regard the maid suspiciously enough when she confronts him guiltily. You explain matters, therefore, to the star. Now this star of yours may be a particularly conceited fellow. He may sincerely believe too that he is playing the part as well as it possibly could be played. He listens with something approaching a deaf ear to your patient explanations as to how the part should be played.

And then he flabbergasts you with this remark, “Well, I am doing it the best way I can and I don't get what you mean at all. Suppose you go through the scene for me!” You try to think quickly and wonder what Cecil De Mille or somebody else who doesn't believe in showing a player “how” would act under the circumstances. You are lost and the only course for you to take is to show the star how you think the scene ought to be played.

But can you act? Did you ever try? No matter, you've got to now. So you make a wild stab at the part. Everyone, you know, is standing around watching you. Some actors from another picture may have strolled over to watch you. They linger when they discoverthat you are to give an exhibition of acting. You rather have the idea that the entire studio force is out there watching you—and laughing at you.

Following your performance you take the star aside and ask him whether he got the idea. If he is in a condescending mood by that time he may say, “yes,” and so you start the scene again. And now the trouble is that you are inclined to believe that anything your players do is the right thing. You are still nervous from the exhibit you just made of yourself and trying hard not to display the symptoms of it to everyone around you.

So you summon up all your courage and direct that scene with all your might and main. It's just got to be good. And when it's been done once it's got to be done a second time (all producers make two negatives, you see, one for domestic use and one for foreign exportation). Inwardly you breathe a sigh of relief when finally that particular scene has been completed and then you want the camera moved up for closeups. (Again, of course you have marked exactly where you want these closeups. And you are ready to tell each player exactly what you want him to do over again for the closeups). And the cameraman busies about setting up his camera for the first closeup and you are just about to start taking it when the lunch hour looms up, the electricians and stage hands leave you flat and you discover that you have to postpone your important work for full sixty minutes.

In the silent and lonely confines of your office you pace the floor and wonder how the afternoon is goingto turn out. You discover that you have spent the whole hour pacing and forgotten to eat. No matter, your appetite was gone anyway and you go back to work, trying to feel ready for any emergency that the afternoon may produce.

And so the day ends. The afternoon reproduces the experiences of the morning with variations. The next day reproduces it further. But if you have gained the confidence of your players and your various assistants and if you have proven to them that you know what to direct and how to direct, the work looms much easier. Every late afternoon after the picture is under way you and your cameraman and your star sit in a dark, silent projecting room and gaze upon the daily “rushes.” These are the first prints of the scenes you made the day before. Thus you can see your work grow and thus also your star sees whether he can place full confidence in you. If he discovers that he can, your relations improve as the picture progresses. And after a while you don't even hesitate about getting out there on the “set” and showing him just how to do a thing. He'll like it too.

You have also definitely proved to the cameraman and the head electrician and the assistant director (who knows that he could direct better than you) that you know more about your business than they know about it. You have shown them that you know how to arrange your players in a big scene so as to get the best possible dramatic and artistic effects, you have shown them that you can direct the manipulation of the lights so as to produce a different sort of illusion, you haveshown them, briefly, that you know more about camera work than the cameraman, more about lighting than the electrician, more about acting than the cast, more about composition than the art director, and more about writing than the continuity writer.

You may know deep in your heart that you have bluffed them into believing in your widespread superiority but they don't know it and so the gods of success are beginning to shine on you.

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