Late in the summer of 1912 the Kinemacolor Company of America, a subsidiary of the English company, started the production of movies in color at a studio in Whitestone, Long Island. The year of Kinemacolor’s endeavor also marks Mr Griffith’s last year with Biograph, for he went to the Mutual with Harry Aitken while I became leading woman with the Kinemacolor.

Messrs. Urban and Smith had rather startled the world with their color pictures of the Coronation of George the Fifth of England, and the Durbar Imperial at Delhi; and even though their pictures were a bit fringy, they were becoming ambitious for honors in color movies along dramatic lines.

Great things were achieved in America in the movies, and great things might have been achieved in America in Kinemacolor, but it was destined otherwise. Kinemacolor was fated to be but a brief though fruitful interlude in color-photography in the movies, which, for some seemingly mysterious reason, is so long in arriving.

Sunshine being imperative for Kinemacolor, southern California’s staple brand could not be denied, and soon the company left its studio in Whitestone and repaired to the modest little town of Hollywood where it took over the Revier Laboratories at 4500 Sunset Boulevard.

That the place had been used as a studio was not discernible from the front. It was a pretty corner on which, some distance apart, stood two simple cottages, Middle Western in character. They represented office and laboratory. Dressing-rooms and stages of a crudeness comparable to the original Biograph studio were at the back.

No fence gave privacy from passers-by, but a high board fence, decorated with pictures of foxes and the words “Fox Pictures,” protected the lot in the rear. It was not the William Fox of to-day who thus sought to advertise his trademark and his wares. Another Mr. Fox it was of whom we seem to hear nothing these days.

Here Kinemacolor moved in, with David Miles at its head, Jack Le Saint director of the No. 2 company, and our old friend Frank Woods making his movie-directing début as teacher to the actors of the No. 3 company. For Mr. Woods having tasted movie blood through his little Biograph scenarios and his position as chief reviewer of the movies, had grown anxious to plunge more deeply into the swiftly moving waters of reel life. So Mr. Miles opened the way for him. And although Kinemacolor opened up financially to a salary of only seventy-five dollars a week, the Woodses made the most of it, for from that humble beginning in less than ten years they have come to own a town near Barstow, California. They have named it “Lenwood.” Charles H. Fleming, who was assistant to David Miles, afterwards became a director and tastefully executed a number of pictures.

When the Kinemacolor Company was gathering in what youth and looks and talent it could afford, Mr. Miles, remembering a little deed of kindness, recalled Gaston Bell and took him to Hollywood, and when the much-loved and generous-souled Lillian Russell came out to do some pictures in Kinemacolor, Mr. Bell was rewarded by being made her leading man. Mahlon Hamilton loaned his good looks to the same films. The Russell pictures were used to illustrate “Beauty Talks” in an act in which Miss Russell was headlined on big vaudeville time throughout the United States.

Mahlon Hamilton and Gaston were the company’s two best “lookers.” As to “acting,” Mahlon made not a single pretense. He and the company quite agreed as to his dramatic ability. To be so perfectly Charles Dana-ish, and histronic also, was not expected of one man in those days. We had not reached the Valentino or Neil Hamilton age. Mr. Mahlon Hamilton, of late, not quite so Gibsonesque, has become a surprisingly good actor. So do the years take their toll and yield their little compensations.

The wonderful possibilities of Kinemacolor had not even been scratched when the American subsidiary was formed, for the foreign photographers—English, French, and German—who had “taken” the Coronation and also some picture plays that were produced in southern France, insisted that the close-up was impossible in color. But Mr. Miles, having had Biograph schooling, insisted contrariwise, and after a long and hard scrap with his photographers, he succeeded in inducing them to do as he said. The result proved his contention. The Kinemacolor close-ups were things of great beauty.

During its short life, Kinemacolor made some impression; for Dan Frohman after seeing some of the pictures said that “The Scarlet Letter” was the most artistic movie he had seen up to that time. Many distinguished visitors stopped at its Hollywood studio to see the new color pictures. Madame Tetrazzini, the opera singer, among many others, was tremendously enthusiastic.

