When a stirring drama or uproarious farce is projected upon the screen the actions are so natural, the situations develop so obviously—in fact, the whole thing proceeds so smoothly—that the average person concludes that the production of a picture play is the simplest thing in the world. But the average person was never more mistaken. A visit to a studio-theatre to follow a production from the beginning to the end undeceives him very promptly and thoroughly.

The stage management of a play before the celluloid film is far more exacting than the staging of a play behind the footlights. Situations have to be handled which never develop on the legitimate stage. The picture play is essentially pantomime and the camera is a searching, unequivocal critic. It produces a stern, matter-of-fact representation of what is enacted before it. There is no dialogue to conceal blemishes, or mitigate the deficiencies of the actors and actresses. Words have to be converted into action and gestures. In a picture-play every muscle of the body has practically to be called into use to convey to the spectator a lucid and coherent idea of the progress of the plot, since there is nothing but the action to tell him “what it is all about.”

Furthermore, everything must be condensed to the irreducible minimum without forfeiting coherency. The plot must be unravelled without the slightest interruption of the main thread of the story. Once the spectator loses grip of the theme, interest is lost. As brevity is the soul of wit, so terseness is the keynote of success in a picture-play.

The producer must be a man of many parts. He must have a keen instinct for dramatic situation, possess wide histrionic ability and experience, have a sharp eye for minute detail, be supplied with unlimited energy, and capacity to extract the utmost from his company. One factor is all-important to him—time. The stage-manager works on a time-schedule, not of minutes, but of seconds; it must be remembered that every second of time is equivalent to twelve inches of film. A producer will spend five minutes in the effort to condense by five seconds the action necessary for a certain situation.

In what form does the picture play reach the stage-manager’s hands for production? Does the playwright prepare the contribution in detail complete with dialogue and business, as if for the theatrical stage, or does he supply a bare outline? The answer varies according to the dramatist, and to the stage-manager for whom he is working. Some authors cannot convey their ideas coherently without extensive dialogue. Others can achieve their end in 200 words. Again, one producer fails to see eye-to-eye with the author’s idea unless the latter is worked out minutely, while another will grasp the whole situation instantly. As a result, it is impossible to lay down any hard and fast rules, as to how to write a picture-play; but, generally speaking, the briefer the scenario or story of the play, the more likely it is to find favour, all other things being equal.

I have seen both methods in execution. In one case the author’s story had been worked out to the smallest detail, the manuscript covering some fifty pages. On the other hand, a friend of mine who has produced many, eminently successful picture films, scribbles the bare idea on a single sheet of paper—the back of an envelope suffices sometimes—briefly indicating the progress of the plot step by step, retaining all the stage business in his head, and modifying his ideas as he proceeds, to suit the circumstances.

Equally divergent is the practice followed in production. Among the French producers the general method is to write out all the parts complete with dialogue, and to hand the lines to the members of the company concerned, to be committed to memory in the usual way. Actors and actresses thus become familiarised with the atmosphere of the story, and are left to a great extent to their own histrionic instinct to interpret the character assigned, the producer introducing his ideas as rehearsals proceed.

On the other hand, many producers prefer to keep the members of their company in ignorance of the plot. The story is carried through in brief sections, step by step, the lengths of each section being between 45 and 100 seconds or thereabouts. The actors and actresses are given instructions as to how to make up their characters, and are then marshalled upon the stage. The first situation in the play is taken, the producer showing each character concerned how the part is to be played. The members are put through their paces time after time, rehearsing being continued until the whole company moves like a machine, and then the camera films the incident. Sometimes the producer himself will undertake a part, and shout instructions on the stage as the action proceeds, keeping every actor and actress moving just as he desires. This method is followed very extensively in America. Its advantage is that the members of the company, not knowing what is coming next, are kept acutely expectant in order to fall naturally into the spirit of the parts and plot; they work themselves to a high pitch of intensity; and this gives the play the vim and animation which are peculiarly requisite for a picture-play.

