***************************************************************************** * T A Y L O R O L O G Y * * A Continuing Exploration of the Life and Death of William Desmond Taylor * * * * Issue 92 -- August 2000 Editor: Bruce Long bruce@asu.edu * * TAYLOROLOGY may be freely distributed * ***************************************************************************** CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE: Thomas Ince ***************************************************************************** What is TAYLOROLOGY? TAYLOROLOGY is a newsletter focusing on the life and death of William Desmond Taylor, a top Paramount film director in early Hollywood who was shot to death on February 1, 1922. His unsolved murder was one of Hollywood's major scandals. This newsletter will deal with: (a) The facts of Taylor's life; (b) The facts and rumors of Taylor's murder; (c) The impact of the Taylor murder on Hollywood and the nation; (d) Taylor's associates and the Hollywood silent film industry in which Taylor worked. Primary emphasis will be given toward reprinting, referencing and analyzing source material, and sifting it for accuracy. ***************************************************************************** ***************************************************************************** Thomas Ince William Desmond Taylor's first job in the motion picture industry was for producer Thomas Ince in December 1912. Taylor remained with Ince for over six months, then went to Vitagraph. The following is an "autobiography" of Ince, published in the LOS ANGELES RECORD on December 3-13, 1924. Unfortunately it contains minimal anecdotal information about Ince's life and career. Ince's death in 1924 was, like Taylor's death, the subject of extensive Hollywood gossip and speculation, which is not mentioned here. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Thos. H. Ince's Own Life Story Today, The Los Angeles Record is proud to present exclusively for its readers, the thrilling, human autobiography of Thomas H. Ince, written by the world-renowned picture producer shortly before death took him suddenly three weeks ago, and obtained for the Record by Russell J. Birdwell, staff feature writer. Here is a story that is virtually a voice from the dead. And yet, we should not say "dead," because Thomas H. Ince will live long in the dreams and works of a race motivated by the spirit of ambition. In this story of his life, the lone-fighter of filmdom who, with his faithful wife, Nell, at his side, rose to heights never before attained in the picture world, tells the whole tale from the beginning. The poignant throbs of discouragement, the thrill of success--all are chronicled in this story of his life. Never again will you have the opportunity under like circumstances, of following day by day such an inspiring document of a great man's life. The story will appear in The Record every day and only in The Record. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * In The "Movies" Yesterday and Today by Thomas H. Ince Chapter I Looking back over the past 14 years of my experience in motion pictures, I am forced to one striking conclusion, that never in the history of the world has any industry been marked by such a phenomenal growth and development, in a short length of time, as the motion picture industry. Nor is there an industry that holds the promise of a greater and more far- reaching future than this newest of all the arts. In 1910, when I entered the picture industry, it was a new and untried field. There were no accepted standards, no patterns on which to build, no organized business methods or efficiency--nothing which characterizes it today as the fourth largest industry of the country and one of the most important. In all other arts and industries, development has been a matter of many years, and in most cases generations, and even centuries. The motion picture has been in existence little more than a decade. Acting and dancing had their birth several centuries before the Christian era, when they were introduced in the sacred temples to express religious emotions and to teach certain lessons through symbolism. Sculpture and painting date back even farther into the remote past when, before the dawn of civilization, prehistoric tribes used this method to perpetuate their history for future generations. Literature, the art of story telling, covered thousands of years in its development. Starting with mere narrative, before the day of the recorded manuscript, deeds of valor and adventure were preserved by word of mouth and handed down from father to son. Thus, the history of various peoples and nations was preserved intact until the stage of development was reached when these narratives were recorded on tablets of stone and later on parchment. Gradually plot and form were introduced, and through the steady progress of centuries, literature became one of the mightiest of the arts. The history of music is analogous to, and is interwoven with the other fine arts, requiring an equally great length of time to reach its present state of perfection. The art of photography and laboratory inventions, electricity and chemistry are of much more recent times, but even their growth has been a long and comparatively slow one. The motion picture occupies a unique position, because it includes all of the fine and mechanical arts, some in lesser and some in greater degree, and in combining them it has carved for itself a niche in the history of the world as distinctive as any separate art or industry. It is to trace the rapid and sustained growth of the picture industry, and the steady march to efficiency, that I review the extraordinary developments of the past 14 years, and by basing my conclusions on what has taken place in that short space of time, to give a forecast of what the future holds for this industry which is gaining increasing momentum with every year of its life. Starting out as an actor at the age of 6, my whole life was concerned with the spoken drama, in which I had achieved some success, and my critics were kind enough to predict a future for me before the footlights. The thought of any other career had never occurred to me, but fate stepped in and by one of those surprise thrusts, forced me into a new line of endeavor. I returned to New York in 1910 from an engagement in Cincinnati with the Chester Park Opera company. As it sometimes happens with actors, and others, I found myself out of a job. I did not enjoy the prospect of being "broke" in New York, or anywhere else for that matter, and started out immediately to look for work. Completing the rounds of the booking offices on Broadway without success, I was standing near Times Square, trying to decide what step to take next, and wondering what means I would resort to to keep the ferocious wolf of want from the door of my Harlem flat, when the incident occurred that was destined to turn the whole course of my career. A luxurious automobile drove up to the curb in front of me and from it alighted a man whose whole bearing and appearance bespoke affluence and position--something I had never known. In those days only the rich could afford automobiles, and I was idly wondering which bank president this man might be, when, to my amazement, he came toward me with a warm smile of greeting on his face. It was then I recognized Joseph Smiley, who subsequently became nationally known as a photoplay director and actor. After the usual greetings were over, he extended a cordial invitation to lunch with him, which I accepted with a great deal of eagerness, because, if I remember correctly, I had not intended to eat that day. At lunch we reminisced of the days when Smiley was an actor in my vaudeville company; of our engagement in Bermuda and the many amusing things that happened there. When he paid the bill for lunch, I began to wonder how it happened that Joe was flashing a roll of bills while I, his former employer, was hunting a job. In answer to my query, Smiley explained, somewhat apologetically: "Why--er--you see, I'm working in moving pictures. I'm an assistant director at the Imp studio on 56th Street." This came as somewhat of a shock, as I had, with most of the profession, looked upon this innovation as a form of cheap amusement which was to be scorned by real actors. I considered it undignified and not in harmony with the best traditions of the stage. Only nickelodeons and beer gardens had encouraged it. In fact, those who were so engaged were considered the outcasts of the theatrical profession. I knew that it was gaining a foothold, but it carried with it none of the fine old ethics and romance of the stage. Then the spectre of the wolf came into my mind, and I began to think more kindly toward the thing I had