Books: Merton of the Movies
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Harry Leon Wilson >> Merton of the Movies
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"It's a pretty little thing, but to my way of thinking it lacks
strength; not enough punch to it. So we're sort of building up on
that general idea, only we'll put in the pep that this piece lacked.
If I don't miss my guess, you'll be able to show Wayne a few things
about serious acting--especially after you've studied his methods a
little bit in this piece."
"Well, if you think I can do it," began Merton, then broke off in
answer to a sudden thought. "Will my mother be the same actress that
played it before, the one that mopped all the time?"
"Yes, the same actress, but a different sort of mother. She--she's
more enterprising; she's a sort of chemist, in a way; puts up
preserves and jellies for the hotel. She never touches a mop in the
whole piece and dresses neat from start to finish."
"And does the cross-eyed man play in it? Sometimes, in scenes with
him, I'd get the idea I wasn't really doing my best."
"Yes, yes, I know." Baird waved a sympathetic hand. "Poor old Jack.
He's trying hard to do something worth while, but he's played in
those cheap comedy things so long it's sort of hard for him to get
out of it and play serious stuff, if you know what I mean."
"I know what you mean," said Merton.
"And he's been with me so long I kind of hate to discharge him. You
see, on account of those eyes of his, it would be hard for him to
get a job as a serious actor, so I did think I'd give him another
part in this piece if you didn't object, just to sort of work him
into the worth-while things. He's so eager for the chance. It was
quite pathetic how grateful he looked when I told him I'd try him
once more in one of the better and finer things. And a promise is a
promise."
"Still, Merton, you're the man I must suit in this cast; if you say
the word I'll tell Jack he must go, though I know what a blow it
will be to him--"
"Oh, no, Mr. Baird," Merton interrupted fervently, "I wouldn't think
of such a thing. Let the poor fellow have a chance to learn
something better than the buffoonery he's been doing. I'll do
everything I can to help him. I think it is very pathetic, his
wanting to do the better things; it's fine of him. And maybe some
day he could save up enough to have a good surgeon fix his eyes
right. It might be done, you know."
"Now that's nice of you, my boy. It's kind and generous. Not every
actor of your talent would want Jack working in the same scene with
him. And perhaps, as you say, some day he can save up enough from
his wages to have his eyes fixed. I'll mention it to him. And this
reminds me, speaking of the cast, there's another member who might
bother some of these fussy actors. She's the girl who will take the
part of your city sweetheart. As a matter of fact, she isn't exactly
the type I'd have picked for the part, because she's rather a large,
hearty girl, if you know what I mean. I could have found a lot who
were better lookers; but the poor thing has a bedridden father and
mother and a little crippled brother and a little sister that isn't
well, and she's working hard to send them all to school--I mean the
children, not her parents; so I saw the chance to do her a good
turn, and I hope you'll feel that you can work harmoniously with
her. I know I'm too darned human to be in this business--" Baird
looked aside to conceal his emotion.
"I'm sure, Mr. Baird, I'll get along fine with the young lady, and I
think it's fine of you to give these people jobs when you could get
better folks in their places."
"Well, well, we'll say no more about that," replied Baird gruffly,
as one who had again hidden his too-impressionable heart. "Now ask
in the outer office where that Wayne film is to-day and catch it as
often as you feel you're getting any of the Edgar Wayne stuff. We'll
call you up when work begins."
He saw the Edgar Wayne film, a touching story in which the timid,
diffident country boy triumphed over difficulties and won the love
of a pure New York society girl, meantime protecting his mother from
the insulting sneers of the idle rich and being made to suffer
intensely by the apparent moral wreck of his dear little sister whom
a rich scoundrel lured to the great city with false promises that he
would make a fine lady of her. Never before had he studied the
acting method of Wayne with a definite aim in view. Now he watched
until he himself became the awkward country boy. He was primed with
the Wayne manner, the appealing ingenuousness, the simple
embarrassments; the manly regard for the old mother, when word came
that Baird was ready for him in the new piece.
This drama was strikingly like the Wayne piece he had watched, at
least in its beginning. Baird, in his striving for the better
things, seemed at first to have copied his model almost too
faithfully. Not only was Merton to be the awkward country boy in the
little hillside farmhouse, but his mother and sister were like the
other mother and sister.
