The World's Master Picture Producer

In every branch of industry there is some one man who towers above all others. Usually he is an innovator. Often his ideas were so new, until he had proved them, that they seemed ridiculous to his rivals. And only repeated successes have made his name an established trademark of individuality and excellence. Such a man is David W. Griffith.

Though almost unknown to the millions of movie fans throughout the world, David W. Griffith is not only the peer of the photoplay producers of the world, but also the founder of modern motion picture technique. For more than six years he has been contributing to the public's incessant demand for an ever-changing array of motion picture entertainment. He is directly responsible for a, greater number of photo dramas than any other man in the world. During the very short time that he has been experimenting with the possibilities of the new art he has accomplished a multitude of amazingly big things. If you were measuring the films in miles, you would find them long enough to girdle the globe a number of times. But mere quantity is beside the point. It is quality that has made Mr. Griffith's reputation.

I have talked with more than a hundred men who are big in the realm of the movies and I have yet to hear one man deny David W. Griffith the right to be known as the world's foremost director of motion picture plays, be it either drama or comedy.

Seven years ago, a tall, lanky young man, with an astoundingly large aquiline nose, an actor, was stranded out in San Francisco. Today his salary is mind-staggering, for he is listed as one of the few $100,000 a year men in the United States. That man of yesterday is Director Griffith of to-day- the chief producer of all Reliance, Majestic, and Griffith photo dramas, the last-named brand of films always being feature subjects of four and five reels. Under the three brands there is released an average of five new photoplays every week. Of course, it is impossible for Griffith personally to produce this number of plays each week, but to each of them he devotes a part of his time. Many directors work under him. Frequently Director Griffith casts their pictures, and, in all cases, he selects their stories. This applies to Majestic and Reliance releases only. All Griffith photoplays are produced solely by David W. Griffith. But I am 'way ahead of my story.

Out in California in 1907 it was a hard matter for the best actors to find steady employment. Frankly, David W. Griffith was not considered one of the best. He had ideas of his own and found it a hard matter to get into any of the organizations which were conducted according to the ideas of the old timers. He was considered a breeder of trouble; consequently he was out of work and "broke" most of the time. In film circles it is repeatedly told that he treked up and down the Pacific Coast seeking employment, ragged and unkempt, at times not knowing where the next meal was to come from. He represented himself as an actor and a playwright, but failed to interest any of the California producers. James K. Hackett's manager met him in the west and secured the manuscript of his play, "A Fool and a Girl," which he planned to produce in the East. This brought the young actor to New York, hopeful and buoyant. But the play as presented at Washington was an utter failure, and its author was left in worse financial shape than before.

"Larry" Griffith, so nicknamed by his stage associates and because of the fact that his stage name was Lawrence Griffith, was down and out. He seemed to fare worse on Broadway than when out in 'Frisco. A friend suggested that he look for a job at the motion picture studios, and gave him the addresses of two recently established companies. "Larry" Griffith jumped at the chance. At the first studio he was coolly informed that no extra actors were needed. The clerk at the second studio- that of the American Mutoscope and Biograph Company at 11 East Fourteenth Street, New York- placed his name on the book as an available actor in case extras were needed for future productions. Two days later, he received a summons to be at the studio the next day promptly at nine o'clock in the morning. That was the beginning of one of the most interesting careers of this wonderful new world of the film drama.

Director Griffith is one of those strange combinations, a realist in action and a mystic in temperament, who sees clearly the beauty about him and can transfer his artistic impressions to others because of that side of him which is eminently practical. He was a playwright by tendency, an actor by opportunity, and he became a motion picture actor and director by force of circumstance. He would have succeeded as a dramatist- he was valiantly working toward that end in spite of hunger and the need of clothes- but, while he was looking out of the front door for histrionic fame to drive up in a coach and four there came a modest knock at the back door, and a poor, little ragged, half-starved new art was there begging for a wee bit of stimulus and a spark of the fire of genius to keep it from freezing to death. That half-starved new art was the motion picture play. It was a most fortunate day indeed when David W. Griffith was forced to listen to it.

He made good as an actor before the camera, being placed in the company's stock organization after playing in three or four pictures. His value was demonstrated from the start, since he knew how to take orders and still show his superiors how to do things. After several weeks of steady work as an actor it fell to Griffith to direct a picture, or at least a part of one. The regular director was sick in bed and unable to complete a picture previously started.