considered beneath my notice. I began to wonder if it might not be at least a temporary means of livelihood, better than tramping the streets, looking for employment. I turned suddenly to Smiley, "Any chance for me up there?" "Why, certainly," he replied. "There should be. You're an actor, aren't you? Come on up there with me now, there might be something doing this afternoon." Confronted thus suddenly with the possibility of being plunged into the moving picture business, I began to weaken, then I seemed again to hear an ominous growl from the wolf, and I held to my decision. A moment later I was rolling luxuriously up to the Imp studio with Smiley. Chapter II Mentally frowning upon the idea of going into the moving picture business along with the so-called "outcasts" of the theatrical profession, and yet determined to investigate, because I was sorely in need of employment, I allowed Joseph Smiley to conduct my first introduction to the intricacies of the film industry. The Imp studio was located, in 1910, on the top floor of a manufacturing building in Fifty-Sixth Street, New York. Delivered at the door by a slow and jerky elevator, I was ushered in for my first glimpse of a studio. My worst fears were realized! It reminded me of some of my unpleasant one- night stands, and yet there were Owen Moore, King Baggot, Florence Lawrence, Bob Dailey and several others who are now well known stars, all of them working in pictures and seeming to enjoy it. A scene was being directed, and I looked on in awe. It was more absorbing than I had believed, and the thought came to me that there might be something to this thing, after all. A few minutes later, following a whispered conversation between Smiley and Harry Salter, who was directing, I was offered a job to play the part of "heavy," to the tune of $5 a day. Without further ado, I took the job, which launched me on my career in the motion picture industry. Several months later one of the Imp directors resigned before his picture was completed and I was given a directorship and went to work in earnest to complete the unfinished production. The importance which I felt at this first big step in my new career was not shared by my co-workers, however. Instead of welcoming me with congratulations, the players, camera men and stage hands cast suspicious glances in my direction and made no effort to conceal their disapproval. This, however, instead of discouraging me, urged me on to greater determination to make a success of my first directorial effort. I assembled my company and directed the remaining scenes. My first real production with the Imp company was titled "Little Nell's Tobacco." It was a story which I patched together from an old poem I had learned as a boy, and, as I thought, was replete with the emotions of life. Never will I forget the thrill of excitement that shot through me when I saw it on the screen in a little theater on 14th Street, New York. About this time the Imp pictures were becoming known and the officers of the company were considering the advisability of establishing quarters in California. They appointed Ben Turpin, the now famous comedian, as their agent to investigate conditions on the Pacific coast. Turpin reported that the General Film Company was endeavoring to prevent all independent organizations from using the motion picture and was seriously hampering their operations, so the plan was abandoned and Cuba decided upon as a fruitful location. A few days later two companies were on their way to the tropical island, one headed by Joe Smiley, with King Baggot as leading player, and the other under my direction, featuring Mary Pickford and Owen Moore. Two years before this, Adam Kessel and Charles O. Baumann, founders of the New York Motion Picture corporation, and later Kay-Bee, had sent a company to California. Having made a success of this, they decided to expand and dispatch a second company to make western pictures. Entirely ignorant of the fact that Kessel and Baumann were considering me for this post, I decided to apply for it after returning from Cuba, feeling that I would have greater possibilities in this new field than in New York. A little strategy was necessary, I felt, to impress my prospective employers with my importance, so I allowed a mustache to grow, and on the day of my interview with Baumann I borrowed a large and sparkling diamond ring. This, I figured, would give the impression that I was a man of means who did not have to work for a paltry $60 a week, which was my munificent salary at the Imp studio. According to my calculations, the ruse worked, for Baumann offered me $100 a week to go to California to make westerns. This offer came as a distinct shock, but I kept cool and concealed my excitement. I tried to convey the impression that he would have to raise the ante a trifle if he wanted me. That also worked, and I signed a contract for three months at $150 a week. Very soon after that, with Mrs. Ince, my camera man, property man and Ethel Grandin, my leading woman, I turned my face westward. Five days later I was in California, hopeful and determined, and yet a little apprehensive, for I knew that my future depended upon my success or failure in this undertaking. Nor did my future look particularly bright, as I was shown over the small and inadequate plant at Edendale, just outside of Los Angeles, which was to be the scene of my productions. True, it was somewhat more pretentious and slightly better equipped than those in which I had made my initial efforts, but it was far from being what I wanted, for even then I had begun to see great possibilities in the future of the screen. The sets consisted of a few pieces of very bad furniture and one back drop with a flock of birds supposedly in flight. The furniture was bad enough, but when I thought of stationary birds poised in mid-air as a background for moving pictures I gave way to a moment of discouragement. At that time there were no enclosed stages. Both interiors and exteriors were filmed out of doors. The set for an interior scene consisted of two, and possibly three side walls and in many pictures only one. There was no ceiling and no front, and the results were sometimes very amusing and brought forth deserving ridicule from the audience. In a room, supposedly well plastered, with windows closed, the window hangings, table covers and the women's dresses would blow and flap violently in the gusts of wind sweeping up from the sea across the plains, according to the location of the studio. Summer scenes often were filmed in winter, with the thermometer uncomfortably low. Men dressed in while flannels and women in flimsy, thin things would shiver through several hundred feet of film. When it was cold enough for the actors' breath to the noticeable on the air, the men were made to smoke throughout the scene and the women cautioned not to open their mouths. My equipment and organization was extremely limited, and altogether the prospects did not look very hopeful. But I knew I must succeed. There was no alternative. Realizing that facilities had to be improved if the infant art was to live, I cut loose and plunged in, spending money, as I thought then, with reckless abandon. As I look back on those days, I see that the improvements I put in on the whole plant cost infinitely less than a single set in some of our modern pictures. Chapter III Among the first pictures I produced under the Kessel and Baumann banner at Edendale, my initial venture in California, was a comedy titled "The New Cook." It ran about 62 scenes, less than a reel, as against four to seven hundred scenes, or five to eight reels, which comprise the feature picture of today. This maiden effort was a big success, however, and with the impetus given me by the praise it received, I became bolder and produced other successes. The problem of stories was a serious one, even in those days, because there were no scenario departments and no market from which to purchase scenarios. The only stories available, if I may be permitted to use that term, were the attempts of school pupils who wanted to write for "the movies," and they were useless. It therefore devolved upon the director to manufacture his stories from his own brain. But to trace the whole development of pictures, I must go back prior to my advent into the industry, to the time when there was no plot at all. Moving pictures then were merely a series of scenes depicting objects and figures in motion, the pantomime alone sufficing. Among these were the highly amusing and mystifying trick pictures in which a man would be run over by a steam roller and spread out on the ground as flat as the proverbial pancake. He would be reduced, by one operation of the camera, from a three-dimensional man, having