The American Biograph Company had moved into their new plant in the hundred and seventies—vastly different from the ramshackle Edison installation that had been added to from time to time and looked like an agglomeration of private dwellings, offices and hot-houses. The new Biograph studio was a monument to the motion picture industry and a sanguine augury of this industry's future. I entered it arrayed in the choicer of two new suits on which I had economized ten dollars by walking up one flight.
I sent in my stills—as production photographs are called—and in a few minutes a pleasant mannered man in a straw hat, his name was Hyde, came out with them in his hand. He looked me over and told me to wait for him in a large comfortable waiting room at the head of the stairs where two people were sitting.
I waited a long time but he did not come back. After a while a man came in. I sized him up as an actor looking for work. I was standing at the window when he came over and asked me for a match.
"Thanks," he said. "You're an actor?"
I nodded and smiled.
"And you?" I inquired.
"I have played," he said looking at me very closely, shutting his eyes a little. He had eyes that made me like him at once and feel at home with him, and he spoke the way I had heard some actors read their lines.
"You work here?" I asked.
"As much as I can," he said.
"You're lucky to get in at all," I said. "Reggie Morris says it's a tough job. He's a great friend of Griff's. He tells me there's no chance here unless you've got snappy clothes, so I just bought a couple of suits."
"This is one of them?" he asked, looking me up and down.
"This one isn't so bad," I said. "But I think I like yours better, that is, the color."
"How much experience have you had?" he asked.
"Oh, several months."
"Leading business?"
"Well, not exactly, but the next thing to it. You see, at Edison you've got to be pretty old to play leads."
"You were in stock there?"
"And I was Mr. Ridgely's assistant and wrote Family Honor. You probably saw it," I said quickly, ignoring the question.
"No, I did not," he said.
"Don't miss it," I said. "It might have been better cast, but the story's a humdinger."
"Well, that's something," he said. "Humdingers are hard to find. Why did you leave Edison—or have you left?"
I reddened a little but answered at once.
"Everyone says I'm wasting my time at Edison. I'd be your age before I'd get a chance to play leads there, and anyway, I always wanted to work for Griffith. I see every picture he makes. At Yale we used to see all the pictures he made. Did you ever see Oil and Water?"
"Several times," he said.
"Some day I'm going to direct pictures myself," I said. "I could make them better than anyone at Edison right now, but you can't tell Plimpton anything."
"Plimpton?" he said, raising his eyebrows.
"Do you know if Griff is at the studio today?" I asked.
"Yes," he said, "he was on the set a few minutes ago. He went out for a smoke."
"I hope I can get to see him," I said. "What do you think the chances are?"
"Poor," he said. "He's a very busy man."
"I wonder what I ought to do," I said. "I'd like to see him today on account of having this suit on. Reggie Morris says he likes snappy dressers."
"You have a better chance of seeing Mr. Cabanne," he said.
"Do you know him," I said.
"I do," he said. "I'll give you a note to him."
While he was scribbling something on a pad I noticed a fat man with dandruff on his collar making faces at me, but I paid no attention to him, not liking his looks. When I got the note I said:
"Many thanks, and if you'd like work at Edison sometime I'll give you a note to Mr. Kendall, he's a good friend of mine."
He smiled and nodded to me, but before he was out of the room the fat man had me by the arm.
"Hey, sap, don't you know who that was?"
It suddenly dawned on me.
I started for the door, but the fat man held onto me.
"Let's see—what did he write down," he said.
I unfolded the note and read: Bill: make a test of this boy with Irma when you finish on number 1. D.W.G.
"Jesus," said the fat man, "some guys sure has all the luck. I been here a month and he never even seen me."
The first thing struck me when I got inside the studios—there were three floors of them—was that all the light was artificial. Daylight was not used, and the lights were different from the box-arcs at Edison. They were in banks of long tubes that gave off a violet light which made everyone without makeup look green. On the scene the players looked all right, but the moment they got out of those mercury lights into the working lights I noticed they all wore a dark heavy makeup. I noticed, too, that the cameras were very big and were attached to a steel platform on wheels with one thick steel support instead of three legs. Not knowing the camera head could be lifted off, I wondered how they ever got them out on location.
Mr. Cabanne was making a scene with a girl in a bedroom. She was dark and had regular features.
