(Keystone)
The sun is shining clearly and the director plans a long day of work in the open. Besides, the studio stages are all in use by directors who have put in their requisitions far in advance. The camera-man and his apparatus, players, and director jump into autos and speed to the first “location.” With his assistant the director has mapped the locations and the order of photographing the scenes there as already explained. His first location is a suburban home, one that may be labeled in his catalogue as “home of a fairly wealthy family.” A caretaker is in charge and the director knows—from experience—that a few cigars, or, if the house is especially necessary, a greenback, will enable him to use it for picture-taking purposes. We will say that the scenes are to show a thief entering the house and later leaving it with his booty. In the story this is probably to happen at night, but tinting the film blue will later attend to that.
Perhaps there is a tall fence around the grounds, and one of the director’s scenes will have to show the thief climbing this obstacle, both on his entry into the grounds, and later on his escape. Perhaps, with the latter, there is to be a brief scuffle with the watchman. A spot for the scene is chosen, the camera set up, and all is ready. The range of vision of the camera’s eye, the lens, is an angle, and care is taken to indicate to the players the boundaries of that angle. Outside those lines the players may group themselves idly, but within the lines the camera registers everything, once the crank is turning. The first scene taken is to show the thief scaling the fence. The player is rehearsed once or twice, perhaps even oftener, until he does the action in the exact way the director wishes it done. When he is proficient the director stations himself beside the camera-man, the scene is cleared, and the thief stands waiting just outside the line. “One—two—three—Go!” shouts the director, and at his last word the thief skulks on the scene, the camera-man starts to turn the crank. The thief peers through the fence, glances furtively about him, and then, as if making a sudden decision, starts to climb. He drops to the ground on the other side, then runs diagonally until he is again outside the camera line. It is over. During the whole the director has been the busiest man on the spot. Each motion of the player has been accompanied by a command from him, but it is not for the player to let the camera know that he is listening for these words. By holding a slate covered with figures in front of the camera before the scene was photographed this strip of film now bears its own index figure to aid the factory later in assembling the complete picture.
Next, the scene showing the return of the thief over the fence, his scuffle with the watchman, and his escape is to be taken. This will probably require many more rehearsals than the previous scene, both that the action be properly vigorous and realistic, and that the players be drilled so that they will not inadvertently cross the camera lines in the heat of the action. An audience would naturally not take very kindly to a scene in which a man was fighting with an adversary who could not be seen, which would be the case should one of the players step outside the lines while the other remained in view of the camera. It is even possible that many strips of film will be wasted before the scene is taken in a manner to satisfy the director.
Now we pass within the grounds. There is a brief scene to be taken as the thief starts to climb the wall on making his escape, and also the short one showing him running across the lawn to the house. He is to make his entry by way of a window, and the camera is placed so as to view the one chosen. The same procedure is followed here—numbering of the scene, rehearsals, including a preliminary timing of the action so that the director will know how many feet of film it will take, and then photographing, after which preparations are made for the next scene. The director and his players may easily put in a busy day about the house. There will be scenes showing detectives, summoned by the householder, examining the grounds, the watchman hastening up to the front door after he has recovered from the blow inflicted by the thief, and so on. When the sun finally gets too low for the camera’s liking it will be a tired but contented party that returns to the studio.
This is but one side of the story. Much has also happened within the house. Though recently perfected portable lighting systems have made it possible to take motion pictures within actual houses, the method is only occasionally used, and our director will probably decide to take all his interiors in the studio. On his return from the day of work outdoors he will leave his requisitions with the carpenter and property-man and be prepared to start early the next morning with his scenes set and all other things ready. Then the thief’s entry into the window, as seen from inside the house, his theft of the jewels, we will say, his departure, the householders aroused from their sleep by the watchman, and their consternation at the discovery of the theft will all be photographed. Pieced together and shown on the screen, the various strips of film will tell a smoothly developed story, but we have seen how it is really made up of little bits of action, photographed at different times, and in far from consecutive order. We have seen what a world of planning the director must do before he sets out to make even the simplest scene of his story.
(Vitagraph)
But we have been watching the director while he is working on dramatic scenes that employ only a few players, of whose ability he is certain. Perhaps he has a ball-room scene to take with his interiors, and then there is a busy time indeed ahead of him. He must drill and toil with fifty or a hundred “extras” drafted from the outside and receiving only a few dollars for the day’s work. Or else one of his exteriors may call for a player to jump from a bridge. The leading woman will not perform this feat; she is too careful of her own life. So a “double” must be employed—a daredevil of about the same build as the leading woman, and to be dressed in the same clothes. The leading woman will perform the scene until about the point where she leans over the railing preparatory to the fatal leap. Then the camera will be moved to a distant point, and, too far away for the deception to be noted, the “double” will make the thrilling jump. If there is to be a rescue the leading lady will now get herself wet, as we are given close views showing her being pulled from the water, apparently near death from her feat. For such “stunts” as even a daredevil cannot be employed to perform, the property-room may make dummies, “rags and bones and hanks of hair,” weighted with sand. Then there are the more spectacular scenes that may test a director’s skill, such as battles, fires, and so on. Here he must fortify himself with numbers of trusted assistants, who, dressed like those in the scene, will be scattered among the “extras” where the voice of the director often cannot reach. Hours, and even days, of rehearsal are sometimes necessary in securing such effects. For the battle scenes in “The Birth of a Nation” the producer surrounded himself with a corps of assistants equal to a commanding general’s staff. In addition telephones were strung along to all the trenches so that the producer was in touch with every section of the vast battle-field at all times.