Bringing Up Oscar: The Story of the Men and Women Who Founded the Academy

Home > Other > Bringing Up Oscar: The Story of the Men and Women Who Founded the Academy > Page 5
Bringing Up Oscar: The Story of the Men and Women Who Founded the Academy Page 5

by Debra Ann Pawlak


  In many of those early films, windblown actors can be seen standing amidst flapping tablecloths and waving draperies in what was supposed to be an interior scene. Some things, like the elements, just couldn’t be helped, but it was all taken in stride. Perfection wasn’t part of those early budgets.

  The next one-reeler that Griffith shot on the west coast was called In Old California (1910). It was a period picture starring Marion Leonard as a Spanish senorita and the first movie to be entirely filmed along the country roads of Hollywood. The locals were curious about the camera-toting crews that suddenly appeared in their midst. As upstanding citizens, however, they also feared that sharing their small town with these dubious movie-types might very well lead to no good. Their qualms made little difference as filmmakers eventually outnumbered them, and the money they spent in the town while filming soon silenced any misgivings.

  Three months and over 20 films later, Griffith’s troupe returned to New York. By now, Pickford’s sweet, and still very girlish, face framed by curls was popular with the public although no one knew her name. She was also secretly seeing actor Owen Moore who, like Florence Lawrence, had left Biograph to work for Carl Laemmle where he was given on-screen credit. Handsome and sophisticated, Owen Moore was five years older than Pickford. The eighteen-year-old admired him and, infatuated with his worldly ways, overlooked two things: Charlotte’s disapproval and Moore’s frequent bouts with the bottle.

  Laemmle had been after Pickford for quite some time. He even offered her a raise in salary and on-screen credit for her performances. The thought of working with Moore again didn’t hurt either so, at the end of 1910, Pickford gave in. She left Biograph for Laemmle’s company and on January 7, 1911, she secretly married Moore. Professionally, Pickford’s star was rising. Personally, she soon discovered that Charlotte was right—running off with Moore had been a ghastly blunder.

  Later that same year, Jeanie Macpherson also split from Biograph while her mother was back in bankruptcy court. This time in New York for $1,570 worth of debt attributed to dressmaking, dental work, lingerie and china. While Evangeline once again focused on her finances, her daughter went to work for director Oscar Apfel at Biograph’s rival, the Edison Company. Later, when Apfel joined DeMille on his trek to Hollywood with the Jesse L. Lasky Feature Play Company, Macpherson got to thinking: maybe heading west would be good for her career, too.

  Despite the loss of Pickford and Macpherson, 1911 had good points for Griffith. Biograph consented to opening a permanent studio in California and Griffith found his right-hand man, journalist Frank E. Woods.

  Frank Emerson Woods and his twin sister, Carrie, were born in Linesville, a tiny western Pennsylvania town (less than one square mile in size) near the Ohio border, in 1860. Their father, James, was a bookkeeper. The twins joined older brother Arthur, who became a physician before carving out his own niche in Hollywood as a research director for the movies. The younger Woods, who always liked to write, began his journalism career in high school before moving on to start his own newspaper in Erie, Pennsylvania. In 1890, he married West Virginia-born Nancy Ellen Anderson who often went by the name of Ella. By 1907, Woods was in New York and employed by The Dramatic Mirror as a salesman and writer. He frequently wrote about the emerging film business and as early as 1908 began reviewing movies—often credited as the first journalist to do so.

  Woods took his job quite seriously and believed that filmmakers must take their responsibilities just as seriously—the ability to forever change the world was in their hands. He saw the film medium as a new art form—unique to the Twentieth Century. He panned movies that lacked depth and at the same time praised those films that reached a new level of sophistication. He once wrote on a hopeful note: “Motion pictures are at last gaining recognition as an institution of immense value to mankind.” Remaining anonymous, he signed his column “The Spectator.”

  Woods reviewed the good with the bad and where he saw bad, he figured he could do better. He penned several scenarios for Biograph, which ended up under Griffith’s direction. By 1911, the two men were collaborating together nearly full time.