Mr. Hyde had turned me over to an ex-prizefighter, Spike Robinson. Spike worked in the casting office. We became friends at once.
"Who's the girl?" I whispered to him.
"Irma Hawley," said Spike. "Swell kid."
When Miss Hawley had finished a scene with a photograph of a man with hair like Sol Harrison and eyes very close together, an assistant said:
"Change for scene 23, Irma. The blue street-dress."
Then Spike went over to a dapper man in a suit and hat exactly like Mr. Griffith's. He had a small waxed moustache and was studying a script. Spike gave him the note Mr. Griffith had given me. The man looked up and signed to me to come nearer. While he was sizing me up I caught sight of myself in a mirror on the wall of the set behind him with that violet light on me. They seemed to leave some of the tubes lit when they were not shooting. I thought it was my finish. I was green and had blotches all over my face. Mr. Cabanne smiled at me and said:
"Put on a number 9 makeup."
"How soon will you need him?" said Spike.
"In an hour or so," said Mr. Cabanne.
"What's a number 9 makeup?" I said to Spike as we left the set.
"Leave it to me, I'll fix you," said Spike.
Spike took me upstairs to a large dressing room with mirrors and a ledge all the way around it. There were makeup boxes on the ledge.
A lot of fellows were sitting around smoking and laughing. Some of them I had seen in Biograph pictures: Jack Pickford, Antonio Moreno, Bobby Harron. The man in the photograph with hair like Sol Harrison and eyes close together was there too.
"Jack," said Spike, "got any number 9? Test for Bill Cabanne."
Everyone stopped talking and stared at me and I felt my coat collar had slipped back and straightened it.
"No," said Jack, and started talking again.
"Thanks," said Spike. "When you want anything let me know."
Just then Reggie Morris came in.
"Hello Reggie," I said stepping over to him.
"Oh, hello," he said, but walked past me and sat down with the others.
"Reggie," I said, "I've got to make a test for Mr. Cabanne. Can you lend me your number 9 makeup?
"What's wrong with using your own?" said Reggie.
"I didn't know I was going to do a test," I said.
"That ain't my fault," said Reggie.
"Come on, Reg, let him have your number 9," said Spike, "I'm in a hurry."
"It's there," said Reggie. "The box with the towel on it."The makeup box was locked. I told Reggie.
"Bring it over," he said.
There were several tubes of greasepaint in it.
"Which is number 9?" I said, "Can't you read?" said Reggie.
I found the number 9. But I had never worn greasepaint before. With the mixture of daylight and arcs at Edison we only used a yellow powder. I started putting on the greasepaint without first applying cream and got it on in lumps. I realized there was something wrong, and my face and ears started to burn.
"Reggie," I said desperately, "I can't get this stuff on."
Everyone stared at me. "Never had a makeup on?" said Reggie.
"Get that number 9 off—with cold cream—and start over,"" said Bobby Harron.
"Thanks very much," I said. "We only use powder at Edison."
When I had removed the daubs of greasepaint I looked back at Bobby Harron. He made a dabbing gesture and I understood....At last I got it on.
"Eyes and lips now," said Bobby. "Then powder it over."
"Thanks very much," I said to Bobby when I got through. "We don't use greasepaint at Edison."
Then I thanked Reggie.
"This is a stock dressingroom," Reggie said. "Fold up the towel."
I did so and went out to look for Spike.
"Hey," said Spike when I got downstairs. "Want to work? Five bucks."
"Sure," I said, "but Mr. Cabanne—"
"I seen him," said Spike. "Kirkwood's making a retake on stage 2 for Strong Heart. Cabanne won't get to you before lunch."
The scene was in a college room with pennants on the wall and a few photographs stuck around. There were rooms in Durfee at Yale like it. Antonio Moreno came on the set with the star, James Kirkwood. Tony was about the same type as Malcom McGregor, but smaller. I thought he looked like a college boy. Kirkwood seemed a little old, still, there were seniors at Yale who looked old too. But the others looked more like chorus men to me, and they were not wearing Brooks Brothers clothes. There was a delay about something, and one of them had to go and change. While they were waiting I went over on the next set.