By this method also the stage-manager compels the actors and actresses to interpret his ideas, which he regards as suiting the man in the street. The members of the company have no opportunity to thrust their own impressions before the camera. When the lines are given out beforehand to the members of the company, each naturally forms an individual opinion as to how this or that part should be played, and once this impression has taken root, it is difficult for the producer to modify it upon the lines he has conceived. Another disadvantage of the latter method is that an actor or actress sometimes fails to regard a part with sympathy, and the result lacks realistic effect. Repeated rehearsals also tend to dull enthusiasm; the members of the company become somewhat lethargic; and there is a marked absence of zest and swing in the resultant picture.

When the play reaches the producer’s hands the first point is to settle the length of film to which it shall run. This depends upon the character of the play itself. The average length varies between 600 and 1,000 feet, occupying from ten to sixteen minutes to project upon the screen. If an elaborate or novel production is contemplated of a character able to sustain the interest of the audience, the length may be doubled or quadrupled. The film version of “A Tale of Two Cities,” for instance, ran to 3,000 feet, which meant that the screen was occupied for some sixty minutes. That was an exceptional production, however, and there are few plays which could rivet the attention of an audience for an hour.

The actors and actresses, like the producer, are drawn from the legitimate theatre. The majority of the large organisations collect and maintain their own stock companies, ready to produce any character for any description of play. This idea was first practised, and is still continued to a limited extent, in Great Britain, the company averaging six or eight principals. But in the early days the public resented the too frequent appearance of the same face upon the screen; so the studios which were situated in the vicinity of the metropolis began to draw their material from the theatrical market, securing an excellent selection, and at the same time plenty of variety.

Cinematograph studios situated farther afield availed themselves of the touring theatrical companies, whose members benefited appreciably from the introduction of the film-play; as it gave them an opportunity to increase an otherwise meagre weekly wage. The practice is still in vogue in the British provinces, and has been found very profitable to the producer, because the varied experience of the average touring actor or actress is a valuable asset on the picture-play stage.

The film-play does not offer any opportunity to the amateur theatrical individual. The camera emphasises far too acutely any weak points in histrionic ability. The professional is the essential raw material, and the heart-breaking drill of the legitimate stage renders the actor or actress all the better adapted to the exacting requirements of the film play; though at times it demands indescribable patience and perseverance, if not bullying, on the part of the producer to compel the professional to adapt himself to changed conditions and realise the difference between the two phases of the histrionic art. Many producers, in fact, prefer to maintain their own stock company, every member of which can grasp in an instant what the stage-manager demands, thus saving much valuable time. The nucleus is increased as necessity demands for special occasions or particular characters from the ranks of available touring companies, while the supernumeraries are likewise recruited from a wide field.

The selection of the actors and actresses is by no means easy. The cinematographic stage has its own peculiar requirements. The pre-eminent one is that the actor or actress must not only act but look the part. A young man cannot make up to take an old man’s part—he must be an old man. A woman of middle age may on the legitimate stage excel in a young girl’s rôle; but she may not take it on the camera stage.

Make-up has to be reduced to the minimum, because the huge enlargement which the picture undergoes in projection renders such artifices hideous. Facial make-up is practically out of the question. Nowadays the practice is to abandon general make-up entirely, and to whiten all the faces. Under the glare of many thousand candle-power emitted by several electric lamps it is possible in this way to secure striking contrasts in facial expressions. When the features are torn by malignant hatred, or uproarious mirth, the shadows formed by the wrinkling of the skin as the muscles are brought into operation emphasise the expression. There is another reason for the whitening process. An actor or actress may have a natural high colour, or dark complexion, when the face comes out with a dark or black tone, conveying the impression that the part has been performed by a negro or mulatto. This method of making up, however, it must be explained, applies only to black and white cinematograph production.

There is no dearth in the supply of actors or actresses, consequently the producers are able to carry out a weeding process in order that they may secure the very best histrionic ability. One large American company supplies every aspirant with a form in which to record full particulars of his or her stage career. If the applicant has had no professional experience he or she is told at once that the company needs none but experienced artistes.