It has been stated in error that the Kinemacolor pictures were never released. They were very much released, being shown at the New York Theatre Roof, besides many other theatres in New York, and contracts for their service all through the country were made by the Kinemacolor Company. Things started off with such a bang, we never did get over the shock of the sudden closing.

It was one exciting year with Kinemacolor, but it ended suddenly and tragically with the death of the president, Mr. Brock. While preening our wings for a flight to southern France, a telegram arrived from the New York office announcing the finish of picture production in Kinemacolor.

The sudden disruption of the Kinemacolor Company sent a flock of actors and a few directors scouting for new jobs. Frank Woods took up with Universal, only to suffer a six weeks’ nightmare. Being unable to turn out the class of stuff wanted, and anticipating what was coming, he resigned, dug up the return half of his Kinemacolor round-trip ticket, and was not long in New York before he got busy as a free-lance; and not so long after that a telephone from D. W. Griffith asked him to become his scenario writer. With great joy he accepted, filling the position with Mr. Dougherty, who was now back at Biograph after a short spasm with Kinemacolor.

Right away Mr. Woods and Mr. Griffith got busy on “Judith of Bethulia,” for having produced such a classic, Mr. Griffith wanted some special titling for it. He turned it over to Frank Woods, who phrased the captions in the style of language of the day—the first time that was done. However, it proved too much of a strain for the exhibitors, for they afterward fixed the titles up to suit themselves in good old New Yorkese.

Mr. Griffith’s connection with the Mutual Film organization and his association with H. E. Aitken resulted in the production of such eventful and popular pictures as “The Tell-Tale Heart,” “Home, Sweet Home,” “The Escape,” “The Avenging Conscience,” and “The Battle of the Sexes.” The Clara Morris home out on Riverdale Road served as a studio until the 29 Union Square Place was acquired.

Billy Bitzer, D. W.’s photographer, went with him in his new affiliation, as also did Frank Woods and Christy Cabanne. As Mr. Griffith’s work with the Mutual became organized, one by one he took over his old actors, but he left them working with Biograph until he could put them directly into a picture. So they trailed along; Henry Walthall, Blanche Sweet, James Kirkwood, Mae Marsh, Lillian and Dorothy Gish, Eddie Dillon, and many others.

After a short time at the Mutual studio, Mr. Griffith and his company went to California. At the old Kinemacolor lot they encamped, the Mutual having taken over that studio. The carpenters got busy right away, and soon little one-story wooden buildings crowded to the sidewalk’s edge, and the place began to look like a factory. The sprinkling can that had given sustenance to red geraniums and calla lilies was needed no more.

Now before the Kinemacolor Company had started work at Whitestone they had held a contract with George H. Brennan and Tom Dixon for the production in color of Tom Dixon’s “The Clansman.” The idea was that the dramatic company touring through the Southern States in “The Clansman” would play their same parts before the camera. In these Southern towns all the Southern atmosphere would be free for the asking. Houses, streets, even cotton plantations would not be too remote to use in the picture. And there was a marvelous scheme for interiors. That was to drag the “drops” and “props” and the pretty parlor furniture out into the open, where with the assistance of some sort of floor and God’s sunshine, there would be nothing to hinder work on the picture version of the play.

But the marvelous scheme didn’t work as well as was expected; and eventually the managers decided that trying to take a movie on a fly-by-night tour of a theatrical company was not possible, so the company laid off to take it properly. They halted for six weeks and notwithstanding the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars was spent, it was a poor picture and was never even put together. Although Tom Dixon’s sensational story of the South turned out such a botch, it was to lead to a very big thing in the near future.

Frank Woods, after several others had tried, had written the continuity of this version of “The Clansman,” and had received all of two hundred dollars for the job. That the picturizing of his scenario had proved such a flivver did not lessen his faith in “The Clansman’s” possibilities.

