CHAPTER XXVITHE OLD DAYS END

Itwas being hinted in the spring of 1913 that Biograph was having a change of heart about the secrecy regarding their players, and that they might end it. Contrary to the policy of other companies, their scheme was not to give the popular players the first publicity, but the directors and camera men. D. W. Griffith would thus head the honor list—his name to become identified with a certain class of strong and highly artistic drama; Dell Henderson next—farce comedies; Tony O’Sullivan—melodrama; Billy Bitzer—photography; lastly—the actors.

The Biograph had always held to the policy that they were an “institution,” and as such, the value of their pictures did not depend on an individual. Sufficient that it was a “Biograph.” Apparently, they now felt they had reached a place so firmly fixed in public esteem through the fine quality of their pictures, that giving credit to individuals could not in any way react on them.

So D. W. Griffith became the first Biograph star. Biograph’s policy he afterwards took to himself. He is still the “star” of his productions. His actors continue as “leading people” as long as they stay with him. And when they go on to bigger money and names in bigger type with other companies and under other directors, some succeed and some do not. Mary Pickford was one who did.

In the picture world, especially abroad, big things were now happening. “Quo Vadis,” a great spectacle, splendidly acted, had been produced in Italy by the Societa Italiana Cines, in three acts of four reels. It came to America and had a run in a Broadway theatre.

From France, this same time, April, 1913, the steamerLa Tourainearrived in America bringing “Les Misérables” in four sections and twelve reels.

“The Miracle,” which Morris Gest presented in the year of 1924 in the Century Theatre, New York, as a pantomime, had been filmed by Joseph Mencher and was shown at the Park Theatre, New York, in February, 1913. It was a “filmed pantomime” (not a moving picture drama), based on the Wordless Mystery Play which, under the direction of Max Reinhardt, had had a wonderful run at the Olympic, London.

A reviewer said of it:

What was seen and heard last night only went to emphasize that the moving picture under certain conditions, conditions like those that prevailed last night, may be capable of providing entertainment to be taken seriously by audiences which have never seen the inside of an electric theatre.

Eugene Sue’s “Wandering Jew” came over, the work of the Roma Film Company.

In our own country, Helen Gardner in her own productions was appearing asCleopatraand like characters.

The Vitagraph started on a trip around the world with Clara Kimball Young to do a picture in each country visited, but that rather fell by the wayside; Miss Young, however, had somewhat contented herself with having charming “still” photos taken in costume in each country on theirroute; when the company reached Paris, Vitagraph cabled for the actors to come home.

Kalem had already made some beautiful pictures in Ireland, and in Egypt had made “From the Manger to the Cross,” under Sidney Olcott.

Vitagraph answered an inquiry as to when they made “Macbeth” by saying they “made it so long ago they wanted to forget it in these days (1913) of high art production.”

Keystone Comedies were coming along, directed by Mack Sennett, featuring the two famous detectives, Mack Sennett and Fred Mace. In these comedies Mabel Normand began to daredevil. Henry Lehrman joined Sennett.

Hal Reid, Wally Reid’s father, was directing Reliance pictures.

“Traffic in Souls,” written by Walter McNamara and directed by George Loane Tucker, opened at Weber’s Theatre, Twenty-ninth Street and Broadway, at twenty-five cents the seat. People clamored for admission, with thousands turned away.

So Biograph, concluding to get into the march of things, ordered posters for twelve of their players whose names they would make public.

“David Belasco Griffith” became Mr. Griffith’s nom-de-moving-pictures. It was a time of tremendous ambitions to him. In California, during that winter, was filmed his “masterpiece”—“Mother Love”—seven hundred feet over one reel. Mr. Griffith refused to have it the conventional length, refused to finish it in a stated time, refused to consider expense, introducing a lavish cabaret scene, costing eighteen hundred dollars exclusive of salaries. Miss Bambrick arranged the dances and coached the dancers.Mr. Griffith said of it, “If it serves no other use, it will teach café managers in the interior how to run a café.”

There was also “Oil and Water” in which Blanche Sweet surprised both exhibitors and fans by her splendid work in an unfamiliar rôle. It was strange that the one woman in whom Mr. Griffith had seen the least promise came to play the most important rôles in his Biograph pictures. Strange also that Mary Pickford, who had played in so many more pictures than any of his stars, and was by far the most popular of them all, never played in a big Griffith picture.

Before the end of the season, much curiosity was abroad as to what David Griffith was up to. Way out to the wilds of Chatsworth he was beating it day by day—this remote spot having been chosen to represent the Plains of Bethulia. For the story told in a book of the Apocrypha of Judith and Holofernes was the big thing Mr. Griffith was doing, and being so secretive about it, he had aroused everybody’s curiosity.