Certain American producers have not only acquired a large stock company, but have also, by offering large salaries, attracted old favourites, whom they star precisely as in the legitimate theatre. Posters and photographs of their leading actors and actresses are circulated broadcast, and the public has its favourites on the cinematographic as on the legitimate stage. The Edison Company has fourteen principals at Orange, in New Jersey; and in addition a company of seven stationed in Western America for plays having a western setting. The Selig Company has thirty players permanently attached to its Chicago and Los Angeles establishments. The practice has by no means fallen into disuse in Great Britain. The Hepworth Company, from whose studios come some of the best films prepared especially to suit British and Colonial tastes, maintains two stock companies at Walton-on-Thames; while the Kinemacolor plays are produced by a stock company of twelve players, augmented as occasion demands, which divide their time between the studio-stages at Hove and Nice, frequenting the former during the English summer, and spending the remaining six months of the year in the south of France, being transported to and fro each season.

There has been considerable complaint, to some extent justified, of the indifferent character of the British film play productions. British producers have not received sufficient encouragement to enable them to incur great expense in mounting or in the maintenance of a large and excellent stock company. However, there are signs of a change; and as the technical quality of the picture is improving it should not be long before the British film play industry attains a position of importance. As soon as this happens a wide success will be reaped; for this country possesses unique and extensive opportunities for producing plays capable of making a world-wide appeal, and is rich in the natural settings so much in demand for the attainment of atmosphere.

Let us follow the production of a picture play at a large establishment having between three and six producers at work every day from morning to night. The players upon arrival consult the “call-board” to see when rehearsals commence, upon what stage, and for what productions. One artist may appear in two or three plays in a single day, as a play is occasionally not photographed complete through all its scenes; it may be interrupted for several days from some reason or other.

At the pre-arranged time the company assembles upon its allotted stage. The manager marshals those required in the scene and explains precisely what he wants each artist to do. The business on the stage is demonstrated, and those in waiting are told just how to make their entrances, and all exits are indicated very concisely. The stage-manager rehearses the first episode before those concerned, to convey a general idea of his requirements, and they immediately repeat it. No dialogue is written, but the actors of professional experience realise what words are demanded for different situations, and accordingly extemporise as they proceed. In the reproduction the movement of the lips renders the action distinctly more conclusive and realistic; moreover, the enunciation of suitable dialogue induces the correct facial expression, one of the most important requirements in the picture play, and the audience must at times derive from it the significance of the situation.

In this fragmentary manner the producer carries the company through the incident, and it is now rehearsed time after time, little modifications and improvements being made on each occasion to animate the action still further. Those waiting to enter are given the cue, and when an exit has to be made it is announced in an emphatic manner by the manager. The scene is repeated perhaps a dozen times before it goes with the swing that the producer desires. Then what may be termed a dress rehearsal is carried out. Watch in hand, the camera operator follows it through from end to end. The producer has decided the length of film the whole play shall occupy, and has allotted to each incident a certain number of seconds, that is, of feet of film. The final rehearsal completed, the producer inquires, “How long?”

“Seventy seconds,” replies the operator.

“Too long,” remarks the producer, and forthwith the scene is rehearsed once more, the producer abbreviating it as the action proceeds, by shouting stentorian orders to the players to make a quicker entry, cutting short a situation, or by sharply and unceremoniously telling a member to “get off” if there is a sign of lingering in the exit.

“Fifty-five seconds,” remarks the operator.

It is still too long by five or six seconds. The producer sees where he can compress the scene still more, so decides to do this while the camera is working. The operator takes his position, and then a scene of great animation is witnessed.

“Are you ready?” shouts the manager. The actors come to the alert. “Right!” The camera commences its rhythmic purring, and as the first strains of the buzz break out the manager gives vent to a loud “Go!”