The company heads had been noticing the young man with the big nose, and rather liked his ways. In the pinch, they selected him to finish up the picture. Though he had never directed a photoplay in his life, he took hold at once and began pulling away from the beaten paths. In one of the scenes in that first production a barrel was shown floating down a stream. It occurred to Griffith that it would be interesting to show what the people on the bank were doing while this barrel was floating down the stream. When the sick director heard of what Griffith was doing he twisted his lips and shook his head. When the finished picture was flashed on the screen it was so utterly different and new to the company's stockholders that they really didn't know what to think. When exhibited to the public it was acclaimed a corking production, and David W. Griffith was allowed to try his hand on another play which turned out even better than its predecessor. He has been directing motion picture plays ever since.

As the scope of the picture broadened and directors began to strive for naturalness, the name Biograph became a leading one in the picture world through the genius of Director Griffith, who as early as 1909 and '10 was responsible for a half hundred or more picture plays of all types which have never been surpassed. In this list one will find the famous "Muggsey" series of comedies which are still conceded to be the best productions of their kind ever offered the public. "Billy" Quirk, now of the Vitagraph forces, appeared as "Muggsey" and Mary Pickford and Florence Lawrence were also featured. These comedies are still so popular that exhibitors all over the country are demanding their reissue.

In 1911 and '12 Director Griffith followed with such wonderful one and two reel productions as The House With Closed Shutters, The Battle, The Barbarian, The Eternal Mother, A Blot on the Escutcheon, Ramona, Iola's Promise, The Musketeers of Pig Alley, Oil and Water, and The New York Hat. In settings, acting and technique, these productions of two and three years ago were superior to many of the present-day releases.

The recent revival of all of the Mary Pickford films, produced by Director Griffith while with the Biograph Company, is sufficient proof of the above statement. One of these, The New York Hat, provides the most realistic bit of real life ever seen on the screen. Mary Pickford has never equaled her work in this, though she has since appeared in many seemingly splendid vehicles, proof positive of how much of the intrinsic value of a picture play is in the directing.

Prior to his departure from the Biograph studio, in October, 1913, Director Griffith devoted his attention to the production of feature photoplays, giving us The Battle of Elderbrush Gulch, The Massacre, and Judith of Bethulia, and it is the opinion of the many people I have talked to about Director Griffith and the growth of the picture play, that many weeks, yes months, will pass before the above-named photo dramas will be eclipsed.

Since becoming associated with Reliance, Majestic and Griffith brands, this master producer has turned out several noteworthy offerings such as The Avenging Conscience, Home Sweet Home, The Battle of the Sexes, and The Escape.

All are dramas of the sort that few motion picture directors would attempt to handle, presenting in the scenario such difficult tasks as would take the heart out of the most ambitious producer.

As this is being written he is engaged in producing The Clansman, by Thomas W. Dixon. If my readers could gain admittance to the big lot across from the Mutual studio on Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles, he would probably see a whole line of little negro cabins befo' the war days, and more than a hundred colored and white people mingling about waiting for Director Griffith to start things.

A good-natured roar comes from the middle of the crowd. One turns to look upon a tattered straw hat, from under the edge of which protrudes a big, commanding nose. He sits on a wooden platform with a megaphone to his lips, and begins wheedling, coaxing and joshing his actors up to dramatic heights they do not realize themselves.

No scenario, no notes are in his hands as he works. He has studied his production thoroughly before starting the company on it. He directs with his right hand, which always clutches a huge, black, burned-out cigar. He always has the cigar. He lights it after breakfast and it does for all day. In his left hand he holds a megaphone. He waves either cigar or megaphone at his people and they obey. That cigar serves him as the baton serves an orchestra director.

For The Clansman he built two villages. One depicts a Southern village during the reconstruction period, showing a street lined with houses and a church in the background. Foliage and flowers have been transplanted to places along a picket fence and they look as if they had been growing there for years; the village itself looks as if it had been standing for years, though the paint is scarcely dry.

In this street the visitor will see old-fashioned street lamps, the hitching-posts and racks of the old days. When this village is peopled with film actors and actresses in suitable costumes, one is transported back to the days of the period and feels the atmosphere of it. Because of this atmosphere thus created, better work is done.

The other village is a group of negroes' cabins, the negroes' quarters of the old South. Director Griffith was producing a scene here when first I saw him. Two hundred people were before him; two hundred more were behind the ropes watching. Negroes of every age were at work rehearsing. Mule carts were being driven back and forth. Banjo players were there, barefooted negro dancers, old colored men, pickaninnies under foot. His eyes watched them all.

