One could not have better equipment for the trying experiences of movie work than patience, and a sense of humor. And the “polar bear” is well equipped with both.
But there were times when even a sense of humor failed to sustain one. Nothing was funny about the uncertain mornings when we’d gather at the 125th Street ferry for the 8:45 boat, having watched weather since daylight through our bedroom window, only to cross and recross the Hudson on the same boat, the cumulus clouds we delighted in for photographic softness having turned to rain clouds even as we watched from the ferry slip. Back to the studio then to begin another picture and to work late. And oh, how we’d grouch!
But when it rained while we were registered at some expensive place like the Kittatiny at the Delaware Water Gap, there was need for anxiety, with the actors’ board bill mounting daily and nothing being accomplished.
Yes, we had worries. But we were getting encouragement too. The splendid reviews of our pictures in The Dramatic Mirror helped a lot. The way our pictures were going over was a joy. With their first announcement on the screen, what a twitter in the audience! A great old title page Biograph pictures had. Nothing less than our National emblem, our good old American eagle, sponsored them. He certainly looked a fine bird on the screen, his wings benignly spread, godfathering the Biograph’s little movie children.
Exhibitors were certainly getting keen about “Biographs”; the public was too. People were becoming anxious about the players as well, and commencing to ask all sorts of questions about them.
Stacks of mail were arriving daily imploring the names of players, but of this no hint was given the actor. How surprised I was that time my husband said to me, “You know we are getting as many as twenty-five letters a day about Mary Pickford?”
“Why, what do you mean, letters about her?”
“Every picture she plays in brings a bunch of mail asking her name and other things about her.”
“You’re not kidding?”
“Of course not.”