Blanche Sweet played the lead in this picture—“Judith of Bethulia”—Mr. Griffith’s most pretentious movie so far, and his “Old Biograph” swan song. Henry Walthall and the late Alfred Paget were the male leads.

How hard and how patiently the director worked with the temperamental Miss Sweet. For hours one day he had been trying to get some feeling, some warmth out of her, until the utter lack of response got his goat. So with bended knee he went after the fair lady and he gently but firmly kicked her off the stage—just politely kneed her off. Then, as was his wont, he burst forth in song, apparently oblivious of the situation.

It was now Blanche’s turn to worry. She backed upon to the stage and over to her discouraged director. He escaped her—stretching his arms and singing louder than ever he took large strides away from her. Finally, the penitent reached him, and on her bended knees begged: “Please, Mr. Griffith, please take me back.” When he thought she had begged hard enough he took her back, and he got results for the rest of that day.

“Judith,” owing to expensive sets, cost thirty-two thousand dollars, but that was not advertised as a point of interest in the picture. Much excitement prevailed over “Judith,” D. W. Griffith’s first four-reeler. It was shown to financiers. Wall Street was to be brought into intimate conversation.

The old days and the old ways of 11 East Fourteenth Street, how brief they had been! Those vital Biograph days under the Griffith régime, how soon to pass! For when, late in the winter of 1912, the company left for the West coast studio, they said good-bye to the nursery, and to the intimate days and the pleasant hours of their movie youth.

The big new studio up in the Bronx was now finished, with two huge stages—one artificially lighted, and one a daylight studio. There was every modern convenience but an elevator. Of course, one director couldn’t utilize so much studio; so while Mr. Griffith was still in California and without saying anything to him about it, the Biograph made a combine with Klaw & Erlanger by which all the K. & E. plays were to be turned over for Biograph production in three-, four-, and five-reel pictures.

Mr. Griffith didn’t fancy the idea; he felt also that Biograph might have consulted him before closing the deal.There was nothing to interest David in supervising other directors’ movies or in giving them the “once over” in the projection room. After watching the other fellow’s picture for a while, even though he’d be considering it very good work, he’d yawn and declare, “Well, it’s a hell of a way to earn a living.” But that slant never occurred to him when watching his own pictures.

But a growing restlessness was noticeable; threats to leave were in the air; rumors floated all about.

However, he lingered through the summer, a busy one, as in those introductory months the new studio had to be got thoroughly into a moving and functioning affair.

Among the many to whom it gave opportunities was Marshall Neilan. For his years young Mr. Neilan hadn’t missed much. At the age of fourteen he had run away from Los Angeles, his home, to Buffalo. There he washed cars for a living—which he probably didn’t mind much, for it enabled him to satisfy somewhat his fascination for mechanics. Then, back in Los Angeles once more, he got a job as chauffeur for a kindly person, a Colonel Peyton, who also sent him to the Harvard school in Los Angeles.

From chauffing to the movies was then but a natural step. For Marshall, a nice-looking Irish boy with Irish affability, soon had a “stand” at the Van Nuys hotel, which was a wonderful way to meet the movie people. Alice Joyce it was who enveigled him. She kept asking him, “Why don’t you come on in?” It was just like an invitation to go swimming. So he took the plunge via Kalem, but not until after he had become manager of the Simplex Automobile Company in Los Angeles.

When the Biograph Company returned East after that winter in which young Neilan had met his heart’s desire,he wrote to New York to ask Mr. Griffith for a job. Mr. Griffith asked Miss Bambrick if it was her wish to have Marshall come on, but Gertrude wasn’t so anxious. David had him come just the same.

The K. and E. pictures, especially “Men and Women” and “Classmates,” gave Marshall Neilan his big chance. He soon fell into the producing ranks, where recognition came quickly.

And he married his Gertrude. Marshall Neilan, Jr., is now nine years old. But they didn’t live happily forever after. Many years ago they parted. Just recently Mr. Neilan married Blanche Sweet.

By fall, with four and five companies working, there were so many actors that it wasn’t interesting at all any more. There was Millicent Evans and Georgie O’Ramey, Louise Vale, Travers Vale, Louise Orth, Jack Mulhal, Thomas Jefferson, Lionel Barrymore, Franklin Ritchie, Lily Cahill, Donald Crisp, Dorothy Bernard, Edwin August, Alan Hale, William Jefferson—oh, slews and slews of new ones, besides the old guard minus Mary Pickford.

From Chatsworth’s lonely stretches and prehistoric atmosphere to the spic-and-span-ness, and atmosphere-less Bronx studio came “Judith of Bethulia” to receive its finishing touches. “Judith” was about the last of Blanche Sweet in anything as pretentious directed by Mr. Griffith.