length, breadth and thickness, to a two-dimensional being, having only length and breadth, his thickness being that of a sheet of paper. Then, by reversing the film, he would be restored to his normal cast and structure. But the public soon became more sophisticated and demanded a plot. Moving objects, with no particular reason for moving, no longer sufficed, and a new type of "movie" was evolved--the one in which someone would inadvertently upset a fruit vendor's cart or steal and apple, causing such fierce indignation on the part of the peddler that a man-chase for the culprit would ensue. The chase would be taken up by others, and before they had gone a block the whole community would be in pursuit, gathering momentum as it went, dashing madly down steep hillsides, across brooks, over fences and through wooded country until the culprit was apprehended and brought to justice. These pictures carried a decided thrill, and I can remember distinctly how an excited audience would cheer wildly at the antics of the actors, and actually in their imaginations join in the chase. But even these pictures, which were a distinct advancement over the trick films, carried no real plot. Pictures had established no precedents and the public took them as they were; but as the industry began to grow, the public became more demanding and the story problem loomed large. It was just about that time that I became actually engaged in picture making. Gradually we began to get stories that had some semblance of a plot. Even when stories were first adopted there was no such thing as a continuity. A director would get the germ idea of a plot, assemble his cast, go out on location and start to shoot, having only a hazy idea of what he was going to do. His one idea was to get action and to keep things moving, regardless of the sequence of scenes or the logic of his plot. All would go well for a while, then the inevitable would happen and he would have to hold up the picture and keep the cast standing around while he racked his brain for an idea. "Let's see," he would say, "what shall we do next? Well, we might as well burn down the house or blow up the bridge. That would get a thrill." And so it went, until necessity caused the development of the continuity, which is a working script of the story, with each scene clearly defined and the situations worked out in logical sequence. This form of manuscript came through its own demand and practically developed itself. For the sake of convenience, a director would classify the scenes we were to take each day and jot down on a piece of paper, or maybe on his cuff, and thus the more elaborate form of a detailed and finished continuity came about and gradually established itself as the accepted form. In the early days of filmdom, productions often were crude and filled with many incongruities. In a picture where letters and telegrams were used the handwriting on letters written by individuals in the story, and telegrams coming from the telegraph office were all in the same handwriting. Words were misspelled and grammatical errors were frequent. One incident which illustrates this lack of consistency and faulty production occurred in one of the early pictures, the story of which concerned a young American who was visiting in Turkey. I think his name was Jones. Being an enterprising youth, Jones decided to pay a clandestine visit to the Sultan's harem. He was discovered by the irate Sultan and thrown into prison. Such an act being considered a sacrilege, Jones was condemned to die, and to properly get this fact over to the audience a letter was delivered to Jones from the Sultan, which read as follows: "My dear Mr. Jones: I beg to inform you that tomorrow at sunrise you will be executed for breaking into my harem. Yours very truly, The Sultan." I have no doubt that the meaning was clear to the audience, and I have no doubt that the audience accepted this inconsistency without resentment, but what would an audience of today do to such an incongruous expression? In the days of the double exposure development, a scene occurred in a lion's cage which was supposed to depict several very fierce and angry lions. The lions were old, contented and at peace with the world and were not looking for trouble. To make the scene convincing it was necessary to arouse their anger, so it was decided that the keeper should get behind them, and prod them with a stick. The first exposure was taken of the lions , who were only mildly aroused. The second was to show the keeper prodding them. The scene would have passed had not something gone wrong in the blending of the two exposures. When the double exposure was thrown on the scene the keeper was in front of the lions poking the air frantically with the stick, while the lions looked on in silent amusement. When you stop to think that even ten years ago such things were the rule rather than exception, it is easy to see the tremendous strides that have been made toward establishing the motion picture industry as an art, instead of a form of cheap amusement. Chapter IV In tracing the development of motion pictures, it is very easy, unintentionally, to give the impression that the path was easy in the early days of the industry, before the mass of essential details entering into a production grew to such an extent that they had to be systematized under departments, as they are today. On the contrary, to build constructively in the embryonic stages of this art meant work, and hard work. In my own case, I had to be everything-- producer, director, scenario writer, cutter and general handy man. There were no staffs in those days, no well-equipped laboratories, no projection rooms, no scenario departments. I left the house every morning at 7:30 for my day's work. I would direct and shoot all day, returning home at 7 in the evening, eat a hurried dinner and devote the entire evening to preparations for the next day's activities. The result of each day's work had to be carefully inspected. My projection room was the kitchen of my small Hollywood bungalow, and with Mrs. Ince's assistance I would cut and assemble the scenes taken the day before. She rigged up a clamp, similar to the ones used to fasten meat choppers to a table, and with this we clamped the reel to the table or sink. She unwound the reel while I examined each negative, and as it ran through my fingers it was caught in the clothes basket on the floor. When the film was cut and assembled I would turn my attention to stories, and would work until midnight writing the scenario for the following day. As I have said before there was no market from which to purchase scenarios and to keep up the required production, which at that time was one picture a week, it was necessary for me to be my own scenario writer. With my wife's help I managed to keep my production up to par. Some of those early pictures ran only 25 or 30 scenes, less than half a reel. A one-reel picture then was a "feature" and considered the last word in production. My pen became so prolific, however, that I soon found it was impossible to get a complete story in one reel, and the logical thing to me was to expand to one and a half and possibly two reels. This suggestion met with a storm of disapproval. I was told such a thing was impossible, that an audience would not sit through two reels of film. I held to my point that two reels would give greater scope for stories, and finally was allowed to try. The audience not only sat through the two- reel pictures, but showed their approval in no uncertain terms. At this stage of motion picture development every forward step that was taken was a new departure. The point I wish to make clear is that there were absolutely no precedents to follow. The development of the photoplay was a matter of self-development. Each accomplishment that was made led to new unfoldments and new problems, which, in turn, had to be solved only to lead to further and greater developments. Then came the day when my aspiration led me to take the company out of the narrow confines of the little Edendale studio and seek a location which would give greater scope and variety. After looking over the outlying territory around Los Angeles, I decided upon a large tract of land located in the Santa Monica hills, close to the sea, which afforded an ideal spot, and which I rented by the day. This site developed later into what was known as Inceville, the "movie village," just north of Santa Monica, which was destroyed by fire only a few months ago. Flames driven down from the brush-covered hills by a brisk wind consumed all but a quaint little moss-covered church and a group of fisherman dwellings used in Billie Burke's first picture, "Peggy." Soon after taking possession of this new location I learned