Still, he began to observe differences. The little sister--played by
the Montague girl--was a simple farm maiden as in the other piece,
but the mother was more energetic. She had silvery hair and wore a
neat black dress, with a white lace collar and a cameo brooch at her
neck, and she embraced her son tearfully at frequent intervals, as
had the other mother; but she carried on in her kitchen an active
business in canning fruits and putting up jellies, which, sold to
the rich people at the hotel, would swell the little fund that must
be saved to pay the mortgage. Also, in the present piece, the
country boy was to become a great inventor, and this was different.
Merton felt that this was a good touch; it gave him dignity.
He appeared ready for work on the morning designated. He was now
able to make up himself, and he dressed in the country-boy costume
that had been provided. It was perhaps not so attractive a costume
as Edgar Wayne had worn, consisting of loose-fitting overalls that
came well above his waist and were fastened by straps that went over
the shoulders; but, as Baird remarked, the contrast would be greater
when he dressed in rich city clothes at the last. His hair, too, was
no longer the slicked-back hair of Parmalee, but tousled in country
disorder.
For much of the action of the new piece they would require an
outside location, but there were some interiors to be shot on the
lot. He forgot the ill-fitting overalls when shown his attic
laboratory where, as an ambitious young inventor, sustained by the
unfaltering trust of mother and sister, he would perfect certain
mechanical devices that would bring him fame, fortune, and the love
of a pure New York society girl. It was a humble little room
containing a work-bench that held his tools and a table littered
with drawings over which he bent until late hours of the night.
At this table, simple, unaffected, deeply earnest, he was shown as
the dreaming young inventor, perplexed at moments, then, with
brightening eyes, making some needful change in the drawings. He
felt in these scenes that he was revealing a world of personality.
And he must struggle to give a sincere interpretation in later
scenes that would require more action. He would show Baird that he
had not watched Edgar Wayne without profit.
Another interior was of the neat living room of the humble home.
Here were scenes of happy family life with the little sister and the
fond old mother. The Montague girl was a charming picture in her
simple print dress and sunbonnet beneath which hung her braid of
golden hair. The mother was a sweet old dear, dressed as Baird had
promised. She early confided to Merton that she was glad her part
was not to be a mopping part. In that case she would have had to
wear knee-pads, whereas now she was merely, she said, to be a tired
business woman.
Still another interior was of her kitchen where she busily carried
on her fruit-canning activities. Pots boiled on the stove and glass
jars were filled with her product. One of the pots, Merton noticed,
the largest, had a tightly closed top from which a slender tube of
copper went across one corner of the little room to where it coiled
in a bucket filled with water, whence it discharged its contents
into bottles.
This, it seemed, was his mother's improved grape juice, a cooling
drink to tempt the jaded palates of the city folks up at the big
hotel.
The laboratory of the young inventor was abundantly filmed while the
earnest country boy dreamed hopefully above his drawings or tinkered
at metal devices on the work-bench. The kitchen in which his mother
toiled was repeatedly shot, including close-ups of the old mother's
ingenious contrivances--especially of the closed boiler with its
coil of copper tubing--by which she was helping to save the humble
home.
And a scene in the neat living room with its old-fashioned furniture
made it all too clear that every effort would be required to save
the little home. The cruel money-lender, a lawyer with mean-looking
whiskers, confronted the three shrinking inmates to warn them that
he must have his money by a certain day or out they would go into
the streets. The old mother wept at this, and the earnest boy took
her in his arms. The little sister, terrified by the man's rough
words, also flew to this shelter, and thus he defied the intruder,
calm, fearless, dignified. The money would be paid and the intruder
would now please remember that, until the day named, this little
home was their very own.
The scoundrel left with a final menacing wave of his gnarled hand;
left the group facing ruin unless the invention could be perfected,
unless Mother could sell an extraordinary quantity of fruit or
improved grape juice to the city folks, or, indeed, unless the
little sister could do something wonderful.
She, it now seemed, was confident she also could help. She stood
apart from them and prettily promised to do something wonderful. She
asked them to remember that she was no longer a mere girl, but a
woman with a woman's determination. They both patted the little
thing encouragingly on the back.