Mae Marsh was coming along and so was Lillian Gish. Lillian was beginning to step some, and it was interesting to watch the rather friendly rivalry between the three, Blanche, and Mae, and Lillian.

Dorothy Gish was still a person of insignificance, but she was a good sport about it; a likable kid, a bit too perky to interest the big director, so her talents blushed unnoticedby Mr. Griffith. In “The Unseen Enemy” the sisters made their first joint appearance.

Lillian regarded Dorothy with all the superior airs and graces of her rank. At a rehearsal of “The Wife,” of Belasco and De Mille fame, in which picture I played the lead, and Dorothy the ingénue, Lillian was one day an interested spectator. She was watching intently, for Dorothy had had so few opportunities, and now was doing so well, Lillian was unable to contain her surprise, and as she left the scene she said: “Why, Dorothy is good; she’s almost as good as I am.”

Many more than myself thought Dorothy was better—for she was that rare thing, a comedienne, and comediennes in the movies have been scarcer than hen’s teeth. She proved what she could do when she got her first real chance as the bob-haired midinette in “Hearts of the World.”

* * * * *

Four or five companies working on the big stage these days made things hum like a three-ring circus. From the dressing-rooms a balcony opened that looked down on the studio floor, and here Blanche Sweet could often be seen, her feet poked through the iron rails of the balcony, her elbows resting on the railing, her chin cupped in the hollow of her hands, her eyes bulging as she watched every move the director made. For Blanche was worried. Would Lillian or Mae be chosen to play in the next big picture?

Mr. Griffith kept all the girls worried. All but Mary Pickford. She was the only one who dared demand. With Mother, Mary came up to the new studio to see what she could put over in the way of a job. She’d now a legitimate reason for making herself costly. In January, 1913, Miss Pickford made a second appearance on the dramatic stageunder David Belasco’s wing. On her opening, the papers said that the success of Miss Pickford as the little blind princess was so marked that it practically precluded her return to the screen.

Adolph Zukor had followed up his first Famous Players picture, the four-reel “Queen Elizabeth” with James K. Hackett in “The Prisoner of Zenda” and Mrs. Fiske in “Leah Kleschna.” Astute business man that he was, as soon as “The Good Little Devil” closed, he secured the play for the screen with the dramatic company intact and Mary as a Famous Player.

No, her dramatic success would not preclude her return to the screen. It would merely fortify her with great assurance in making her next picture contract. I am told it happened thus:

Mother and Mary bearded the lion in his den.

“Well, what are you asking now?” queried Mr. Griffith.

“Five hundred a week,” answered Mrs. Smith.

“Can’t see it. Mary’s not worth it to me.”

“Well, we’ve been offered five hundred dollars a week and we’re going to accept the contract, and you’ll be sorry some day.”

They could go ahead and accept the contract as far as Mr. Griffith was concerned. Indulging in his old habit of walking away while talking, he brought the interview to an end, calling back to the insistent mother, “Three hundred dollars is all I’ll give her. Remember, I made her.”

And so the Famous Players secured Mary Pickford for a series of features, the first of which was “In the Bishop’s Carriage.”

But whether Mr. Griffith has ever been sorry, nobody knows but himself.

Kate Bruce, the saintly “Brucie” to so many, pillowed in her lap or on her shoulder by turns, all the feminine heads of sufficient importance, and at times, with her arm about me, it was even “Oh, dear Mrs. Griffith.” But Miss Bruce was thoughtful, indeed, for her little room often made night lodging, when we had an early morning call, for the girl whose home was distant. Dorothy West, who lived in Staten Island, often accepted Miss Bruce’s hospitality.

For Lillian Gish, “Brucie” had an especially tender heart. Miss Gish, at this time, affected simple, straight, dark blue and black dresses. She had long ago reached the book-carrying stage, being one of Mr. Griffith’s most ambitious girls. Many times she’d arrive at the studio an hour or more ahead of time and have Billy Bitzer make tests of her with different make-ups.

With a tight little hat on her head, and a red rose on the side of it from which flowed veils and veils, and a soulful expression in her eyes, Miss Gish was even then, so long ago, affecting the Madonna.

But reclining in the arms of “Brucie,” purring “Brucie, do you still love me?”—that was the perfect picture of the fair Lillian those days. And Brucie’s reply came in honeyed words, “Oh, you sweet, little innocent golden-haired darling.” Then turning to the girl sitting next her on the other side, she’d say, “You know this girl needs to be protected from the world, she’s so innocent and so young.” She had a strong maternal complex, had the maidenly Kate Bruce.