that the Miller Brothers' 101 Ranch wild west show was quartered in Venice, a few miles distant. This game me an idea, and I was at once seized with another desire for expansion. I suggested to Charles Baumann, who was at that time visiting in California, that we hire a few cowboys, Indians and horses for our next picture. The suggestion met with his approval and he negotiated for the exclusive service of the whole outfit. This was a long step toward the progress of which I dreamed, but far in excess of anything I dared hope for. It opened up vistas of great activity and presented me with possibilities which seemed to me unlimited. The Indians were of the Sioux tribe, from one of the government reservations, who had been loaned to the wild west show. When I took them over, I had to sign an agreement with the Indian commissioner in Washington, according to which the Indians were to have certain hours of schooling. I furthermore had to assume full responsibility for their well-being and care. I was soon to realize the importance of what I had voluntarily taken upon my shoulders, for they were difficult to handle. They were stolid and non-communicative and had a strong dislike for doing anything that did not happen to appeal to them at the moment. They were peaceable and preferred loafing to the type of action which was necessary in the making of pictures. In fact, they were so peaceable that we had to spend hours, not to mention ingenuity, in thinking up ways and means of arousing their dormant passions and making them mad enough to go through a scene which required the Indian fighting spirit. Arousing their anger sufficiently to attack the enemy with any semblance of reality was one of the hardest things I have ever had to tackle in my whole career in motion pictures. Another somewhat disconcerting trait which they possessed to a high degree was not being able to resist bright-colored "props." A scene would be completed after a great deal of time, thought and work. In some cases, days would be devoted to the perfecting of a scene in which brilliantly colored hangings and rugs were used. This scene would be, perhaps, one that we intended to use consecutively for four or five days. But after about the second day, right in the middle of the picture, we would notice that a rug or a table cover was missing. Then would follow a long search, while the company waited. Sometimes the search would be successful, but more often it was not, and a whole new set would have to be furnished and work started all over again. It was not a question of honor with them. They did not intend to steal but they could not resist anything that had bright colors in it. These things were serious, but nothing in comparison with another problem they presented me with. Many a night, in the wee small hours, I would be called from a sound sleep to the telephone to be told that some of my Indians were in a saloon in town, gloriously and riotously drunk. Such violations meant cancellation of my contract with the government, which was infinitely more serious than the delay caused by having to sober them up, which was bad enough. In those cases, the greatest strategy was necessary. I had to threaten the saloon keepers with prosecution if they sold them another drink. But handling the Indians was not so easy. Their natures are such that if you antagonize them they will present a stolid front and will be adamant in their refusal to do anything for you. Realizing this, I resorted to tact and diplomacy and finally won their confidence to such an extent that they elected me their honorary chief and, because of the peculiar loyalty of their natures, the word of their chief is law. From then on I was known as "The White Chief," and had no further trouble with them. Chapter V With Indians, cow-punchers, cattle ponies and old prairie schooners secured from Miller Brothers' 101 Ranch Wild West show, my first really ambitious two-reel picture was produced at Inceville, "War on the Plains." The Indians appeared in many two-reel pictures and later in more elaborate productions, such as "Custer's Last Fight," and did some truly remarkable work. The success of this first two-reel picture, "War on the Plains" was so gratifying to Kessel and Baumann that they authorized me to lease the entire territory of 18,000 acres on which it had been filmed. The Edendale studio then was practically abandoned and Inceville came into being on an extensive scale, a plant which, at that time, seemed to me the acme of perfection in picture making. Yet, that old settlement soon gave way to the onrushing march of progress in the astonishing development of the last few years. From this time on production as well as expansions, went ahead in leaps and bounds. New structures were built with extraordinary rapidity, better sets were put up, and finer stories were obtained, for the moving picture industry was beginning to be felt as a real power. Our weekly output increased from one to two, and later three two-reel pictures a week, released under the name of "Kay-Bee," "Domino" and "Broncho" productions. These, mind you, had to be written, produced, cut and assembled and the finished product delivered within the week. As the industry, with all its ramifications moved steadily forward, there came a demand and an opportunity for real actors. Pictures no longer were scorned by the theatrical profession, and to Inceville came many who are now world-famous stars. Bill Hart, who had been a co-actor with me before the days of pictures, made his first appearance on the screen at Inceville. From the parts he played in the two-reel westerns he soon became known all over the world as the "World's Best Bad Man," and leaped into the firmament of stardom. It was at Inceville that he made some of his most famous pictures, "Hell's Hinges," "The Two-Gun Man" and "Between Men." At that time Charles Ray was climbing into prominence. He and Frank Keenan were doing their famous series of father-and-son features, when, as the co-star in "The Coward," he gave a portrayal which carried him to the heights of dramatic success. Everyone worked seriously and put forth his and her best efforts, for in the picture industry had come keen competition, and it was no longer looked upon merely as a pot-boiler or an easy way to make money. It offered careers worth striving for and was an art to be reckoned with. After the last scene of "The Coward" was taken, I happened to see Ray leaning against the side of a set, surrounded by several other actors and actresses. A second glance showed me that there was something wrong. He was crying like a child and the others were endeavoring to comfort him. I found that the cause of his distress was the firm conviction that he had failed in the part and that his career had come to a close. And yet, it was that picture and his remarkable performance in it which hurled him to stardom and won for him his lasting success. This is merely one instance to show the sincerity of those who were contributing their talents to this new art. It was here, too, that Sessue Hayakawa started on his career, which has led him to the foremost ranks of fame, when he played with Gladys Brockwell in "The Typhoon." The 18,000 acres of diversified country afforded locations for a great variety of settings, and it was there that Dorothy Dalton braved the wilds of Alaska in "The Flame of the Yukon," a picture that not only carried a thrill of adventure to thousands, but struck a new note in production, for it was more ambitious in its conception than the majority of former productions. Others who came seeking opportunity and who climbed rapidly, but none the less deservedly, to fame were Frank Keenan, Bill Desmond, Lew Stone, George Fisher, Bessie Barriscale, Catherine Calvert, H. B. Warner, Louise Glaum, Enid Markey, Bessie Love and Tsuru Aoki, who later became the wife of Sessue Hayakawa. To the new art came also recruits from the stage, actors already famous, who sought new fields to conquer. There was Dustin Farnum, who gave that dramatic and power portrayal in "The Iron Strain," one of the greatest pieces of acting he ever did, either on stage or screen. Then there was Orrin Johnson and George Beban, Billie Burke and Julie Dean. Following the prolific run of two-reel subjects, the whole industry took a long stride forward. It was then that I produced my more elaborate pictures, such as "Custer's Last Fight," "The Wrath of the Gods," "The Typhoon," "The Bargain" and "The Battle of Gettysburg," the latter being one of the first five-reel pictures ever produced. With the advent into pictures of stage stars and the making of screen stars, the story developed rapidly. Writers began to turn their attention to the screen. Segregation took place. A director could no