  In addition to his responsibilities as screenwriter and story editor, Woods also acted as production manager and publicist. Forever a gentleman when it came to the ladies, around the men Woods enjoyed a good story—the bawdier the better. Now in his early fifties, he was older than most of the people he worked with. His gray hair along with his ever-present horn-rimmed glasses commanded respect from the younger players. Actress Lillian Gish described him: “Frank Woods, a kindly white-haired man whom we all called ‘Daddy’ Woods, was not only head of the story department but also judge in all our disputes.”

  As a father figure, “Daddy” Woods’ word was almost always final. Woods was also the man who initially grasped the concept of writing specifically for the movies, versus adapting from the theater or just creating random stories. Before he went to work for Griffith, films were written haphazardly with little or no attention paid to story structure or continuity. As for the details, there weren’t any. Woods changed all that with his new way of thinking. He once explained:

  … The makers of the picture have assumed that because they understood the meaning of every action, the spectators should also understand, forgetting that the spectators will view the picture for the first time. The moment a spectator becomes confused and loses the sense of what he is seeing on the screen, his interest is gone … While he is wondering “What are they talking about now?” or “Who is the chap in the long coat?” or “How did he get from the house in the woods?” the film is being reeled off merrily and the spectator has lost the thread of the story.… The average spectator is none too alert.…

  Taking all that into consideration, Woods set the standard of excellence for scenario writing. Together, he and Griffith brought films to a new level of sophistication during and especially after their Biograph years. By 1913, Griffith no longer wanted to make one-reelers, but Biograph wasn’t interested in making features. It would cost too much, take too long and audiences might get fidgety if they had to sit still for more than ten minutes—not to mention the dreaded discomfort of eyestrain due to the still relatively primitive technology that did not include sound. Griffith disagreed. He was anxious to film longer and more complex movies so he and Biograph parted ways.

  During his tenure with Biograph, Griffith was responsible for hundreds of films and made movie history by using close-ups, panoramic shots and editing multiple scenes that, once joined together in the final cut, conveyed a story. He also had an eye for talent. He brought in individuals like Jeanie Macpherson, Mary Pickford and Frank Emerson Woods and gave them their start in the business. All of them, including Griffith himself, would soon land in Hollywood where they would not just make movies, but shape an entire industry as well as an art form.

  Chapter Four

  THE SCRIBES

  Before there were screenplays, there were photoplays. In 1913, authors J. Berg Esenwein and Arthur Leeds defined a photoplay: “… a story told largely in pantomime by players, whose words are suggested by their actions, assisted by certain descriptive words thrown on the screen, and the whole produced by a moving-picture machine.”

  Action was the key ingredient with a smattering of suspense tossed in for good measure. Explanatory words were used sparingly. The sharper the photoplay, the less need for narrative and dialogue. The most important rule concerned the spectator—don’t confuse or lose him. There was no time to recapture a bewildered viewer’s enthusiasm in the ten minutes it would take to view a short, or a one-reeler.

  Once the carefully crafted photoplay was typed and ready for submission to the filmmakers, it was called a script. This script contained the following elements:

  •

  Synopsis—A brief summary or outline of the story, which always included the names of the characters. A well-written synopsis was key as it compelled the reader to continue on. The reader would certainly reject a poorly penne
d synopsis long before he reached “The End.”

  •

  Cast of Characters—A listing of the characters noting which specific scenes they appeared in. This let the director/producer know if he could cast a player in two or more parts. For example, the same actor who was cast as a policeman in scene 3 could also play a butcher in scenes 5 and 6—great for budget purposes.

  •

  Scenario/Continuity—A series of actions that tell a story. Each scene must be clearly identified as an interior/exterior shot along with any necessary elements that may need to be inserted such as newspaper headlines, letters or telegrams. With no time to waste, action should always begin promptly.

  •

  Scene-Plot—A simple listing of the scenes to help the director/producer determine at a glance how many and what type of shots would be needed to complete the movie. The scene-plot was an optional component of the photoplay, but strongly recommended. Any director worth his salt appreciated this extra effort.