The interiors possible on the Holden lot having been finished, they
motored each day to a remote edge of the city where outside
locations had been found for the humble farmhouse and the grand
hotel. The farmhouse was excellently chosen, Merton thought, being
the neat, unpretentious abode of honest, hard-working people; but
the hotel, some distance off, was not so grand, he thought, as
Baird's new play seemed to demand. It was plainly a hotel, a wooden
structure with balconies; but it seemed hardly to afford those
attractions that would draw wealthier element from New York. He
forebore to warn Baird of this, however, fearing to discourage a
manager who was honestly striving for the serious in photodrama.
His first exterior scene saw him, with the help of Mother and little
sister, loading the one poor motor car which the family possessed
with Mother's products. These were then driven to the hotel. The
Montague girl drove the car, and scenes of it in motion were shot
from a car that preceded them.
They arrived before the hotel; Merton was directed to take from the
car an iron weight attached to a rope and running to a connection
forward on the hood. He was to throw the weight to the ground,
plainly with the notion that he would thus prevent the car from
running away. The simple device was, in fact, similar to that used,
at Gashwiler's strict orders, on the delivery wagon back in
Simsbury, for Gashwiler had believed that Dexter would run away if
untethered. But of course it was absurd, Merton saw, to anchor a
motor car in such a manner, and he was somewhat taken aback when
Baird directed this action.
"It's all right," Baird assured him. "You're a simple country boy,
and don't know any better, so do it plumb serious. You'll be smart
enough before the show's over. Go ahead, get out, grab the weight,
throw it down, and don't look at it again, as if you did this every
time. That's it. You're not being funny; just a simple country boy
like Wayne was at first." He performed the action, still with some
slight misgiving. Followed scenes of brother and sister offering
Mother's wares to the city folks idling on the porch of the hotel.
Each bearing a basket they were caught submitting the jellies and
jams. The brother was laughed at, even sneered at, by the
supercilious rich, the handsomely gowned women and the dissipated
looking men. No one appeared to wish his jellies.
The little sister had better luck. The women turned from her, but
the men gathered about her and quickly bought out the stock. She
went to the car for more and the men followed her. To Merton, who
watched these scenes, the dramatist's intention was plain. These men
did not really care for jellies and jams, they were attracted solely
by the wild-rose beauty of the little country girl. And they were
plainly the sort of men whose attentions could mean no good to such
as she.
Left on the porch, he was now directed to approach a distinguished
looking old gentleman, probably a banker and a power in Wall Street,
who read his morning papers. Timidly he stood before this person,
thrusting forward his basket. The old gentleman glanced up in
annoyance and brutally rebuffed the country boy with an angry
flourish of the paper he read.
"You're hurt by this treatment," called Baird, "and almost
discouraged. You look back over your shoulder to where sister is
doing a good business with her stuff, and you see the old mother
back in her kitchen, working her fingers to the bone--we'll have a
flash of that, see?--and you try again. Take out that bottle in the
corner of the basket, uncork it, and try again. The old man looks
up-he's smelled something. You hold the bottle toward him and you're
saying so-and-so, so-and-so, so-and-so, 'Oh, Mister, if you knew how
hard my poor old mother works to make this stuff! Won't you please
take a little taste of her improved grape juice and see if you don't
want to buy a few shillings' worth'--so-and-so, so-and-so, so-and-
so--see what I mean? That's it, look pleading. Think how the little
home depends on it."
The old gentleman, first so rude, consented to taste the improved
grape juice. He put the bottle to his lips and tilted it. A camera
was brought up to record closely the look of pleased astonishment
that enlivened his face. He arose to his feet, tilted the bottle
again, this time drinking abundantly. He smacked his lips with
relish, glanced furtively at the group of women in the background,
caught the country boy by a sleeve and drew him farther along the
porch.
"He's telling you what fine stuff this grape juice is," explained
Baird; "saying that your mother must be a wonderful old lady, and
he'll drop over to meet her; and in the meantime he wants you to
bring him all this grape juice she has. He'll take it; she can name
her own price. He hands you a ten dollar bill for the bottle he has
and for another in the basket--that's it, give it to him. The rest
of the bottles are jams or something. You want him to take them, but
he pushes them back. He's saying he wants the improved grape juice
or nothing. He shows a big wad of bills to show he can pay for it.