longer be the jack-of-all-trades, for the industry was out of its swaddling clothes, and it behooved the director to concentrate solely upon directing, and to employ men and women who were especially qualified along certain lines to take charge of its various departments. The increasing demand for production created a field for new stars. Writers were employed to develop stories especially adapted to the screen and art departments were installed to design sets for each individual picture. The time had passed when the same scenes and the same furnishings could be used over and over again, or even a second time, as had been the case in the very early days. Then came the necessity of training new directors. Production was being pushed to the limit and many of the boys who "broke into the game" as cameramen, cutters, property men and general utility men began to show signs of initiative. They had studied the industry from all angles and qualified for directorial positions. Many of those who started in this way are now well known directors and some of them independent producers, contributing their talents and new ideas to an industry which is constantly reaching out for larger and greater achievements. Among the men who started in this way are Fred Niblo, Reginald Barker, Victor Schertzinger, Irving Willat, Lambert Hillyer, Del Andrews and John Griffith Wray. Chapter VI Life was fraught with many discouragement and anxieties for those who were engaged in the motion picture industry in the days when Inceville was in use. There were many disheartening problems and setbacks. Each step of the way had to be tried. Mistakes in judgment and execution, the results of experimentation, had to be corrected and new ideas tried out. As high a mark as Inceville set, in point of location and equipment, it had countless disadvantages. There were days when no shooting could be done, on account of the heavy fogs that rolled in from the sea. The sandy soil, blown up by the wind, seriously interfered with laboratory work. One tiny grain of sand on a section of film an inch square would look like a huge blotch on the dress of an actress, when it was shown on the screen, magnified hundreds of times. With heavy increases to the staff, actors, employees and extra people, transportation became another serious problem for Inceville was inaccessible. These are only a few of the things that caused delays and, to use a street expression, "threw a monkey-wrench into the machinery," which meant a deplorable loss of time and money. In the development of the various phases of picture making, there is one that is apt to be overlooked by most people, but one which is equally important as the rest--that of titles. When pictures were in the "trick" or "stunt" stage, of which I have spoken, no explanatory titles were necessary. The pantomime sufficed. It was only when the screen plot developed sufficiently to carry a story of emotions that the sub-title was introduced as an aid to scenes which otherwise would not have been fully understood. These first titles, crudely lettered and sprawling across the screen at intervals, were decorated with grotesque markings which, instead of helping, only confused the effect. In many cases the lettering was so poorly done that it was impossible for those sitting in the back rows of the theater to get the full meaning of the title. This method soon gave way, however, to more clearly defined lettering. Good printing was used and spaced in a well-balanced panel, which at least gave a sense of solidity and pleasing form. But even this was not entirely satisfying, as it served to break the sense of continuous action in the minds of the audience. Hence, the birth of the art title, which was adopted several years ago. This form is a panel enclosing the wording of the title against a suggestion of the picture, and serves to keep fresh in the minds of the audience the spirit of the picture while they are reading the title. It eliminates the awkward sense of a break in the middle of the story. The drawings on these art panels are always subdued and are used merely as a background upon which the title is shown. When wash drawings are used the title appears to merge into the scene, giving a very pleasing effect without destroying the clarity of the lettering. The drawings are always in low key, thus leaving the eye free to read the subject matter. This department has developed to a very important phase of the industry. Every studio has a staff of highly paid artists to do this work and nothing else. The art work on the panels is of a very high order and must be up to the standard of the production as a whole. A fine production, including excellent portrayal by the actors, the best direction and the finest photography, would be ruined by badly executed art titles and carelessly drawn figures. Another very important phase of titled is the form of letters used. After experimenting which many types of letters I decided upon a special design of large, light, round and decorative letters for my own productions, which are easily read and give an artistic effect at the same time. Then there is the question of how long to run a title. In the early days audiences were caused much annoyance by the titles being flashed off before their contents were thoroughly noted, or, on the other hand the titles were left on so long that after reading them several times the audience became impatient for something else to happen. This, too, has been worked out scientifically. Many tests have been made to determine the length of time it takes an average person to read a title. It is only in this way that we have been able to put a definite schedule into practice. Two feet of film is allowed for one word, three feet for two or three words, four feet for four words, five feet for five or six words, six feet for seven words and so on, in approximately this ratio. There is a very important and little known phase of titling known as word grouping. From the artistic standpoint it is a great temptation to group the words in a sub-title to form a perfectly balanced panel, but while this is important, the fact must not be overlooked that the effect caused by the grouping together of certain words in thought is just as important. For instance in the following title great care was taken to maintain the proper separating of the words in order to accentuate the thought expressed in the title, at the expense of the artistic balancing of the wording. This is the way the title appears: "I think I am going to die." Dying was the thought that should get over to the audience, with the emphasis on the words "to die." Had the words been grouped artistically rather than to convey the thought, the title would have read: "I think I am going to die." Another example from the same picture is the following: "I came to take you to choir practice." In this we have both the balance of design and the proper emphasis on the thought expressed. To say: "I came to take you to choir practice" would be entirely unsatisfying. The use of art titles has become universal in the film industry and up to this time has been considered the acme of perfection in titles, but if the motion picture is to keep pace with the times and to continue its strides toward bigger and greater achievements, it cannot remain stationary. The old, accepted standards must give way to new ideas and the art panel even now is in its renaissance. Some producers are advocating and putting into use the method of combining the title with the action of the picture. Instead of breaking the sequence, they are making the action and the title simultaneous on the screen, by throwing the title over the scene that is being enacted. As I have said, the art of the motion picture is a combination of all the arts. Literature has been called the life of a nation. If that is the case, the motion picture presents an opportunity to create in concentrated form titles and subtitles of rare literary merit. Expressions of thought that will rank with the classics of all time and which will be an inspiration to all who read them. From the famous works of the literati of all ages and all countries we have culled the gems of expression and thought. Such men as Shakespeare, Homer, Emerson and other masters have expressed to us our own thoughts, in language more beautiful than we ourselves are accustomed to use. I think there is justification for the prediction that screen titles will develop to such a point of perfection that they will rank with the masterpieces of history. Chapter VII Rapid development of the motion picture industry at Inceville was analogous to the growth of other producing units in Southern California. Producers were making constant strides toward bigger and better pictures. We