LM: Was the light different up there?
MOHR: Different climate conditions . . . of course, by this time they had developed some lights, which were better than what I had had. They were arc lights.
LM: Did you find that the natural light in Portland was different from here?
MOHR: Oh yes; there wasn’t as much light. . . . There were very few sunny days, and the film was so slow in those days that if it was an overcast day, you wouldn’t get decent photography. I stayed up there about a year or so, then I came back down here, and I’ve been going ever since.
LM: Did you then decide to concentrate on photography?
MOHR: Yes, I realized that was what I liked. As I say, I’d done everything, and even at that time, directing was still for the birds. It still had no connotation of being anything creative; all a director would do was say, “All right, you come out the door, and you meet her over here, and you turn her around, do this to her, and get on your horse and ride.” That was the director’s function; the cameraman was the one who actually made the pictures. Not that I’m talking directors down—I think directors have done a magnificent job; I’ve worked with directors who I look up to as gods. But for my choice, I figured that cinematography was the most creative job, and that was what I wanted to do.
Mohr (with beret) checks on a shot while director Paul Fejos sits on the edge of the famous BROADWAY crane, and assistant Stanley Cortez (in white pants) waits (ca. 1929).
LM: Starting from scratch, as you were—as the whole industry was—how did you learn?
MOHR: There was nobody to show me anything—no American Film Institute to teach me. It was trial and error, but you couldn’t afford to make too many errors, because it was too expensive, but mistakes could get by, if it wasn’t too tragic a mistake. If you managed to get a picture on the film that you could see, it was all right. Many of the experimental ventures we went into, looking for effects, were just about that. We’d say, “Well, we can get away with it, but the next time we’ll do it different.” But it was all trial and error; there was nobody to teach you, and those who had knowledge were very jealous of that knowlege, and they wouldn’t show you. There was no exchange of ideas, and that went for everyone in the business; but it was evolutionary, and eventually in the golden era of motion pictures, we reached the point where there was an exchange of ideas. I as a cameraman might call, say, Bill Daniels, and say, “Bill, I’ve got a thing coming up in a picture. How did you do so-and-so in such-and-such a picture?” Or somebody would call me. And the result was a rash of spectacular motion pictures made, because it was a concerted effort; today they’re going to the point where it’s a one-man effort.
LM: Did being an editor help you as a cameraman?
MOHR: It helped me a lot. Script girls used to get kind of mad at me, because they’d never have a chance; I’d put pictures together, so I knew instinctively that the man had gotten off the horse and gone into the saloon on camera left so he had to come in the next scene from camera right, or from center down. So I’d set up accordingly. I think the editing is the best source for learning the mechanical putting-together of a motion picture. It has become a highly skilled profession. Even in the days when I was cutting silent pictures, I used to change the whole story through editing. If we had an actor, a leading man, who was not too good, and we could possibly switch him around and make him the heavy, and make the heavy the leading man, we’d do it—of course, with titles you could put whatever words you wanted to into the actor’s mouth. Of course, they don’t do that today, but that’s the kind of thing a film editor has in his hands.
LM: One of the first pictures I have credited for you is a Richard Talmadge vehicle called WATCH HIM STEP.
MOHR: That was made on Poverty Row, it was the first picture that Richard Talmadge ever made. Morris Schlank was quite a character, and he had money, and he financed it. We made it in what was the old Francis Ford-Grace Cunard studio, which was across the street from what is now the Columbia Publicity Department building, on the corner of Sunset and Beechwood. Dick Talmadge, as you know, was Douglas Fairbanks’ double; anything that was really hazardous, Dick did. His real name was Sylvester Matsetti; he was one of a family of Italian acrobats . . . there were five or six of them, and they were just wonderful. They could do anything. Syl had done doubling for Doug Fairbanks, and Schlank got the idea, and a damn good idea, to give him a different name and make a star out of him in action pictures. So they gave him the name of Richard Talmadge, which was a good name in those days. Their first picture was done on location, and I photographed it for them.
LM: I suppose the idea was to get as much in as possible on each stunt.
MOHR: Oh yes, you had to show the authenticity of each stunt. For example, there was one shot we made down in what is now Azusa—it was just a crossroad at that time. It was a chase, and why he had to run up the telegraph pole I don’t know, but during the chase he went up the pole—one of these high-tension line things, which was a damn dangerous thing for him to do, and we had no precautionary measures. So I got this long-shot—I started off in close-up to identify him, of course—then we moved back to get the whole thing, the whole geography in the picture. So as the heavies start up the pole after him, down on the street comes this wagon, and in the bed of the wagon were straw and blankets—one of the other brothers was driving the thing, so they would time it right. And Syl jumped off the top of this damn pole just before the guys got there, lands in the wagon, bounces off and takes off running down the street. This was all done without a cut; it had to be him, and he did it. I think that’s the only one I did with him; it was a great experience.
LM: Next I have something called THE UNFOLDMENT . . .
MOHR: With Florence Lawrence . . . you’re really going back into history. It was made by a man by the name of George Kern. It was made at the old Hollywood Studios, which is now the General Service Studios, and at that time there was nothing on Santa Monica Boulevard but the studio itself.