Mr. Griffith was doing some tall thinking. His day of one- and two-reelers having passed, and the multiple-reel Mutual features having met with such success, he felt it was about time he started something new. So, one day, he said to Frank Woods: “I want to make a big picture. What’ll I make?” With his Kinemacolor experience still fresh in mind Mr. Woods suggested “The Clansman.” With the Dixon story and the play Mr. Griffith was quite familiar as he had heard from his friend Austin Webb, who had played the part of the mulatto Silas Lynch, about all the exciting times attending the performance of the play—the riots and all—and more he had heard from Claire MacDowell, who was also in the show, and more still from Mr. Dixon himself.

So David Griffith said to Frank Woods: “I think there’s something to that. Now you call Mr. Dixon up, make an appointment to see him, and you talk it over, but say nothing about my being the same actor who worked for him once.”

So the meeting was arranged; the hour of the appointment approached; and as Mr. Woods was leaving on his important mission Mr. Griffith gave final parting instructions, “Now remember, don’t mention I’m the actor that once worked for him, for he would not have confidence in me.”

So while Tom Dixon nibbled his lunch of crackers, nuts, and milk, Mr. Woods, without revealing his little secret, unfolded the mighty plan, “We are going to sell Wall Street and get the biggest man in the business.”

“Who?”

“D. W. Griffith.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard a lot about him—he used to work for me.”

Mr. Dixon was greatly interested and evinced no hesitation whatever in entrusting his sensational story of the South to his one-time seventy-five dollars a week actor. He’d already taken one sporting chance on it, why not another? Yes, Mr. Griffith could have his “Clansman” for his big picture.

H. E. Aitken, who had formed the Mutual Film Company, had had on his Executive Committee Felix Kahn, brother of Otto Kahn, and Crawford Livingston. They had built the Rialto and Rivoli Theatres. The Herculean task of financing the “big picture,” Mr. Aitken presented to Mr. Kahn, and he genially had agreed to provide the necessary cash—the monetary end was all beautifully settled—when the World War entered the arena and Mr. Kahn felt he could not go on. So Mr. Aitken had to finance the picture himself. He financed it to the extent of sixty thousand dollars, which was what “The Birth of A Nation” cost to produce. With legal fees and exploitation, it came to all of one hundred and ten thousand dollars. Mr. Felix Kahn and Mr. Crawford Livingston afterwards offered to help out with fifteen thousand dollars but there were fifteen directors on the executive committee of the Mutual Film, and they over-ruled the fifteen thousand dollars tender, leaving Mr. Aitken as sole financier.

Mr. Dixon received two thousand five hundred dollars cash and twenty-five per cent of the profits. He wanted more cash—wasn’t so interested in the profits just then. But afterwards he had no regrets. For it happened sometimes in later days, when the picture had started out to gather in its millions, that Mr. Dixon casually opening a drawer in his desk, would be greeted by a whopping big check—his interest in “The Birth of A Nation,” and one of these times, happening unexpectedly on one such check, he said, “I’m ashamed to take it”—a sentiment that should have done his soul good.

Well, Mr. Dixon is one who should have got rich on “The Birth of A Nation,” but the one whose genius was responsible for the unparalleled success of the epoch-making picture says he fared like most inventors and didn’t get so rich. However, it probably didn’t make Mr. Griffith so very unhappy, for so far he has seemingly got more satisfaction out of the art of picture making than out of the dollars the pictures bring.

Had the Epoch Company not sold State Rights on the picture when they did, Tom Dixon’s interest would have been fabulous. But as the State Rights’ privilege was not for life, only for a term of years, now soon expiring, or perhaps expired now, and as up to date the picture has brought in fifteen million dollars, it seems as though there’s nothing much to be unhappy about for any of those concerned.

One of the State Rights buyers who took a sporting chance on the picture was Louis B. Mayer, who had begun his movie career with a nickelodeon in some place like East or South Boston, borrowing his chairs from an undertaker when they weren’t being used for a funeral. Mr. Mayer managed to scrape together enough money to buy the State Rights for New England and he cleaned up a small fortune on the deal after the owners had figured they had skimmed all the cream off Boston and other New England cities.

Oh, well, what’s money anyway? A little while and we all will rest in good old mother earth, and if we’re lucky perhaps pink and white daisies may nod in the soft spring breezes overhead. Or we may be grand and have a mausoleum, or a shining shaft of stone, or a huge boulder to mark our spot, or perhaps we may just rest in a neat little urn—a handful of ashes.