The whole time the picture is being filmed the producer is shouting instructions, giving abrupt cues, and sharp orders as to how to improve the business. Although orders and commands are delivered in an endless stream, not a single player loses his head. One and all proceed as if the manager were non-existent. It is a babel of noise; the producer raps out breathless orders such as “Look towards the camera”—“Shout out the dialogue”—“Come towards the front”—“Get off!”—“Look happy”—“Not so quickly”—“Come in”—“Roll your eyes”—“Don’t move your hands as if you were playing the piano”—“Cry!”— “Hurry up!” and so on without ceasing. The actors are worked up to an exciting pitch, each man and woman singling out the comment which concerns him or her. The scene is brought to a climax, and there is a shout of “Stop.” The purring of the camera ceases immediately.

“How many feet?” inquires the producer.

“Fifty-three,” replies the operator.

“Good! Next scene! Twelve years later,” and forthwith every artist receives further explicit instructions.

Perhaps the operator finds that he has not enough film in the box to carry him through the whole of a scene. In such a case, when by reference to the dial on the camera he finds that the film is on the verge of exhaustion, he cries “Stop!” Immediately the actors become rooted to the spot and remain motionless until a new loaded box of film is inserted into the camera and threaded up, an operation which takes half a minute or so. Occasionally the “Stop” call is given at an awkward moment, when the stage hands rush forward to support artists who have been interrupted in the middle of some action, and are caught in difficult positions. When the word “Go!” is given once more, the supporters rush off the stage and the acting is resumed as if there had been no interference. The first few pictures upon the new film are afterwards cut out, and the connection between the two bands is effected so neatly that no evidence of a break in continuity is revealed upon the screen.

As on the legitimate stage, so here also there is a tendency to pay more and more attention to realistic detail. Once upon a time it sufficed for a frontier scene if a shack were painted on the back cloth. Every time an actor touched the cloth a series of undulating waves went across it, with ludicrous effect. A disconcerting ripple of laughter would run through the house, even in the midst of an intensely tragic situation. The public soon lost interest in plays so ill mounted, and their dissatisfaction, of course, generated the necessary improvement.

Audiences demand nature and realism, and the producer responds. Instead of improvising a railway station in canvas and battens upon the stage the producer transports his company, lock, stock, and barrel, together with all the properties in motor cars or cabs to an actual station to secure the required results in a natural setting. If a scene is laid in a given thoroughfare, the company is sent thither to act the story.

In the United States the demand for realism has developed almost into mania. The American Biograph Company had arranged to produce a film version of the famous Indian novel “Ramona,” in which the great scene is the devastation of a white settlement by Indians. The story is laid in California; so the firm assembled a company of sixty-five artists and dispatched them across the continent from New York to the Pacific Coast, where they stayed five months so as to become saturated with the environment. In order that the sacking and destruction of homes might be correct in every detail, a small village was purchased and fired! In another instance the same company wanted a modern fire scene. They rented a plot of land, upon which they built a house of the style required; then they set it on fire and burned it to the ground. But the Selig Company eclipsed even this performance. One day a fire broke out in a large department store in the heart of the city of Los Angeles. It was a unique opportunity to obtain a powerful play; so the producers, after securing over the telephone the sanction of the fire brigade authorities, hurried principals and operators to the conflagration. The film hero was garbed in the uniform of a fireman, and at the head of a squad equipped with a hose, he dashed into the burning building; the whirring of the camera testified that this incident had been recorded. Shortly after, a woman—one of the best actresses of the company—was observed at an upper window surrounded by fire and smoke. She uttered a despairing cry for “Help!” and in response, the pseudo-fireman made a frantic rush up the ladder, broke in the window, and snatched the prostrate form of the actress from the flames. The players ran great risks, but the film producer was satisfied. He had secured a sensational fire rescue in an actual big fire in a crowded thoroughfare, with the fire engines, a towering building, smoking and well alight, and a huge crowd looking on as a setting. It is hard to imagine a stage-manager attempting this feat under similar conditions in London or any other European city.