were all giving the best that was in us and working to bring our ideals into realization. Looking back at the final days of our activities in the canyon near Santa Monica, I think of the production of "Civilization" as the next step in my own career toward the goal of achievement. This picture marked another milestone. I say this because it was the first picture to show the methods of modern warfare. Up to this time the war pictures that had been filmed were mostly of the civil war, but in "Civilization" submarines, airplanes and modern war equipment were used. It was prophetic of the great World War. The popularity of the picture has been justified by its recent re-issue and the enthusiasm which was accorded it. Soon after this David Wark Griffith, Mack Sennett and myself consolidated our producing activities under one banner, which was known as the Triangle. With this added impetus, the Inceville plant, with its outdoor stages, its inadequate equipment and its limitations, no longer sufficed. Something more complete was needed, a studio that would give us scope to fill the demands of the public and also provide room for an increased number of productions, allowing many companies to work at the same time. This demand led up to the building of the half million dollar Triangle studio at Culver City, which was completed and ready for occupancy on January 1, 1916. It was the finest and most completely equipped studio known at that time. In 1917 I severed my connection with Triangle, and a year later the organization was dissolved. The studio was then taken over by the Goldwyn corporation, which occupies it today. I leased the old Biograph studios and made pictures for Paramount, following which I built my present studios at Culver City, a plant which, I believe, adequately fulfills the requirements of the present-day production, as well as presenting an atmosphere of artistic beauty and the historical spirit of America which gave birth to this new and powerful art. The administration building, which fronts on Washington Boulevard, the main thoroughfare between Los Angeles and the famous beach resorts, is an enlarged replica of Mount Vernon, the home of George Washington. The spacious, close-cropped lawns, the box hedges, and the colonial mansion with its massive white pillars, is pure American architecture and represents the finest of American art and ideals, and stands for that pioneer spirit and progress for which our first president was noted. It therefore seemed fitting that the same spirit which characterized the birth of our nation should be carried out in the outward harmonious appearance, as well as the inner life of this twentieth century art. The eighteen great buildings represent the last word in construction and equipment. The glass-enclosed stages, which are capable of sheltering fifty companies at a time, the laboratories, the project rooms, the power houses, the property rooms, the art department and other structures are supplied with a completeness of facilities that was undreamed of only a few years ago. The studio is compact and yet large enough to house a working staff of more than 1600 men and women. At night the entire front is brilliantly illuminated by high power reflectors, standing out against the dark background of hills and sky in all its dignity and artistic beauty. About three years ago a group of independent producers, all of whom were working steadily toward a higher ideal in pictures, banded together and formed an affiliation known as "The Associated Producers." At the time the group included J. Parker Read, Jr., King Vidor, Allan Dwan, the late George Loane Tucker, Mack Sennett, Marshall Neilan, Maurice Tourneur and myself. Later H. O. Davis, J. L. Frothingham and Hobart Bosworth joined the ranks. The main object of this association was to form a string of exchanges throughout the country, through which we could release our pictures independently. This was another advancement, and brings me to what I believe is one of the greatest steps in the progress of the motion picture industry, the merger between the Associated Producers and the Associated First National Pictures, Inc., which took place in September, 1921. It brought together two powerful organizations, one a distributing unit and the other a producing organization. As I review my experience in the industry I can truthfully say that I consider this amalgamation of the makers and exhibitors of pictures one of the greatest strides we have made toward establishing permanency and realizing the full efficiency of the industry as an institution. This amalgamation not only saves a vast amount of money by eliminating the exchanges it was necessary for us to maintain in the different key cities, but it leaves the independent producer free to devote his entire time to production. Chapter VII In reviewing the motion picture industry I have dealt particularly with production, but a resume would not be complete without a word about the development of the theaters. Without the proper outlet for showing pictures the industry never would have progressed with the rapidity that has characterized it. When the first motion picture was made there were, quite naturally, no motion picture houses. The early films were shown in music halls, beer gardens, tents and public halls--anywhere a screen and a projection machine could be set up. Gradually the cheap variety houses gave them space. In most of these places the seats were hard and uncomfortable, the lighting was inadequate and the ventilation poor. When the motion picture began to be recognized as an established medium of entertainment and industry, theaters were remodeled and made into permanent moving picture houses. In recent years nothing has been spared in making these houses the finest products of the builder's art. A million- dollar theater no longer is unusual. The architecture, decorations and furnishings are the most luxuriant. Every motion picture house that is built today is equipped with the most perfect system of ventilation and the most exquisite plan of lighting. The finest of orchestras are employed to render special musical programs. Everything that lies within the power of man's inventive genius is done for the comfort and pleasure of patrons. From practically no motion picture houses 20 years ago, there are now about 20,000 theaters in the United States alone, with a total seating capacity of more than 5,400,000. Most of these theaters are filled several times a day. It is estimated that the theater owners take in each week a total of $14,500,000, or an average of more than $2,000,000 a day. And new theaters are being constructed rapidly. With the universal popularity of the motion picture, I believe the public who see only the finished product and who are uninitiated into the intricate processes which go to make up a finished production, are vitally interested in each step of the building of a picture. Perhaps a complete story of the building of a picture, from its inception to its final release, will not go amiss here. There are three ways of obtaining stories. I have developed a questionnaire, which is sent to various theaters throughout the country and which is, in turn, presented to the patrons of the theaters with the request that they answer the questions so that I may actually feel the pulse of the picture-going public as to their tastes and demands in pictures. The answers to the questions are averaged, thereby giving me a key to what the public wants in the way of stories--comedy dramas, tragedies, dramas, romances, or educational pictures. That established, I set myself to the task of obtaining the best of these themes. I confer with my staff of writers as to what the public wants. These stories are written, then follows another conference and discussion on each point of the story. Suggestions are made which, in many cases, enhance its value. When I am convinced that everything has been done to insure the public of what it has asked, the story is accepted. That is one way of obtaining story material. Another is the acceptance of stories from writers who are not connected with the studio. The scenario department consists of a scenario editor and a staff of readers, whose duty it is to read and report upon manuscripts submitted. These scripts come from all quarters of the globe and from persons in all walks of life. There are stories from well-known writers, college professors, striving young authors, shop girls, grocery clerks, and many others who believe that "the movies" provide a sudden jump to fame and wealth, but who have had absolutely no training or experience in writing. The products which are sent in from the three last mentioned sources usually are the life stories of the writers, and in some cases carry