And the methods that make him a $100,000 a year director are as characteristic as the man. He sits in a chair on a little platform in front and a little to the side of the camera, wearing a tattered straw hat, his cigar and his megaphone in action. A half-dozen negro boys are "acting" in the foreground. He doesn't scream to them that that will not do. His hand dives into his pocket; it comes forth full of dimes. He tosses a dozen into the group.

"Scramble for 'em!" he calls. "That's it! Laugh and cut up! Now, there's another dime for each of you if you do it again, and do it right. That's it!"

Then his eye travels two hundred feet away, the megaphone comes to his lips:

"Out a little more back there! Hit it up, Bill! You two men near the cabin get to dancing! That's it!"

Back to the foreground again:

"Take the hat off that banjo player- it shades his face. Now- all ready! Dance, there- dance! That's it! You children run right back through the crowd now. You white folks come up to the center! You in that chair! Put back your head- go to sleep and snore!"

It is a real snore that answers him. The snore is not depleted on the film, of course, but it gives atmosphere, and that is worth its weight in gold. And these details are not in the scenario.

Now he looks down the street and spies an aged negro man. The camera has ceased to whirr. That particular scene is finished. He sends a sub-director for the old darky, looks him over from head to foot and smiles. He has found a type.

This aged negro, who is but an extra, has struck Director Griffith's eye. He is "made," though he doesn't know it yet. He is placed in the foreground with the dancers. The music and the dancing begin again. Griffith tells the camera man to get busy. The aged negro dreams of the days of his youth. He dances better than the young men. He dances the old plantation steps. He pats the top of his bald head with the palm of his hand. He forgets he is working before a movie camera- he is back in the old days and these folk around him are his people.

Wait until you see The Clansman and you'll see the aged negro dancing up to the front of the screen, the look of enthusiasm on his face. If you didn't know you would say he was a great actor. But he isn't. He isn't an actor at all. He is simply an old negro living over again the days of his youth, the spirit of youth dragged from him again by the genius of D. W. Griffith- and that is why that particular scene will be so effective.

Even in early Biograph days Director Griffith much preferred the untrained actor with talent to the actor with a reputation, and many interesting stories are told by those who were associated with him at the Biograph studio regarding the methods used to make his people rise to sufficient heights of emotion during the playing of their first important parts. As illustrated by the old darky incident, Director Griffith's ability to make people act approaches real genius, and he will go to almost any length to get an actor to give him the effect demanded.

In the early days of Mary Pickford's career, when she was engaged to her present husband, Owen Moore, who was working with her in Biograph productions, Director Griffith would charge Moore with lack of intelligence. Miss Pickford, you must remember, was only a child- just sixteen years old. She would lose her temper and become angry. Then he would turn quickly to the cameraman and whisper, "Go ahead! Grind!

The result was always an exhibition of temperament on the part of "Little Mary" that exactly fitted the character she was portraying. Wilful Betty, a Mary Pickford-Biograph revival, was made under such circumstances.

Some insight into the secret of Director Griffith's success may, perhaps, be gained by noting that although he demands the hardest kind of work from his players and is most exacting during the making of a picture, the regard in which he is held by them amounts almost to worship. It is not unusual to hear his people, by whom he is affectionately called "Larry," claim that he is the greatest man this country has produced.

And here another incident of the visit to the Mutual studio comes to my mind, one which illustrates just why his people love him. Miss Mae Marsh was standing near him just before he gave the camera man the word to start grinding. Calling her to him, he commanded:

"Look down the line and see what you think of it! " He knew that four eyes, in matters of that kind, were better than two. I think he told her so at the time.

Miss Marsh, suggested that the clothes of one of the darkies looked too new and unsoiled.

"That's right," shouted Director Griffith. "Go get some older looking clothes!" he commanded the negro.

"Anything else, Miss Marsh?" he asked.

Some one else whispered that the insignia on one of the officers' uniforms was not correct. The Military expert was called, the mistake corrected, and other mistakes in detail were looked for. Two or three changes here and there, all at the suggestion of his players, and the scene was begun. You see, though he gets $100,000 a year he takes advice and suggestions from anyone from the office boy to the "stars." This advice is applied scientifically, and he doesn't waste many seconds applying it. That's why he is valuable and successful, why his players love him, why his films are different, and finally, why he is the highest paid and most talked-of man in all filmdom.

Original article by Selwyn A. Stanhope, 1915.

Selwyn A. Stanhope, "The World's Master Picture Producer," Photoplay Magazine, January 1915, pages 57-62.

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

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