"Blazing the Trail"

Part Four

With the winter of 1908 came the invasion of Florida by the Kalem players. For the moving-picture industry this venture was almost epoch-making, establishing as it did new artistic standards, particularly in atmosphere, and inaugurating the custom of traveling far and wide in search of effective and authentic backgrounds.

In November Mr. Marion, having decided not to risk another winter fighting northern weather conditions, went to Florida to determine the practicability of sending a stock company there to work the entire season. Before he left, he offered me the position of leading woman at a salary of thirty dollars a week and expenses, adding the commission to write scenarios at twenty dollars each. This would bring my income up to fifty or seventy dollars a week. But somehow I could not bring myself to accept this glittering offer. My love of legitimate drama died hard.

On the day before Mr. Marion's return from the South, I had an offer to join Paul Gilmore's company in Boston, leaving New York the same evening. I was asked to give my answer in two hours. Refusal meant committing myself to the screen for at least another year. I wandered down Fifth Avenue debating the question. Suddenly I found myself standing before a shop window filled with Billikins, the plaster figurines which were the quaint and popular mascots of the hour. I marched into the shop, bought my Billikin, took him home, placed him on my desk and talked the grave question over with him.

"The god of things as they ought to be!"

At four o'clock I went to the New York Theater and refused the stage engagement. The next day I accepted Mr. Marion's offer.

This same little Billikin looks down at me as I write. His throne has long since disappeared, and so have his toes, but he grins the same old grin and is the same efficient little mascot. He has crossed the Atlantic with me twenty-one times. He helped me in those dreadful hours of 1914, when I was caught in war-crazed Europe without negotiable checks, for he brought me safely to New York on fifteen dollars. He has reposed in my trunk during innumerable transcontinental trips, into Mexico and Canada and far down the coast of Chile. But he holds a warm place in my heart mainly because under his influence I threw my lot in with the motion pictures for all time.

Within a few days after Mr. Marion's return Mr. Olcott had selected his stock company and we were Florida-bound, the first company to be sent out of New York for such a lengthy stay. Our departure created a sensation in the industry. Partly because of the significant influence exerted by this venture on the making of motion picture and partly because the story of our life in Florida presents such a contrast to life as it is now led in Hollywood, I am describing our southern adventures in detail.

The company included besides Mr. Olcott and myself, James Vincent, Kenean Buel, Minerva Florance, Tommy Santley, Ben Owens the cameraman, Max Schneider and his wife who was sometimes pressed into playing bits although she made no pretense to being an actress. To this nucleus of a stock company we added our personal friends and acquaintances who drifted into Florida during the winter season, and the vaudeville performers appearing at the Ostrich Farm, a local amusement resort.

We detrained at Jacksonville, which in 1908 was vastly different from the bustling metropolis it is today. The main street was more like that of a country village than the artery of a town containing some sixty thousand people.

For our headquarters, Mr. Marion and Mr. Olcott had selected Fairfield, a small suburb about fifteen minutes by trolley from Jacksonville. We were housed in The Roseland, a big rambling ramshackle old hotel set in three acres of ground, on the banks of the St. John's River, at this point a mile and a half wide. The house was run by Ma Perkins, a stout jolly widow, who was motherly, smiling, and always ready to drop down in a rocking chair on the big front veranda for a chat. The meals were plentiful and well cooked in real southern style, and the maids were also big and jolly and quite of the family. We addressed their as "Miss Fannie" and "Miss Ida." Our company occupied at least half of the house, and there were several charming couples staying there as permanent guests. The rest of the rooms were rented transiently to the different variety acts playing at the Ostrich Farm, a block up Talleyrand Avenue. Two of these acts were engaged for the winter, Harry Six, the high diver, who worked with our company between his "two-a-day" dives, and Tiny, a balloonist who, in knee frocks and looking about ten, made a parachute drop every weekday and on Sunday a triple drop. Thomas Quincey was another high diver who was happy in the less dangerous work of the motion picture actor.

Directly across the St. John's River from Fairfield was a territory rich in locations easily reached by boat. The scattered homes were on the riverbank a mile or so apart and beyond them lay real wilderness.

Strawberry Creek, several hundred yards broad and spanned by a primitive old plank bridge, played many parts in the old Kalem pictures. Fierce battles were fought on it; it was burned (with smoke-pots); many a chase was staged over its uneven boards, and horses jumped from it twenty feet to the water.

Strawberry Creek and its tributaries presented a true picture of tropical Florida, with its swamps, bayous made impenetrable by water hyacinths, banks lined with live oaks whose beards of Spanish moss hung in silver festoons to delight the heart of the photographer, and with tangled masses of palmetto whose only drawback was that they were the abode of diamond-back rattlers, some of them six feet in length, and poisonous copperheads. The waters were also infested with water moccasins and the swamps with vipers. We always carried a medicine kit and whisky for snake bites, but although we saw many snakes we never had occasion to use the cure.