LM: What were working methods like on Poverty Row, as compared to more prominent studios?
MOHR: It was just what the name implies; if a guy had three dollars and good credit, he’d make a picture. If I could collect all the money I never collected on salary, and my salary was small, I’d have a small fortune. If I got $125 a week, I was getting a hell of a lot of money, and for that I would supply a camera and an automobile to haul the camera around in, and in many cases I would supply my own assistant.
LM: Were you still working in the lab at this time?
MOHR: By this time the laboratory had moved on; we still cooperated. In those days, the cameraman had to be a photographer. He had to be able to read his own negatives and know what the hell it was about. For example, even up to the time that I was doing THE JAZZ SINGER, I’d get there a half-hour ahead of time and go to the laboratory. At that time we made tests of every setup, and the negative developer had all my test strips lying on a lightbox. I’d go through with the lab man, and they’d all be developed to a certain time. There were many cases where you deliberately overexposed a scene for a certain effect, or you deliberately underexposed a scene. When you’d overexpose, the purpose was that they’d short-develop it, to get a soft, flat effect; where you’d underexpose, the purpose would be that they’d force development, to build up contrast. So we’d go through the tests, and he’d know what I had in mind—he’d know they weren’t just mistakes that I’d made. And when I did make mistakes, we’d get together and figure out how we could save them. The really great cameramen, men like Arthur Miller, Ernie Palmer, Charlie Rosher, Arthur Edeson, Hal Mohr—the old school of men who came up the hard way—were all fine photographers. Karl Struss is one of the finest still photographers who ever lived. We had to know photography—that was our job.
LM: We’re into the 1920s now; was working then a collaborative effort?
MOHR: Oh yes. You see, like with Alan Crosland, we did many pictures together—we were in France together in World War On
e, in the same outfit. We would set up a production unit, and I’d just do Alan’s pictures. I’d be on salary, and we’d be preparing a story, go somewhere to talk it over, and it was a combined effort, so when we got to making the picture everybody knew what it was all about.
LM: So you were involved from the start?
MOHR: From the very beginning, you were involved in the making of the film, and up to the time of the preview, because you’d look at the editing. If there were something he didn’t like you’d discuss it with him. I don’t mean that we intruded on each other’s authority—I didn’t direct his picture, nor did he direct the photography—but we helped each other. He’d say, “Gee, Hal, this would be a great place to get an effect, something like this,” you’d discuss the thing and work it out. You’d work it out in your own photographic way. And the thing we didn’t do that they’re doing tremendously now, is that if we moved the camera or put an obstacle in the way of the camera, it was for a definite purpose, to state something. I saw a show the other night, one of these detective things, where they kept on shooting through curtains, and windows—what is happening? If the director’s purpose was to confuse the audience—and maybe that’s what it was—he was certainly successful. I think the new techniques, a lot of them are magnificent, don’t misunderstand me, and when I started making commercials a lot of the effects that I made have now been taken over by the industry—this stuff of shooting into the sun, etc. I think that properly used, to get the effect to say what you want it to say, is just magnificent, but to do it just to have smears go across the camera, I don’t think means a damn thing.
LM: Were some directors more important in visual contributions than others?
MOHR: Oh yes. Bill Dieterle, for example; he’d like to know what the hell you’re doing. He’d have ideas, but not as much as Mike Curtiz. And Fritz Lang was very interested in what you were getting photographically, and rightly so. I think a director should know what’s going on that film.
LM: When you did the Mary Pickford pictures you were collaborating, weren’t you?
MOHR: On LITTLE ANNIE ROONEY, which was the first one, I worked with Charlie Rosher. Charlie was the director of photography, and I was second—I handled the second unit. Then the next picture was SPARROWS and I took Charlie’s place, and Karl Struss took my place, so to speak.
LM: How did you divide your responsibilities?
MOHR: Struss shot stuff on his own, and I shot stuff on my own. Sometimes we worked together, but most of the time we were working separately. Same thing on LITTLE ANNIE ROONEY.
LM: Were you both going for the same visual concept?
MOHR: Oh yes, I had made my photography conform with Charlie’s and Struss would make his photography conform with what I was doing. Which was the proper thing; you can only have one general, you can’t have an army of generals, and no privates.
LM: SPARROWS is a beautiful movie.
MOHR: It was a very good movie, and I had some very effective stuff in it, damned effective stuff. Karl was responsible for a lot of it—I don’t want to take any of the glory away from him. Mary was one of the most adorable people I’ve ever known. There was only one thing you had to watch out for with Mary: she only had one side of a face. I forget if it was the right side or the left side—let us assume it was the left side. Now if I’m doing a close-up where she’s working opposite me, and the master scene was done from the right, to carry the continuity she has to look from left to right. So she would keep the left side of her face to the camera, but the eyes going to the continuity, where it belongs. The other thing you had to watch for was to keep her looking small, looking tiny, and you usually did that by comparatively high setups and tall actors, and so on.
LM: Did you back-light her hair a lot?