You look glad now--the little home may be saved after all."
The scene was shot. Merton felt that he carried it acceptably. He
had shown the diffident pleading of the country boy that his
mother's product should be at least tasted, his frank rejoicing when
the old gentleman approved of it. He was not so well satisfied with
the work of the Montague girl as his innocent little sister. In her
sale of Mother's jellies to the city men, in her acceptance of their
attentions, she appeared to be just the least bit bold. It seemed
almost as if she wished to attract their notice. He hesitated to
admit it, for he profoundly esteemed the girl, but there were even
moments when, in technical language, she actually seemed to "vamp"
these creatures who thronged about her to profess for her jams and
jellies an interest he was sure they did not feel.
He wondered if Baird had made it plain to her that she was a very
innocent little country girl who should be unpleasantly affected by
these advances. The scene he watched shot where the little sister
climbed back into the motor car, leered at by the four New York
club-men, he thought especially distasteful. Surely the skirt of her
print dress was already short enough. She needed not to lift it
under this evil regard as she put her foot up to the step.
It was on the porch of the hotel, too, that he was to have his first
scene with the New York society girl whose hand he won. She proved
to be the daughter of the old gentleman who liked the improved grape
juice. As Baird had intimated, she was a large girl; not only tall
and stoutly built, but somewhat heavy of face. Baird's heart must
have been touched indeed when he consented to employ her, but Merton
remembered her bedridden father and mother, the little crippled
brother, the little sister who was also in poor health, and resolved
to make their scenes together as easy for her as he could.
At their first encounter she appeared in a mannish coat and riding
breeches, though she looked every inch a woman in this attire.
"She sees you, and it's a case of love at first sight on her part,"
explained Baird. "And you love her, too, only you're a bashful
country boy and can't show it the way she can. Try out a little
first scene now."
Merton stood, his basket on his arm, as the girl approached him.
"Look down," called Baird, and Merton lowered his gaze under the
ardent regard of the social butterfly. She tossed away her cigarette
and came nearer. Then she mischievously pinched his cheek as the New
York men had pinched his little sister's. Having done this, she
placed her hand beneath his chin and raised his face to hers.
"Now look up at her," called Baird. "But she frightens you. Remember
your country raising. You never saw a society girl before. That's
it--look frightened while she's admiring you in that bold way. Now
turn a little and look down again. Pinch his cheek once more, Lulu.
Now, Merton, look up and smile, but kind of scared--you're still
afraid of her--and offer her a bottle of Ma's preserves. Step back a
little as you do it, because you're kind of afraid of what she might
do next. That's fine. Good work, both of you."
He was glad for the girl's sake that Baird had approved the work of
both. He had been afraid she was overdoing the New York society
manner in the boldness of her advances to him, but of course Baird
would know.
His conscience hurt him a little when the Montague girl added her
praise to Baird's for his own work. "Kid, you certainly stepped neat
and looked nice in that love scene," she warmly told him. He would
have liked to praise her own work, but could not bring himself to.
Perhaps she would grow more shrinking and modest as the drama
progressed.
A part of the play now developed as he had foreseen it would, in
that the city men at the hotel pursued the little sister to her own
door-step with attentions that she should have found unwelcome. But
even now she behaved in a way he could not approve. She seemed
determined to meet the city men halfway. "I'm to be the sunlight arc
of this hovel," she announced when the city men came, one at a time,
to shower gifts upon the little wild rose.
Later it became apparent that she must in the end pay dearly for her
too-ready acceptance of these favours. One after another the four
city men, whose very appearance would have been sufficient warning
to most girls, endeavoured to lure her up to the great city where
they promised to make a lady of her. It was a situation notoriously
involving danger to the simple country girl, yet not even her mother
frowned upon it.
The mother, indeed, frankly urged the child to let all of these kind
gentlemen make a lady of her. The brother should have warned her in
this extremity; but the brother was not permitted any share in these
scenes. Only Merton Gill, in his proper person, seemed to feel the
little girl was all too cordially inviting trouble.