From the edge of the Roseland grounds a long pier ran out at least a thousand feet into the river. It was so ramshackle that it looked like a crawling snake. The supports were rotting and in some places had given way dropping the planks to an angle of fifteen degrees. Across these treacherous spots the girls must be carefully handed. The pier was not repaired the entire season. The Southerners were too tired and we were too busy and careless to do it.

We rented a motor boat, the Bonnie Bess, capable of carrying some twenty people. It was semi-enclosed and its engine was not always reliable but sometimes left us stranded across the river with night coming on. Worse still it would go dead in the middle of the channel when we were on the way to location. There we would fume and fret with the sun mounting higher while the more mechanical-minded of the boys would "prime it" and tinker with it until it started again. But it was a famous little boat, its flat bottom enabling it to navigate shallow streams, and it was as much a part of the "Kalem bunch" as any of the actors.

Within a few hours of our home were quaint negro villages, their unpainted huts set on stilts above the shifting sands. There were wonderful stretches of sand at Pablo and Manhattan Beach, facing the open sea, uninhabited and desolate, with their scrubby palmettos, which served as setting for many desert island scenes. There were fishing villages, primitive as even a picture company could wish, quaint old-time Florida houses with their "galleries" of white Colonial columns, orange and grapefruit groves, pear and peach orchards which gave forth lovely scents when in full bloom; formal gardens and Spanish patios; the gorgeous Ponce de Leon hotel and gardens, and the picturesque old fort at St. Augustine.

Plenty of good riding horses were available and even old-fashioned carts drawn by eight yoke of oxen; two wood-burning engines of 1860, and a Mississippi River steamboat. Add to all this the glorious sun and warmth, the soft breezes in the palm trees, the rich luxuriance of vegetation, the courtesy and cooperation of these gentle southern folks, the crowds of manageable, friendly darkies, the villages of Spanish and Mexicans, and you will see that we had discovered a moving-picture paradise.

Roseland, during the height of the season was the liveliest place imaginable. If the Webers, a family of acrobats, were not practicing their act on the lawn before the veranda, the man with the trained goats was putting his animals through their tricks, a juggler was practicing his stunts, or the trained dogs were perfecting themselves. Weaving in and out everywhere moving-picture actors in all sorts of make-up lent color to the bizarre scene. We all made up in our rooms and came to breakfast in our characters for the day. Six-thirty was our morning call when the weather was fine. On the evening before starting a new production we would all gather in Mr. Olcott's room, the scenario would be read aloud and the characters allotted. Then would ensue a discussion of how each one was to make up.

At breakfast next day the make-ups would be commended or criticized, as called for, and changes would be made willingly and without hurt. Indeed I may say that in all the subsequent Kalem stock companies, for of course the personnel changed from year to year, this charming spirit of helpfulness, of give-and-take, this freedom from jealousy and envy, the quick word of praise for especially good work, always held. We acknowledged no real star or leading people. First one and then another player would be given the outstanding role, and I, as scenario writer, saw to it that the turns of each came regularly. The leading people in one play were often given small roles in the next while a strong star part would then fall to the character man or woman.

When completed the film would be shipped express to New York to be developed and printed, and then sent back to use to be cut. A long enclosed gallery at the back of the house had been converted into a projection room, and here we would gather after supper, pencil and notebooks in hands, our number augmented by any outsiders who had worked in the film, as well as by friends. And as the film flashed by on the screen, a running comment of criticism and praise could be heard.

"That's a great make-up, Jim." "You were rotten there, Ben. I told you that business didn't get over." "Too many whiskers, Tommie. You look like an ape." "Your side lines were off there, Max. You'd better see if your finder is right." "Good Lord! The factory has murdered that scene. It'll have to be done over." And afterward came a discussion in Mr. Olcott's room covering every little detail, praise and blame given where due, and last, final judgment was passed on the entire picture.

From the office came letters of commendation or criticism which would be duly read to the "bunch." They were astute, were Messrs. Marion and Long. We would work our heads off and take any risks for the honor of being singled out in one of Mr. Marion's buoyant letters.

We needed praise and appreciation to carry us through those strenuous days. We had none of the conveniences and the luxuries of the modern studio.

We had no property men, no carpenters, no wardrobe facilities. Each of the actors took upon himself certain tasks, and lent a hand in an emergency. But the director's duties were hardest and most nerve-racking, as upon him fell the entire management and responsibility, the bookkeeping as welt as the directing, planning, selecting casts, enforcing discipline, and, when possible, making social contacts with the hospitable Floridians. For it was not money, but pleasing personality and friendship that procured for us the various locations. Every night Olcott's light would burn till all hours is he sat at his desk working over plans and directions for the morrow, or getting up his weekly accounts and writing long daily letters to the firm in New York. In time I took over the letterwriting.