MOHR: Oh, that was the mode, not just for Mary, but everybody. We used to put back-lights on them looking like MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. We had back-lights on some people where they would just radiate. I remember the old Mae Murray pictures; Bill Daniels and Ollie Marsh used to light her with back-lights where you couldn’t see her face!
LM: Do you remember a scene in SPARROWS where a barn door dissolves into a pastoral scene of Christ, which Mary Pickford envisions? How was that done?
MOHR: It was done in the barn, with the pastoral scene in the background. It was actually photographed right there. I don’t think we did any location work at all, it was all photographed right in the studio. Even the chase, at the end, was all done right there. And we did miniatures. The art director on that film was Harry Oliver; he was the art director on Mary Pickford’s pictures, and he was a nut. He had the craziest damn ideas—he and I got along great. The SPARROWS set, for example, was a dilapidated, run-down sort of thing. He’d be driving along, and pass by a refuse dump; if he’d see a piece of wood that would intrigue him, he’d stop and put it in the car, bring it into the studio. He’d sit there and burn a piece of wood to a certain point, brush it off and use it. He was nuts, but nuts to create. A very creative guy.
LM: What kind of lighting problems did you have with the swamp scenes?
MOHR: We did that with diffusions, and exposures. I talked about controlling exposures. A man named Aller had Consolidated Film Labs, before they were called that. And Charlie Rosher was responsible for this. We used to develop our negative at that time from what was known as the ABC Pyro developing system. It was a very short-lived developing agent—you had to mix a fresh batch for each drumful of film—but it had the capacity of giving you a magnificent negative. It put a lot of color in the base—brownish tones to the background. Charlie developed a method for shooting this (this is all black and white I’m talking about—you can’t do these tricks with color). We’d go into a situation where you’d be shooting, let us say, into a terrific back-light, a lot of reflected light coming in, and so on. It would call for, in those days, an f.8 stop—well, we’d photograph it at 4, or 4.5, and that’s several stops overexposed. Then Aller would skin-develop it; as soon as the image would show through, it was stopped. If it had been developed to its entirety it would have been just a black contrasty nothing. But that’s how we got this soft, ethereal, foggy look. Of course, we used a lot of fog machines, also. But the overall photography was controlled by the director of photography in connection with the effect he wanted to get, and with the complete cooperation of the laboratory.
LM: Now let’s get to Michael Curtiz; you worked with him quite a bit.
MOHR: That’s right. You know, he was a refugee from World War One, and Mr. Warner took full advantage of the circumstances, with a master powerful grip over the man, with the threat that he would be deported to Hungary if he didn’t concur with Warner. Mike had been a cameraman in Hungary, and a director, a wrestler, strongman—I don’t know if Mike had done any acting, I suppose he did some of that too. But THE THIRD DEGREE was his first picture in this country, and I was assigned to make it with him. I enjoyed Mike very much; he was a brutal sonofabitch. He had no consideration for anybody’s feelings, but still a very kindly guy. He was generous to a fault. But cruel—if a man was to fall off a horse into a bed of cactus, he had to fall off a horse into a bed of cactus, and if a baby had to cry . . . That was a time I damn near did battle with Mike, on location in Pasadena. We had a darling little baby in a picture called A MILLION BID, and the baby was supposed to cry. So Mike would go up to say something to the woman who was holding the baby, and he’d fuss around, adjusting the diaper or something. The baby would start to cry, and he’d turn on the camera. I took about four or five takes before I caught on to what the sonofabitch was doing: he was pinching the baby to make it cry. Well, I don’t go for that; I don’t go for people killing animals, just for an effect in a film, or hurting people. I say that you can get the same effect if you know what you’re doing without jeopardizing anybody. You don’t have to be a sonofabitch about it, or be cruel, and Mike had that faculty. With all the love and admiration I had for Mike, he had that faculty, and it was finally what broke us up
. But he was a creative man; he’d work right with you, with an old-fashioned finder. Actually, the finder he was working with was a camouflage, because he would never call lunch. He’d always have a sandwich stuck in the goddamn finder, which he’d be chewing on while looking for the next setup! It finally reached the point in my relation with Mike that at one thirty or two o’clock I’d just turn to the head electrician and say, “Kill ’em, we’re going to lunch.” And Mike would hate me for it, but nevertheless, he knew that I was calling his bluff. But he’d work alongside the camera; he’d pick an angle, and he wouldn’t say, “Now, we’re going to use a 25mm lens, and we’ll do this and do that,” but he’d give me an idea of what he had in mind, and I’d compose the picture, pick the lens to do it with, and so on. Mike would look through, and we’d talk about it. He had a great artistic instinct. And THE THIRD DEGREE I saw recently, and I was really pleasantly surprised at the beauty of some of the shots we got. And the main feature of it was the multi-exposure photography, the overlays and everything. That was all done in the camera; there was no such thing as optical printing in those days. That film would go through the camera time after time after time. I had film for that picture—they cut some of it out—that went through the camera eighty-odd times, forwards and backwards. We’d reverse it after we’d expose, reverse it to the the starting point before we’d can it. Then we had charts all made out as to what they were supposed to do.
The Art of the Cinematographer Page 13