  Rules were also established for photoplay formatting. In order to be seriously considered by filmmakers, photoplays had to be typewritten in black ink on opaque white paper (standard size of 8½ by 11 inches). Nothing irritated a filmmaker more than seeing page two through flimsy paper while trying to read page one. A smart writer always made at least one carbon copy to keep—just in case the original was lost and he had to retype it. The photoplay pages could be folded no more than twice in order to fit into a standard-size envelope. Never, ever roll the pages into tube-form. That would surely scream amateur.

  Early photoplaywrights, or scenarists, like Frank Woods, set these precedents. Woods continued working with Griffith who, after leaving Biograph, joined the Mutual Film Company at the urgings of its president, former insurance man Harry E. Aitken. With the promise of making longer movies, Griffith sought more challenging stories. When Woods approached him about filming The Clansman, both a novel and a play, written by southern clergyman Thomas Dixon, the Civil War story struck a chord in the Kentucky-born Griffith. Griffith convinced Aitken to finance the film and Woods was given the task of writing a feature-length photoplay based on The Clansman. The still-controversial movie would be known as Birth of a Nation (1915).

  Before the actual filming began, Griffith and Woods moved to California where the Mutual Film Company opened a studio in Edendale. While Woods was preparing the script, he was also working to protect authors’ rights to ensure adequate pay and credit for their screen work. In 1914, he and several other early scenarists such as Anita Loos, Russell E. Smith and Hettie Gray Baker founded The Photoplay Author’s League (PAL), a forerunner of today’s Screenwriter’s Guild of America. The group, with Woods as its first president, even backed an amendment to the copyright law to include the registration of unpublished photoplays. They also published a monthly bulletin called The Script to keep members informed of their activities, as well as general industry news.

  Following Woods’ example was another Biograph alumna, Bess Meredyth. Born Helen Elizabeth MacGlashan in Buffalo, New York on February 12, 1890, Bess was the youngest of three children. Her father, Andrew Fuller MacGlashan, was the son of a Scottish Presbyterian minister. Her mother, Julia Ginther, was a Roman Catholic whose family was originally from Alsace-Lorraine. Julia’s brother was a priest and when she married a Presbyterian, her family promptly disowned her.

  Bess’ siblings were considerably older—William by twelve years and Viola by ten. Because of the age difference, Bess grew up more or less as an only child. She spent most of her time alone, becoming an avid reader. She also discovered that she had a flair for music and learned to play the piano. Unable to afford piano lessons for his youngest daughter, Andrew thought Bess would get the musical attention she needed free of charge in Detroit where his sister, Martha MacGlashan Woodward, resided.

  In 1900, the ten-year-old child moved in with her Aunt Martha. Martha, the widow of a distinguished Michigan soldier and surgeon, Dr. Charles Meredyth Woodward, lived with her four spinster daughters—Martha, Elizabeth, Emma and Agnes. The Woodwards were tunefully inclined with Emma and Agnes, both teachers of music. Agnes, however, was fonder of whistling than piano playing. She put together a ladies’ group, which she christened The Agnes Woodward Whistling Chorus—even Viola signed up. Agnes took them on tour in their own yellow bus. She went on to greater whistling heights when she moved to Los Angeles in 1909 and founded The California School of Artistic Whistling—the only one of its kind in the country.

  After one year in Detroit, Bess had had enough of her female relatives and their warbling. She returned to Buffalo where she continued reading and playing piano. She also tried her hand at something new—writing. By the time she was twelve, she believed that her stories were good enough for publication so she approached a local newspaper editor with her work. Impressed by her gumption, he hired her to write a daily column for one dollar each.

  The lively Bess grew into an impulsive teenager. When an acquaintance dared her to marry one of the football players on her high school team, the fifteen-year-old complied. Since the bride and groom were both underage, all stunned parents involved hastened to have the marriage annulled before too much damage was done. Later, Bess put romance on hold and her musical talents to use by playing piano for nearby vaudeville theaters.

  Intrigued by the flickers, Bess left vaudeville for New York where she found work as an actress at the Biograph Company with D.W. Griffith in 1911. She also changed her last name to Meredyth—something she borrowed from her Michigan days and her late Uncle Charles. In addition to her acting responsibilities, she began writing scenarios to earn extra money and left her less-profitable musical skills by the wayside. Meredyth’s life paused momentarily when doctors misdiagnosed her with tuberculosis. They advised her that moving to a warmer climate would be good for her health. Naturally, she chose California where other moviemakers were migrating. In addition to improving her physical well-being, she might also find more work.