a good idea, but they are seldom written with any knowledge of the requirements of the screen. If the readers see no possibility of using a story it is returned to the writer. If the story is at all available it is sent to the scenario editor, and if, in his opinion, it has enough good points to recommend it, it is taken up in conference, where it is either finally accepted or rejected. The third method of procuring stories is from the literary or theatrical market. Sometimes a play or published story carries real screen value. When such a vehicle is decided upon the screen rights are bought. When a story is accepted from any one of these sources the first step has been taken. It is then put into continuity, which, as I have said before, is a working script, carefully classified, the scenes described in detail and logical sequence. Copies of this continuity then go to the director, who prepares for the working out of his scenes, and to the art department, where specifications and drawings are made for the sets and furnishings. After the drawings have been approved they are sent to the property room, where the sets and furniture are made and put on the stages. A wardrobe list is made up and sent to the wardrobe department with complete specifications for all costumes needed. Simultaneously with these developments a careful selection is made of the cast, so that each character in the story may have a faithful portrayal. Before a single turn of the camera, the cast is rehearsed many times through each scene. When they are ready the actual photographing takes place. On the set there are the director, the assistant director, art director, members of the cast, electricians, property men, camera men and the script assistant. The latter is a very important factor in production. This position usually is held by a woman and requires the most minute attention to detail. Her duty is to see that each scene is faithfully carried out in accordance with the working script. In the production of every picture many scenes are retaken. In scene 152, for instance, a man may walk through the door into the next room. He may have on a plain necktie. Scene 153 would show him entering the next room. In the sequence of scenes no time would elapse, yet in the actual filming of those two scenes several weeks might elapse and in all probability the actor would forget that he had worn a plain tie and would appear in scene 153 in one with figures or polka dots. In the sequence of the story he would have had no time or opportunity to make the change, and the audience would be aware instantly of a glaring inconsistency. When production is nearing completion the titles are made in the art department, to be inserted later in the finished film. Each day the film that has been exposed goes to the laboratory for immediate development. After the day's "shooting" is over these "rushes" are run off in the projection room, for minute inspection. The best shot of each scene is selected. If none of the "rushes" comes up to standard I order a retake, which means re-filming the entire scene. When the final "rushes" have been gone over and selected, the whole film is assembled and is run off again for the final cutting and titling. When the film is complete it is shipped to the distributing agents, who have headquarters throughout the country and who, in turn, ship them to the individual exhibitors, according to dates which have been prearranged, and thus the finished product reaches the public. Chapter IX As an economic industry, the motion picture occupies a position in the life of the nation which is, at once, distinctive and powerful. There is scarcely a commercial pursuit that is not directly or indirectly affected by it. Almost every manufactured product, from hairpins and dressing table accessories, to the most priceless of tapestries, is used in some phase of picture making. Many auxiliary industries have been established to fill the needs of the studios. For instance, one plant manufactures crockery of a light, porous nature that breaks easily on the head of the slapstick comedian without causing serious results. Another designs and makes footwear of every period and nationality. Others manufacture artificial food, and miniature cities which are sometimes used in long shots. In one studio the carpenters, paper hangers and electricians far outnumber the men employed in these trades in the average small towns of America. Property rooms outrival the average department store in the large cities, both from the standpoint of quantity and variety. There is nothing that cannot be found in this department, from an oil lamp to the complete drawing room furnishings of a millionaire. The wardrobe departments vie with museums. In a properly appointed wardrobe there are sets of costumes which represent all ages of civilization. Gorgeous robes of the ancient Caesars and the jeweled magnificence of the days of Cleopatra, royal ermine robes of the Louises of France, the sombre garbs of the Crusaders and the Pilgrim fathers, authentic crinolines and brocades of our colonial days, the winged helmets and costumes of the Vikings, and complete sets of armor worn by knights in the days of chivalry are among the requisites of the wardrobe. All of these and more, are the property of the well equipped studio, representing assets of hundreds of thousands of dollars. A large staff of workers is maintained in the wardrobe, constantly creating new gowns and remodeling old ones. They are always ready to fill a rush order and constantly are called upon to use their inventive faculties to produce some accessory that may not be in stock. It is estimated, from carefully compiled statistics, that the motion picture industry in Los Angeles alone, where 75 per cent of production is located, gives steady employment to more than 20,000 persons. The weekly payroll is considerably more than $500,000. There are between 50 and 60 motion picture studios in Los Angeles and vicinity and more than 200 separate producing units. The annual production of motion pictures in Los Angeles is more than $150,000,000. More than 300,000,000 feet of film are used in these studios annually, about 50 per cent being positive and the other half negative. The average five-reel picture costs from $35,000 to $500,000 to produce and may have an earning capacity of from $75,000 to $20,000,000. One picture produced recently which cost approximately $400,000 to turn out, has produced already more than $20,000,000. This, then, sketching it briefly, is the history of the development of the motion picture as I have been intimately associated with it for the past fourteen years. An industry that has carried with it all the romance and glamour of the California gold rush but one that has gone even farther and has taken its place among industries of the world. It has achieved for itself a station of permanent, ever unfolding to greater and still greater achievements, which brings us to the question--What of the future of the motion picture industry? and what of its aim? Starting out merely to amuse and entertain, the silent drama has evolved to the point where it has a distinct mission to fulfill, as has painting, sculpture, music, dancing, drama or literature. We are living in an age when the white light of criticism is turned upon accepted and established standards in all phases of life. The old order of things has passed and all over the world worn out traditions and methods are toppling. We are in the grip of another renaissance, a revolution of ideals. Like the Phoenix of mythology, the new world order is rising out of the ashes of the old. The picture of yesterday fulfilled its mission, giving way to newer and higher standards demanded of the picture of today. And because some of the modern productions are now reaching such a high standard, the public has learned to expect even greater triumphs. Picture goers have shown their faith in us and by that very faith they have thrown us a challenge to produce bigger and better photoplays. Are we going to accept that challenge and make the picture of tomorrow take its rightful place in the onward march of progress? I for one pledge myself to this task. The demand for better pictures is universal. On that point we all agree. But the demand brings up the question--What constitutes better pictures? This question must be answered first by the producer and finally by the public itself, for in the final analysis the public is the court of appeal on the merits of a picture. It is in their hands to make it or break it. But the producer with insight and a real desire to perfect his act can, and must, feel the pulse of the vast American audience and anticipate its desires and demands. I hold it not only a duty, but a privilege to