Mr. Griffith was directing a scene that looked like a board meeting. A lot of business men were sitting around a long table. Blanche Sweet and Marshall Neilan were facing each other. A policeman was standing behind Neilan, who was handcuffed. There was another policeman at the door. Miss Sweet did not play the scene the way Mr. Griffith wanted it. She seemed tired and nervous. Mr. Griffith said something to the prop man who started a gramophone with one of Irving Berlin's latest ragtimes. Then he spoke to the assistant.
"Back on the set in ten minutes, everyone!" shouted the assistant. When the set was clear Mr. Griffith said:
"Blanche let's try those new steps."
They started dancing, but he got out of step.
"You've forgotten everything I showed you yesterday!" she said.
After that he got it very well. I saw him nod to the assistant when the piece ended. Then the record was changed for a sad one and the assistant shouted:
"On the set, everybody!"
"Last rehearsal with lights before we take it," said Mr. Griffith, very loud. Then he said in a low voice to Bitzer, the cameraman: "Shoot, Bill."
Miss Sweet played the scene beautifully.
"Fine," said Mr. Griffith. "What time is it?"
"Eleven-thirty," said the assistant.
"Closeup of Miss Sweet. Everyone else go to lunch," Mr. Griffith said.
Miss Sweet looked very surprised, and when she had fixed her makeup they wheeled the camera right up to her and she did the last part of the scene over. I had never seen a closeup made before—at Edison we worked on a 12 foot foreground. After it was finished the assistant asked Mr. Griffith to go and look at a cellar set that was ready to shoot. The assistant cameraman and the prop man wheeled the camera over to it. The lights were on the set and Billy Bitzer began to line up while Mr. Griffith examined everything. There was a column in the foreground with broken plaster on it. When Mr. Griffith looked through the camera the column seemed to bother him. He had them move the camera over a foot or so to the left. But that did not satisfy him.
"Joe," he said to the grip, "I think you'd better move the column over a foot to the right. What do you think yourself?"
"I think it looks fine the way it is, Mr. Griffith," said Joe, "and if I move it the set's liable to come down on us. The column's holding up the crossbeam....Looks fine to me the way it is."
"You're wrong, Joe," said Mr. Griffith thoughtfully. "Move the column over twelve inches."
Then he and Bitzer went to lunch. When he had gone Joe said to the prop man:
"Twelve inches—for Christsake!...What time is it?"
"Must be near twelve," said the propman.
"An hour's work.... Twelve inches. For the love of Jesus! Have to pull the bloody beam down to move it."
They began to talk in low voices, and then Joe moved the camera a foot over the other way and they went to lunch.
After lunch when Mr. Griffith came back Joe was on the set, and the prop man was sweeping around the base of the column. Mr. Griffith looked at it with eyes half closed the way he had looked at me.
"You moved the column over, Joe?" he said. "Yes, sir," said Joe, looking away.
"Lights," said Mr. Griffith, and looked through the camera, Joe watching him.
Mr. Griffith got off the camera platform and had them push it over a foot to where it had been before he went to lunch. Then he looked through it again. I saw him smile to himself. He shook his head.
"You were right, Joe," he said. "The column looked better where it was. Move it back."
We finished the college room set quickly. But they did not get to my test until five o'clock. When we did, Mr. Cabanne had me play a scene with Miss Hawley from the picture he was making. My coat collar kept slipping back and bothered me until he told me to unbutton my coat. When the test was over I saw Mr. Griffith walking away. I had not noticed he was there. Mr. Cabanne told me to come back on Thursday, and I went to look for Spike to get my check cashed. While I was waiting around I saw two or three men with their heads cropped close.
"Are they making a German picture?" I said to Spike.
"Hell, no," said Spike.
"What have they got their hair cut that way for?" I said.
"It's like this," Spike said. "They're directors. The Old Man got his cut that way to stop it falling out, and these guys think they look like him."
"I never noticed Griff's hair was cut that way," I said.
"Keeps his hat on," said Spike. "Be hell on them guys if he got all his teeth pulled."
Spike gave me back my stills and I cashed the check. "You think the test was all right?" I said.
"Sure," said Spike. "The Old Man just told Hyde to cast you in Powers' Civil War picture, but it don't start for three weeks."
"That's great," I said. "Don't let him forget."
"You can count on me, kid," said Spike. "So long."