Motion Picture Directing: The Facts and Theories of the Newest Art

by Peter Milne

Finally the rehearsal runs smoothly. You then order “lights” and up they all go. And then you order “camera” and your cameraman starts grinding. And then you order “action” and the players start through the scene, every motion of theirs recorded by the all-seeing eye of the camera. To you, the director, standing there watching and prompting now and again, every little fault of the players, every bit of wasted motion, every insignificant gesture, stands out in the shape of a tremendous eyesore. You know they are doing what you told them but still you tell yourself it could be much better. At length you tell the cameraman to stop in the middle of the scene. The players look up at you as if to say, “Well, what now!” and you step forward and try to explain with the utmost of tact that the maid didn't handle the telephone properly and that the butler didn't listen eagerly enough.

So, despite their frowns, you proceed with the scene again. And this time it is the star who doesn't suit you. He doesn't seem to stop short enough when he comes to the door and he doesn't seem to regard the maid suspiciously enough when she confronts him guiltily. You explain matters, therefore, to the star. Now this star of yours may be a particularly conceited fellow. He may sincerely believe too that he is playing the part as well as it possibly could be played. He listens with something approaching a deaf ear to your patient explanations as to how the part should be played.

And then he flabbergasts you with this remark, “Well, I am doing it the best way I can and I don't get what you mean at all. Suppose you go through the scene for me!” You try to think quickly and wonder what Cecil De Mille or somebody else who doesn't believe in showing a player “how” would act under the circumstances. You are lost and the only course for you to take is to show the star how you think the scene ought to be played.

But can you act? Did you ever try? No matter, you've got to now. So you make a wild stab at the part. Everyone, you know, is standing around watching you. Some actors from another picture may have strolled over to watch you. They linger when they discover that you are to give an exhibition of acting. You rather have the idea that the entire studio force is out there watching you—and laughing at you.

Following your performance you take the star aside and ask him whether he got the idea. If he is in a condescending mood by that time he may say, “yes,” and so you start the scene again. And now the trouble is that you are inclined to believe that anything your players do is the right thing. You are still nervous from the exhibit you just made of yourself and trying hard not to display the symptoms of it to everyone around you.

So you summon up all your courage and direct that scene with all your might and main. It's just got to be good. And when it's been done once it's got to be done a second time (all producers make two negatives, you see, one for domestic use and one for foreign exportation). Inwardly you breathe a sigh of relief when finally that particular scene has been completed and then you want the camera moved up for closeups. (Again, of course you have marked exactly where you want these closeups. And you are ready to tell each player exactly what you want him to do over again for the closeups). And the cameraman busies about setting up his camera for the first closeup and you are just about to start taking it when the lunch hour looms up, the electricians and stage hands leave you flat and you discover that you have to postpone your important work for full sixty minutes.

In the silent and lonely confines of your office you pace the floor and wonder how the afternoon is going to turn out. You discover that you have spent the whole hour pacing and forgotten to eat. No matter, your appetite was gone anyway and you go back to work, trying to feel ready for any emergency that the afternoon may produce.

And so the day ends. The afternoon reproduces the experiences of the morning with variations. The next day reproduces it further. But if you have gained the confidence of your players and your various assistants and if you have proven to them that you know what to direct and how to direct, the work looms much easier. Every late afternoon after the picture is under way you and your cameraman and your star sit in a dark, silent projecting room and gaze upon the daily “rushes.” These are the first prints of the scenes you made the day before. Thus you can see your work grow and thus also your star sees whether he can place full confidence in you. If he discovers that he can, your relations improve as the picture progresses. And after a while you don't even hesitate about getting out there on the “set” and showing him just how to do a thing. He'll like it too.

You have also definitely proved to the cameraman and the head electrician and the assistant director (who knows that he could direct better than you) that you know more about your business than they know about it. You have shown them that you know how to arrange your players in a big scene so as to get the best possible dramatic and artistic effects, you have shown them that you can direct the manipulation of the lights so as to produce a different sort of illusion, you have shown them, briefly, that you know more about camera work than the cameraman, more about lighting than the electrician, more about acting than the cast, more about composition than the art director, and more about writing than the continuity writer.

You may know deep in your heart that you have bluffed them into believing in your widespread superiority but they don't know it and so the gods of success are beginning to shine on you.