My own work was not light, and only youth and a strong constitution could have stood up under it. I was playing in two pictures a week, working in almost every scene, and writing two or three scenarios a week, in the effort to keep ahead of our production. And my screen work was all strenuous, horseback riding for hours each day, water scenes in which I committed suicide or floated on spars in shark-infested waters, climbing trees, coming down on ropes from second-story windows, jumping roofs or rolling down to be caught in blankets, overturning skiffs, paddling canoes, a hundred and one "stunts" thought out to give the action which Kalem films demanded. I was terrified at each daring thing I had to do, and in a panic until it was over, but for some inexplicable reason I continued to write them. They never seemed difficult when I was seated before the typewriter in the throes of creating them, but as the moment for performance drew near they assumed unwarranted aspects of terror. A "double" was never even thought of in those days.

I wrote a picture called The Adventures of the Girl Spy which embodied all the difficult and sometimes dangerous stunts I could conjure up. In this I played a southern girl disguised as a boy of '61. It made a tremendous hit and exhibitors wrote in for more. Thus began the first series made in films and I kept them and I kept them up for two years until, tired of sprains and bruises and with brains sucked dry of any more adventures for the intrepid young woman, I married her off and ended the war. And I thought this would be the finish. Not so! The demand for them still came in and I was compelled to come back with one called A Hitherto Unrelated Incident of the Girl Spy. There is always a way, in pictures.

I was careful to write in very few modern "dressy" parts for there was no source of supply. It was before the days when one could stop into a shop at least in Jacksonville and buy a perfectly fitting dress. I wonder if women realize how recent is the convenience of readymade clothes? But wigs- ah, there was our fount of characterization! We all had them, many kinds, and it was our delight to change ourselves as much as possible for each character; if we could make ourselves almost unrecognizable we felt we had touched art. Being the leading woman I had to look as pretty as nature permitted but with the aid of curls or straight hair, brands and pompadours, blonde, black and brown, I managed many transformations even in the hoopskirted Civil War pictures. And now looking over the old photograph albums of "stills" it surprises me to see what we accomplished with so little. For each character was distinctive.

But when March came, hot and sulky, I had to turn to the village dressmakers and get an adequate wardrobe together, for I was going to Europe to place my young sister under operatic training. She had developed a wonderful voice, had been studying the previous two years in Kansas City, and was already prepared with fifteen operatic roles in German. Our hopes for her ran high and we had taken passage on the Kronprinzessin Cecelie, sailing April 21. I too had my ambitions. I would remain abroad several years, learn German, perhaps play over there, and forget pictures and scenario writing for all time.

Everyone was helpful and enthusiastic. I was to go home for two weeks before sailing, for I had not visited my parents in three years. I wished to write as many scenarios as possible before leaving, both because Mr. Olcott urged it and because I needed all the money I could earn for my long idleness. So what with dressmakers and acting and writing, those last hot March days in Florida were full indeed and it was a very weary young actress who bade farewell to the good old " bunch."

Knowing Europe as I do now, for it has been my home for years, I am amazed when I recall our ignorance and assurance, and the hope and trust placed in us by our loving parents and confident friends. But our very innocence and unworldliness were our safeguard, and we settled ourselves with admirable wisdom at The American Women's Club in Berlin and my sister began perfecting the art which was to carry her to the heights of Court Singer. The directress of the club was Mrs. Lucille B. Graves, charming, intelligent and cultured; she speedily adopted us and became our "Berlin mother," beginning a friendship which has held through the years.

This is not the place to tell of those Berlin days, so full of color and work and pleasure. Briefly, my sister started her studies with Putnam Griswold, the great basso of the Royal Opera, who has since died, and I with Fraulein Griesbach of the Hof-Dramatische Theater. But I had had years of stimulating work and I missed it. In that great foreign city I was lonely and homesick and viewed from a distance picture work took on hitherto undiscovered delights. I idealized the life of the past few years. My sister had become engaged and until her marriage could be chaperoned by Mrs. Graves. So when a letter came from Kalem urging me to return I was glad.

Mr. Marvin had been unable to secure either a satisfactory leading woman or the sort of scripts he needed. Those scenarios I had left behind had been filmed and they cried for more. Everything would be made easier for me. There would be another girl to alternate leads, and they would purchase outside any scenarios that were usable. Just as I had been so anxious to leave them, so now after only three months I was craving to get back to work. On July first accompanied by my sister I left Berlin for Mainz, steamed down the Rhine to Cologne, went on to Paris and London, and on August first sailed for home.

There at the pier was the good old bunch to meet me; and back in the Kalem office I was greeted with smiles and eulogies and good wishes from Mr. Long and Mr. Marion.

The next day I was in make-up out in Coytesville a little nervous and timid after my absence from the camera. Berlin and the American Women's Club, Brandenburg Tor, the smart soldiers and Unter den Linden, the Kaiser Friedrich Gallery and Potsdam and Charlottenburg all seemed years away, a pleasant dream. Nothing was real but old New Jersey, Jimmie, Bob, the camera focusing on a new character and Sid's voice, "Ready- camera! Shoot!"

[to be continued]

Original article, 1928.

Gene Gauntier, "Blazing the Trail," Woman's Home Companion, Volume 55, Number 11, November 1928, pages 15-16, 132, 134.

© 1997, David Pierce, on editing and revisions (if any)

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