And what then of the fêted days of Mary and Doug? Of the peals of laughter that rocked a Charlie Chaplin audience? Of the suspenseful rescue of a persecuted Griffith heroine on the ice-blocked river? Of the storm-tossed career of Mabel Normand?

Of the magic city of Hollywood? And the Hollywooders? Of the exotic and hectic life of the beautiful stars? Of the saner careers of the domestically happy? Who was greatest? Who produced the best pictures? Who was the most popular? Who made the most money?

All this will be told of in books reposing on dusty library shelves. Possibly a name alone will be left to whisper to posterity of their endeavor, or tinned celluloid reels shown maybe on special occasions, only to be greeted by roars of laughter—even scenes of tender death-bed partings—so old-fashioned will the technique be.

But David Wark Griffith’s record may yet perhaps shine with the steady bright light of his courage, of his patient laboring day by day, of his consecration to his work; and of his faithful love for his calling, once thought so lowly.

And so eventually “The Birth of A Nation” was finished. At the Liberty Theatre in West Forty-second Street, New York—1915 was the time—it had its première—one wholly novel for a moving picture—for it was the first time a movie was presented bedecked in the same fashion as the more luxurious drama, and shown at two dollars per seat. It was not the first picture to be given in a legitimate theatre, however, for Mr. Aitken had previously booked at the Cort Theatre “The Escape,” the picture made from the Paul Armstrong play of the same name.

At this first public projection of “The Birth of A Nation,” an audience sat spellbound for three hours. The picture was pronounced the sensation of the season. From critics, ministers, and historians came a flood of testimonials, treatises, and letters on the new art and artists of the cinema.

“The Birth of A Nation” remains unique in picture production. It probably never will be laid absolutely to rest, as it pictures so dramatically the greatest tragedy in the history of America, showing the stuff its citizens were made of and the reason why this nation has become such a great and wonderful country.

Through the success of “The Birth of A Nation” the two-dollar movie was born. But here let there be no misunderstanding: the two-dollar-a-seat innovation in the movies was H. E. Aitken’s idea. He was opposed in it by both Mr. Griffith and Mr. Dixon, Mr. Dixon becoming so alarmed that he type-wrote a twelve-page argument against it. However, Mr. Aitken persisted and the result proved him right. The public will pay if they think your show is worth it.

Through the success of “The Birth of A Nation,” the sole habitat of the movies was no longer Eighth Avenue, Sixth Avenue, Avenue A and Fourteenth Street; the movies had reached Broadway to stay. D. W. Griffith had achieved that, and had he stopped right there he would have done his bit in the magical development of the motion picture. For though “Bagdad Carpets” fly, and “Ten Commandments” preach, and “Covered Wagons” trek—miles and miles of movies unreel, and some of them awfully fine, they must all acknowledge that the narrow trail that led to their highway was blazed by Mr. Griffith.

Whoever might have had a dream that the degraded little movie would blossom into magnificence, now was beginning to see that dream come true. The two-dollar movie was launched; tickets were obtainable at the box office for what future dates one pleased; there were surroundings that made the wearing of an evening dress look quite inconspicuous; serious criticism and sober attention were to be had from the high-minded—these were the first stages of the dream’s fulfillment.

But little we then dreamed that to-day’s picture world was to be like an Arabian Night’s tale! Kings and Queens and Presidents interested! A University proposed for the study of the motion picture alone! James M. Barrie consenting to “Peter Pan” in the movies and selecting the Peter himself!—Any one who had made such suggestions then would have been put where he could have harmed no one!

The wildest flights of fancy hardly visioned a salary of one thousand dollars a day for an actor. But it came, as every one now knows, and with the approach of dizzy salaries departed the simple happinesses and contentment, and the fun of the old days, when thirty or fifty dollars weekly looked like a small fortune.

We had to grow up. It was so written. I, for one, am glad I served my novitiate in a day when we could afford to be good fellows, and our hearts were young enough and happy enough to enjoy the gypsying way of things.

THE END