He became confused, ultimately, by reason of the scenes not being
taken consecutively. It appeared that the little sister actually
left her humble home at the insistence of one of the villains, yet
she did not, apparently, creep back months later broken in body and
soul. As nearly as he could gather, she was back the next day. And
it almost seemed as if later, at brief intervals, she allowed
herself to start for the great city with each of the other three
scoundrels who were bent upon her destruction. But always she
appeared to return safely and to bring large sums of money with
which to delight the old mother.
It was puzzling to Merton. He decided at last--he did not like to
ask the Montague girl--that Baird had tried the same scene four
times, and would choose the best of these for his drama.
Brother and sister made further trips to the hotel with their
offerings, only the sister now took jams and jellies exclusively,
which she sold to the male guests, while the brother took only the
improved grape juice which the rich old New Yorker bought and
generously paid for.
There were other scenes at the hotel between the country boy and the
heavy-faced New York society girl, in which the latter was an ardent
wooer. Once she was made to snatch a kiss from him as he stood by
her, his basket on his arm. He struggled in her embrace, then turned
to flee.
She was shown looking after him, laughing, carelessly slapping one
leg with her riding crop.
"You're still timid," Baird told him. "You can hardly believe you
have won her love."
In some following scenes at the little farmhouse it became
impossible for him longer to doubt this, for the girl frankly told
her love as she lingered with him at the gate.
"She's one of these new women," said Baird. "She's living her own
life. You listen--it's wonderful that this great love should have
come to you. Let us see the great joy dawning in your eyes."
He endeavoured to show this. The New York girl became more ardent.
She put an arm about him, drew him to her. Slowly, almost in the
manner of Harold Parmalee, as it seemed to him, she bent down and
imprinted a long kiss upon his lips. He had been somewhat difficult
to rehearse in this scene, but Baird made it all plain. He was still
the bashful country boy, though now he would be awakened by love.
The girl drew him from the gate to her waiting automobile. Here she
overcame a last reluctance and induced him to enter. She followed
and drove rapidly off.
It was only now that Baird let him into the very heart of the drama.
"You see," he told Merton, "you've watched these city folks; you've
wanted city life and fine clothes for yourself; so, in a moment of
weakness, you've gone up to town with this girl to have a look at
the place, and it sort of took hold of you. In fact, you hit up
quite a pace for awhile; but at last you go stale on it--" "The
blight of Broadway," suggested Merton, wondering if there could be a
cabaret scene.
"Exactly," said Baird. "And you get to thinking of the poor old
mother and little sister back here at home, working away to pay off
the mortgage, and you decide to come back. You get back on a stormy
night; lots of snow and wind; you're pretty weak. We'll show you
sort of fainting as you reach the door. You have no overcoat nor
hat, and your city suit is practically ruined. You got a great
chance for some good acting here, especially after you get inside to
face the folks. It'll be the strongest thing you've done, so far."
It was indeed an opportunity for strong acting. He could see that.
He stayed late with Baird and his staff one night and a scene of the
prodigal's return to the door of the little home was shot in a
blinding snow-storm. Baird warmly congratulated the mechanics who
contrived the storm, and was enthusiastic over the acting of the
hero. Through the wintry blast he staggered, half falling, to reach
the door where he collapsed. The light caught the agony on his pale
face. He lay a moment, half-fainting, then reached up a feeble hand
to the knob of the door.
It was one of the annoyances incident to screen art that he could
not go in at that moment to finish his great scene. But this must be
done back on the lot, and the scene could not be secured until the
next day.
Once more he became the pitiful victim of a great city, crawling
back to the home shelter on a wintry night. It was Christmas eve, he
now learned. He pushed open the door of the little home and
staggered in to face his old mother and the little sister. They
sprang forward at his entrance; the sister ran to support him to the
homely old sofa. He was weak, emaciated, his face an agony of
repentance, as he mutely pled forgiveness for his flight.
His old mother had risen, had seemed about to embrace him fondly
when he knelt at her feet, but then had drawn herself sternly up and
pointed commandingly to the door. The prodigal, anguished anew at
this repulse, fell weakly back upon the couch with a cry of despair.
The little sister placed a pillow under his head and ran to plead
with the mother. A long time she remained obdurate, but at last
relented. Then she, too, came to fall upon her knees before the
wreck who had returned to her.
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