The feverish clamour for realism has occasionally met the reward of rashness. In South London, in a scene where a railway locomotive played an important part, one of the men in the act was run over and killed; in another case an actor was drowned while engaged in a thrilling water scene. Mr. Edison relates that during the filming of a Boer War play by his company, one of the actors dropped a lighted match into a glass vessel containing gunpowder! He has been picking stray pieces of glass from various parts of his anatomy ever since! In another instance a superannuated cannon was used, which killed one or two actors and injured many others.

An elaborate production, which is a great favourite in the United States, is “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” which lends itself admirably to film treatment. On the legitimate stage “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” has become to the touring American manager what “East Lynne” is to his English contemporary. It will fill a house; and it has established the same rank for itself in the cinematograph theatre.

As an amusing comment on this fact, I must tell the story of the introduction of the cinematographic version south of Mason and Dixon’s line. The stage version had never been played in the Southern States—managers feared it would kindle smouldering fires in the breasts of the white population. An invisible barrier was drawn across the country south of which the play never ventured. The same apprehension was entertained in regard to the moving picture production. However, one manager took the risk and presented the film to a crowded house in New Orleans. It had been announced for a night or two only, but its success was so overwhelming that it held the screen for two or three weeks, the house being crowded at each projection.

The moving picture producer is even capable of turning to account a disaster to his own plant. While a play was in progress upon a studio-stage in New York the building caught fire, and unrehearsed scenes were enacted. The camera operator seized the opportunity. While the building was blazing, and the company were rushing wildly to and fro, he kept his handle turning lustily, and as a result filmed the whole subject. In order to secure a dramatic automobile disaster the Edison Company drove a motor-car to the top of a lofty cliff. A dummy was seated in the vehicle to take the part of the character who had been acting in the play up to this point, the steering-wheel was fixed in its hand, the car was started up, and it was driven at full speed to the edge of the cliff, over which it plunged. The film operator caught it falling through the air, as well as the splash produced by its headlong dive into the waves. Another company desired to secure a dynamite explosion at sea. For this purpose it purchased an old schooner for £200 ($1,000), stocked it with dynamite, towed it beyond sight of land, where the charge was detonated, and a stirring series of pictures of the disaster was recorded from the deck of a yacht chartered especially for the occasion.

Sometimes the struggle after realism provokes humorous situations. The Edison Company once wanted a riot scene, so they produced one in a quiet country district by the aid of their company and a number of local supernumeraries, who entered into the plot with tremendous enthusiasm. While the mock riot was at its height the myrmidons of the law swept down and arrested all the ringleaders, who, naturally, were the principals of the play, and promptly incarcerated them. The players expostulated that it was all make-believe, but the police were not to be hoodwinked; they had heard that story before. Some time elapsed before the mock rioters were released from gaol; but the manufacturers scored, because the interference of the police imparted additional versimilitude to the whole proceeding.

In Germany an hilarious party was rowing up a river. Suddenly all the gay company were seen struggling in the water—the boat had capsized. There was a rush from all sides to bring help; boats put off hurriedly, while spectators either were rooted to the spot in horror or dived into the water on rescue bent. The scene was intensely dramatic, and it was not until one of the swimmers, while bearing the frail form of a girl to the bank, hearing a strange buzzing near his head, looked round and saw an amused operator a few feet distant, nonchalantly turning the handle of a camera. Then the fact dawned upon everyone that the anxious rescuers had unconsciously contributed to the greater success of a cinematograph play.

The French producers Pathé Frères once disturbed the peaceful life of a sleepy village by acting a scene in the deserted main street. While the work was in progress one of the most prominent citizens hurried up. He was bursting with righteous indignation at the noisy caprices of the crowd of roysterers. While he was expostulating and uttering dire threats of action, a policeman appeared, and clapping a firm hand upon the shoulder of the interfering person, threatened to arrest him for inciting a breach of the peace! The admonished resident, somewhat amazed at the turn of affairs, moved crestfallen away, and departed homewards. He omitted to look round at the emissary of the law, and ignored the guffaw of laughter which burst out at his discomfiture. Had he done so he would have observed a merry twinkle in the eye of the gendarme, who was a member of the party!