Blanche Sweet and Kate Bruce in “Judith of Bethulia,” the first four reel picture directed by D. W. Griffith.(Seep. 224)

Blanche Sweet and Kate Bruce in “Judith of Bethulia,” the first four reel picture directed by D. W. Griffith.

(Seep. 224)

In need of a gown for a picture at this time (the Biograph was just beginning to spend a little money on clothes for the women), Miss Gish spied Louise Orth one day wearing just the very thing her little heart craved.

Lillian Russell and Gaston Bell, in a scene illustrative of her beauty lectures, taken in Kinemacolor. These lectures were a headline act in vaudeville.(Seep. 247)

Lillian Russell and Gaston Bell, in a scene illustrative of her beauty lectures, taken in Kinemacolor. These lectures were a headline act in vaudeville.

(Seep. 247)

Sarah Bernhardt, the first “Famous Player,” as Jeanne Doré, and little Jacques.(Seep. 105)

Sarah Bernhardt, the first “Famous Player,” as Jeanne Doré, and little Jacques.

(Seep. 105)

“Oh, what a lovely gown you have on. Where did you buy that?”

Madame Frances then had a tiny shop on Seventh Avenue, near the Palace Theatre: Polly Heyman had Bon Marché gloves on one side and Frances had gowns on the other. Frances had just made some thousands of dollars’ worth of gowns for Valeska Surratt’s show, “The Red Rose,” which were so beautiful they won Mme. Frances prestige and recognition from Al Woods. Miss Orth had been a member of the Eltinge show for which Mme. Frances had made the dresses, which is the long story of how Lillian Gish got her first Frances gown.

The K. & E. pictures were going to be “dressed up,” and we were being allowed about seventy-five dollars for gowns. Miss Gish’s selection at Mme. Frances’s was price-tagged eighty-five dollars; so back to the studio flew Miss Gish. With as much pep as she had, which wasn’t so much, she slunk up to her director and coaxingly said:

“Mr. Griffith, I must have that dress, it’s just beautiful; it’s just what I must have for the part, and it costs eighty-five dollars.”

“Who in the world ever heard of eighty-five dollars for a dress?”

“I don’t care—now—I’vegotto have it.”

“Don’t bother me—it’s too expensive—we cannot afford it.”

Then growing bolder, as she followed him about she reached for his coat-tail, and twisting it and shaking it she implored:

“Oh, please, Mr. Griffith, buy me that dress.”

“Will you get away?”

“Well, I won’t play in the picture if you don’t get me that dress—I’vegotto have it.”

“All right, for heaven’s sake, get the dress—but don’t bother me.”

Lillian got the dress.

Occasionally, Miss Gish took advantage of a beauty sleep. On such occasions she seldom arrived before eleven in the morning. And when she went to a party she played the rôle of the sphinx, and all evening long never spoke. But little Mae Marsh made up for her; she chattered incessantly.

Lillian’s dope was to come and go without being noticed. She appeared one time at a midnight performance of “Shuffle Along” done up in black veils to the tip of her nose and a fur collar covering her mouth, with only little spots of cheek showing. Dorothy, on the other hand, acting like a real human being, was calling out to her friends, “Hello there, hello, hello,” but Lillian, passing an old acquaintance, merely said, “Forgive me for not stopping and speaking; I don’t want any one to know I am here.” But as everybody was awfully busy having a good time and no one seemed to be particularly disturbed by Miss Gish’s hiding away, she finally took her hat off and revealed herself.

But she came out of her seclusion that time she preached in answer to the Rev. John Roach Straton at his church on Fifty-seventh Street. Some one was needed to answer the Rev. Mr. Straton’s knocks on the theatre and its people. Lillian came forward, and she so impressed her brother-in-law, James Rennie, Dorothy’s husband, that he arrived lateat a Sunday rehearsal of a George Cohan show. In perfect Sunday morning outfit, striped pants and gloves and cane he burst upon the rehearsal and quite breathlessly spluttered, “Please forgive me for being late, but I have just heard my sister-in-law preach a sermon, and never in my life have I heard anything so inspiring in a church. Don’t go very often. More in Lillian than one suspects.”

Mr. Cohan gave himself time to digest Mr. Rennie’s outburst, and then went on with the rehearsal.

* * * * *

Inevitable the parting of the ways. Though the last word as to modern equipment, the new studio merely chilled. That atmosphere of an old manse that had prevailed at 11 East Fourteenth Street, did not abide in the concrete and perfect plumbing and office-like dressing rooms at East 175th Street. The last word in motion picture studios brought Biograph no luck. For as a producing unit, after a few short years they breathed their last, and quietly passed out of the picture. When the doors at the old studio closed on our early struggles, when Biograph left its original nursery of genius, was the proper time for Mr. Griffith to have left the company. In the fall, less than a year later, he did.

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