  Once on the west coast, the tuberculosis scare turned out to be nothing more. Her health no longer in jeopardy, she began working for the Universal Film Manufacturing Company where she made many films including a series of popular one-reelers known as Bess The Detectress. In these comedies, she starred as Bessie Pinkerton Holmes, a lady private eye who experienced the many perils and adventures of a female crime fighter. She also continued to develop scenarios much like Jeanie Macpherson who by now was also directing and writing at Universal in addition to acting. Despite being left behind on the original sojourn out west, she had truly come into her own.

  During this time, Meredyth was seeing Canadian actor Wilfred Lucas. The couple had previously met in New York when they both worked for Biograph. Lucas, who had two sons from a previous marriage, hailed from Ontario, where he was born on January 30, 1871. After graduating from the University of Montreal, he spent over twenty years on the stage. His distinguished acting career made him a good fit in front of the camera. Despite their nineteen-year age difference, Meredyth and Lucas married in Philadelphia in 1917. She then gave up acting to become a full-time photoplaywright—a decision she never regretted.

  One of Meredyth’s future writing partners was scenarist Carey Wilson. The animated Wilson was born in Philadelphia on May 19, 1889 to Anna Margaret Rapp and her husband, William Trego Wilson, whose Scottish ancestors migrated first to Ireland and then to the colonies during the 1700s where they settled in Pennsylvania. His sister, Helen, was older by four years. Always energetic, New York Times journalist Theodore Strauss once described him:

  … Mr. Wilson is as close to being a human spark-plug as we have met in a month of Sundays. He has a stream of talk that for sheer volume and torrential force probably hasn’t been equaled since the Johnstown flood. He twists his words a little in delivery, like a billiard player putting English on a ball. Without scientific backing, we’d say that Mr. Wilson in two hours of conversation expands energy equivalent to a ten-hour day with a pick and shovel.…


  After finishing school in Philadelphia, Wilson accepted a brief stint clerking at an extermination company, but soon decided that insects and vermin weren’t for him. His attention turned to flickers. By 1911, he had learned how to run a film projector and within two years began his career as a film salesman for the newly formed Jesse L. Lasky Feature Play Company in New York. From there, he worked for the Fox Film Corporation as a general manager and foreign agent that allowed him to travel extensively to intriguing places like China and Australia. After leaving Fox, he took a managerial position with Peerless Productions, a state-of-the-art studio located in Fort Lee, New Jersey. In addition to his official duties, Wilson thought he’d try his hand at writing photoplays.

  According to Wilson, he had a knack for words and earned a quick $2,000 for the sale of a single photoplay. Within ten days, he penned three more stories and sold them for $3,000, $4,000 and $5,000, respectively. Feeling lucky, he quit his day job and purchased two things—a Stutz Bearcat roadster just for fun and a typewriter so he could get down to business. Three-hundred-and-sixty-five days later and armed with 85 unsold photoplays, Wilson had neither car nor typewriter—just some cast-off newspapers stuffed inside his clothes for warmth as he slept in the subway station.

  Now looking for steady employment, he happened to run into Samuel Goldfish who remembered Wilson from his sales days with Lasky. After hearing Wilson’s unfortunate tale, Goldfish, who had been let go from his brother-in-law’s company once Adolph Zukor took charge, was now running the Goldwyn Pictures Corporation. Goldfish asked Wilson if he happened to have a photoplay about the South Seas. Wilson assured Goldfish that he had just the thing. He then rushed off to a friend’s office, borrowed a typewriter and banged out his made-to-order story. Goldfish liked the script well enough to give Wilson $400 along with a three-month contract for more. Rushing back to the subway station to tell his jobless cohorts the good news, he was robbed. Penniless, but with his contract in hand, he headed to California where he joined forces with Goldwyn’s other popular photoplaywrights June Mathis, Ralph Block and Paul Bern.

 

‹ Prev