study carefully the reactions of various types of pictures on the average audience, for only in that way can I reach my conclusions and give my interpretation of what constitutes better pictures. The really successful photo-drama of today, and I believe tomorrow, is one that catches the interest and holds the eager attention through sheer force of humanness and fidelity to the detail of life. The day has long since passed when our characters move like marionettes across the screen. The public demands, and justly so, the faithful portrayal of life as it is lived by real flesh and blood people in all its various walks. They demand true characterizations, that they may see themselves reflected on the screen. The problems of human existence vary only in degree. Basically they are identical and fundamental. Therefore, a picture with forced dramatic situations and emotions does not ring true. It is based upon a false premise and the audience leaves the theater dissatisfied and unconvinced. Chapter X To be truly successful, the motion picture of today must be written and produced by students of human nature, who can portray faithfully the problems and sires of the human family and hold up the mirror of life, so that we may see ourselves in circumstances and surroundings that are familiar to us. But that is not all. Seeing those every-day things of life worked out on the screen to successful or unsuccessful issues, as case may be, we will get a new angle, perhaps, on how to handle our particular problems. Seeing real characters with real problems to solve, which parallel our own, we will get reactions that, in many instances, will give us the courage to meet our own issues and to handle them to our own satisfaction. Nor do I mean by that that the screen must preach. That is not its mission. It must entertain and give us the form of amusement that relaxes and at the same time stimulates, but it must do this through the portrayal of life as we know it. It must give us something to enhance the value of our own lives, which are too often drab and depressing. It makes no difference whether the story is a comedy, a tragedy or a straight dramatic exposition of life, so long as it rings true and gives us life as we know it, and something to take away with us that is finer and bigger than we have ever known before. A striking instance of this comes to mind which had just that result. A play was put on the stage several years ago which was a brilliant comedy. I use that term in its finest sense. It was not a frothy farce. It was a story which dealt with one of the accepted tragedies of life, and would have been treated as such by nine out of ten playwrights. But this particular playwright chose to treat his theme as a comedy. The principal character was played by a woman of perhaps forty, who had been jilted by her lover on the eve of her wedding, twenty years before. Instead of accepting this condition as a tragedy and allowing it to cloud her life, she overcame it and developed into a woman of poise, charm and power, handling her life with that light touch that laughs at grim tragedy, and handling all she came in contact with as she would handle pawns on a chessboard, bring them to her feet as willing victims of her charm and beauty of nature. It is not the story that I wish to dwell upon, but the effect it had upon the audience. At the end of the first act the middle aged persons in the audience were sitting up with a new sense of their own power and importance. At the end of the second act there was a sparkle in the eyes of those who had felt that life was slipping into the background. When the curtain fell on the last act, which was the final triumph of the jilted lady, there was a tumultuous applause and in the faces of the audience there was a look that bespoke a new lease on life and a courage to handle the problems that were uppermost in their own lives. That play was a slice of life, faithfully portrayed. There was not one action that did not ring true, not one characterization that was false, and its effect crashed across the footlights and found a response in the hearts of all who saw it. When pictures were "in their infancy," but a few short years ago, the one idea seemed to be to make something happen on the screen. Action, and more action, with little thought of making that action portray emotions and true experiences of life. Action is absolutely essential to the successful photoplay. Without it there would be no screen drama, but it must be action which conveys the co-ordination of mind, heart and body, rather than meaningless action alone. Because of this, a distinct technique of creating screen material has developed and is in the process of larger and fuller development. In the last few years there has been an enormous demand for rights to the published story and the successful play, but the field for that type of material is becoming exhausted. Furthermore the producers are realizing that the published story and play are not always adapted to the screen, although "double hits" are frequently achieved. For a sustained and consistent source of photoplay material, however, the screen must develop its own writers, men and women who possess insight into the lives and emotions of their fellow human beings, and who are able to depict the characterizations about them with sincerity and simplicity. The theme or keynote of the story must be REAL. It must be based upon the principle of life, something which every man and woman knows in common with his neighbor; some underlying basis of human existence which touches the lives of the laborer or the capitalist, the shop girl or the queen. The theme must be a universal language--love, greed, sacrifice, fear or any emotion which is generally known. Building on the theme, the plot would be no less one of sincerity and simplicity. It should have one clearly defined logical thread running unbrokenly through the story, with the counter plots converging to the main thread of the story and never distracting the attention from it. Plots should be constructed UP, not DOWN. Situations and episodes should be gauged to lead to a climax that will accentuate all preceding scenes. The climax should be strong, virile, picturesque, colorful--redolent of life's passions. Many writers have fallen short of their mark because they opened their plot with a "crash," so to speak, and depending on this intensity at the start allowed interest to lag, through failure to provide subsequent situations and climaxes of real dramatic merit. The successful photoplay is one that is well balanced throughout, always leading on and on, stimulating imagination and preparing for the ultimate finale, which appeases and satisfies the expectant spectator. It is a mistake to pile in many complications to force the action. This distracts the mind of the audience from the main story plot and is confusing. After such a picture has been viewed it is almost impossible for the average person to relate the story in any logical sequence, and the result is that their brains are muddled and the reactions they get are a hodge-podge of complications and forced action. The situations which carry the plot to its climax must be the every day experiences that happen in the lives of average persons. Nor does that destroy the dramatic values of the story. A dramatic scene portrayed on the screen will thrill an audience with its intensity, but that same scene enacted in a Harlem flat or on a Texas ranch would impress those who were living the episode as commonplace, or at least pleasant or unpleasant as the case might be. They would fail to realize the dramatic value of their own lives. This is the art of the screen, as I see it, and the secret of better pictures is to hold up the mirror of life and show us to ourselves. The stories that are going to lead to better pictures must be deeply human, expressed in such a way that every ounce of pathos, humor, characterization and dramatic quality is felt by the audience without forcing these elements to an illogical point or permitting imagination to make inroads upon the truth. (The End) ***************************************************************************** ***************************************************************************** Back issues of Taylorology are available on the Web at any of the following: http://www.angelfire.com/az/Taylorology/ http://www.etext.org/Zines/ASCII/Taylorology/ http://www.silent-movies.com/Taylorology/ Full text searches of back issues can be done at http://www.etext.org/Zines/ or at http://www.silent-movies.com/search.html. For more information about Taylor, see WILLIAM DESMOND TAYLOR: A DOSSIER (Scarecrow Press, 1991) *****************************************************************************