A company desired to secure a love scene between an engine-driver and a country maiden; so a small railway with the whole of its rolling-stock on the outskirts of a town was hired for a single day. Another firm, the Kalem Company, decided to picture a series of Irish stories. Instead of passing off American scenery as that of the Emerald Isle, the company and properties were dispatched across the Atlantic to the heart of the country which the author had selected as the scenes of his stories. Recently, the Gaumont Company, of London, dispatched its company to Scotland in order to stage Rob Roy. The Duke of Argyll graciously assisted in furthering the fidelity of the setting, by permitting scenes to be enacted upon his estate and extending invaluable aid, volunteering suggestions in order that everything might be as correct as was humanly possible.

The Vitagraph Company undertook the filming of Fennimore Cooper’s “Leather-stocking” stories. They sent their company straightway to the scene of Natty Bumppo’s adventures, and although the forest has disappeared long since, they pressed the lake into useful service. Williamson, the English producer, filmed a picture version of the tragic story of Lady Jane Grey, and the Tower of London formed the stage for some of the incidents in the sad story, culminating in the execution of the “nine days’ queen.”

Where do the moving picture producers obtain their plots? I have heard this question asked on many occasions, and the answer might be “everywhere.” They have such an inexhaustible mine in which to delve that there is never any difficulty in finding an episode upon which to base a straightforward simple drama, comedy, tragedy, or farce. In this respect the cinematograph producer is far better off than his rival on the real stage. Situations, scenes, and episodes incapable of production by the latter, can be produced very simply on the film. Novels, short stories, plays, the Bible, Greek inscriptions, inventions, little episodes and incidents in everyday life—anything and everything is grist for his mill. Of course, fashions change just as in any other phase of our complex life. To-day there is a demand for subjects of mediæval English history; to-morrow the French revolutionary period holds the stage; three weeks hence there is a cry for Bible or ancient history subjects; or a demand for something modern. It is not difficult to meet each and every need. Most of the large producing establishments retain competent writers who know how to prepare plots for the picture producer, and in addition there is a staff to consider plots submitted from outside sources. The Edison Company receives 150 scenarios a week, and other companies as large or even a larger number. It will be discouraging but salutary to the beginner to hear that the chances of acceptance are very slender, the number of suitable scenarios being not more than one per cent. of those submitted. The remuneration varies according to the merit of the work. It may be taken merely for the title or one incident in the story, and may be worth only four shillings or a dollar to the producer; on the other hand, it may command £25 ($125). There is no fixed scale. The trained dramatist has realised that in the picture play he has a new and increasing source of revenue, and as he is the best fitted for the task, so he makes the greatest success in it. French writers were the first to take advantage of the market, and plays have been written and produced from the pen of many of the foremost dramatists—such accomplished men as Capus and others.

The entrance of the dramatist has precipitated a new situation. The suggestion has been discussed that well-known playwrights should decline to part with their work for a fixed sum, but that they should earn a royalty precisely as they do from their stage productions. It is an intricate question to solve, but there is no doubt that the time will come when such writers will receive a certain percentage upon the price realised from the sale of every film copy of a picture play from their pens.

A recent outcome of the development of the picture play has been the appearance of “independent producers,” who are in evidence mostly on the Continent. These men enrol their own companies, rent or build a studio, paint their own scenery, and hire whatever properties are required from a theatrical costumier. The plays thus produced are sold to some recognised manufacturing firm. This “free lance” producer has an extensive market at his disposal, but his enterprise demands a large initial outlay. Yet it is a movement worthy of being fostered, inasmuch as such a producer is thrown entirely upon his own resources, and it is only the merit of his work from all points of view which secures him a market. The practice stimulates competition. Indeed, some manufacturers have found that in this manner they can secure work superior in character and treatment to that produced in their own establishments.