Before the end of the season, much curiosity was abroad as to what David Griffith was up to. Way out to the wilds of Chatsworth he was beating it day by day—this remote spot having been chosen to represent the Plains of Bethulia. For the story told in a book of the Apocrypha of Judith and Holofernes was the big thing Mr. Griffith was doing, and being so secretive about it, he had aroused everybody’s curiosity.
Blanche Sweet played the lead in this picture—“Judith of Bethulia”—Mr. Griffith’s most pretentious movie so far, and his “Old Biograph” swan song. Henry Walthall and the late Alfred Paget were the male leads.
How hard and how patiently the director worked with the temperamental Miss Sweet. For hours one day he had been trying to get some feeling, some warmth out of her, until the utter lack of response got his goat. So with bended knee he went after the fair lady and he gently but firmly kicked her off the stage—just politely kneed her off. Then, as was his wont, he burst forth in song, apparently oblivious of the situation.
It was now Blanche’s turn to worry. She backed up on to the stage and over to her discouraged director. He escaped her—stretching his arms and singing louder than ever he took large strides away from her. Finally, the penitent reached him, and on her bended knees begged: “Please, Mr. Griffith, please take me back.” When he thought she had begged hard enough he took her back, and he got results for the rest of that day.
“Judith,” owing to expensive sets, cost thirty-two thousand dollars, but that was not advertised as a point of interest in the picture. Much excitement prevailed over “Judith,” D. W. Griffith’s first four-reeler. It was shown to financiers. Wall Street was to be brought into intimate conversation.
The old days and the old ways of 11 East Fourteenth Street, how brief they had been! Those vital Biograph days under the Griffith régime, how soon to pass! For when, late in the winter of 1912, the company left for the West coast studio, they said good-bye to the nursery, and to the intimate days and the pleasant hours of their movie youth.
The big new studio up in the Bronx was now finished, with two huge stages—one artificially lighted, and one a daylight studio. There was every modern convenience but an elevator. Of course, one director couldn’t utilize so much studio; so while Mr. Griffith was still in California and without saying anything to him about it, the Biograph made a combine with Klaw & Erlanger by which all the K. & E. plays were to be turned over for Biograph production in three-, four-, and five-reel pictures.
Mr. Griffith didn’t fancy the idea; he felt also that Biograph might have consulted him before closing the deal. There was nothing to interest David in supervising other directors’ movies or in giving them the “once over” in the projection room. After watching the other fellow’s picture for a while, even though he’d be considering it very good work, he’d yawn and declare, “Well, it’s a hell of a way to earn a living.” But that slant never occurred to him when watching his own pictures.
But a growing restlessness was noticeable; threats to leave were in the air; rumors floated all about.
However, he lingered through the summer, a busy one, as in those introductory months the new studio had to be got thoroughly into a moving and functioning affair.