HOW TO MAKE A FILM

Evening Post, Volume CXVIII, Issue 36, 11 August 1934, Page 25

HOW TO MAKE A FILM

So, you'd:like to se a director, would you4?' You'd like to have somebody write the stories, hire tho actors, build the sets, construct' tho dialogue, 'ight tho. scene, and turn tho camera. All yon bavo to do is sit in your easy chair, say "action!?' and "cut!" at proper intervals, and every once iv a while-remark, condescendingly, "print that one!" that's-what you think, writes Henry Hathaway, tho director, in tho "San, Francisco Chronicle."

You arrive at tho studio bright and early, eagor f6r tho day's labours. It is .spring. You are even with schodule, and.the producer is smiling. It's a lovely world,- after all. • ■ ; Then Georgo Cary, your star, walks oil the sot. "Wait a minute," yo^ ( remark, "you're supposed to wear that brown suit in this scene." ' :: "I definitely was told the blue." "Well, get back to the dressing-room and change—if tho brown isn't at tho "cleaners." "Bay>- we gotta shoot around that kid Lorraine Church for a few days. She's got the measles or mumps or sumpln. We can shoot the interior of the chateau —" . A man from casting horns in.''No you can't. Frank Oliphant won't be available for three days, and he's In that scene. But you could do that night club stuff.' "But,'.wails Sue Strange, your leadiu" lady, '-'my costume'for that scene isn't done! I don't want to wear that old rag yon tried to palm off on me. i won't wear anything but my new outfit:"" ■■■■" ■ ■' ' "Well," you suggest, '"maybe- we (•ouia do thai transparencies on the "Notta: chance, ".say s the assistant. "Johnston's company i s there for another-week." , . ■ . By this- time Georgo Cary is back Avith his btown stdtv Maybo you can't "ct Lorraine Church, butjyou can worry about that later. Let's'get this scene now., First, a rehearsal. Yon explain the action. They walk- through it, perfectly. •-•-•■ . ■ , ■ "Let's make one." And things

start. "'•■ ■ • ■ ~ In the midst of everything you hear

a lond buzzing noiee. You look at tho sound man. Ho frowns and sliakes his hoaa. "Cut!"

"Fix that blank sun-are!" While it is being fixed you sit. Your dialogue writer comes up. ■

"We otta chango this scene," he says. "In the: script tho guy says 'It is imperative that-this transaction be consummated.' Now you know people won't know what he's talkin* about. I don't think the guy can say it anyhow. He's got a one-syllable uaiud."

"Suit yourself," you say, thinking wearily how bright it seemed that morning. The sun-arc is fixed, and you start again. In tho iniddio of the scene, u-itli evrything going smoothly, the.second camerman says MCut!" "Something wrong with this bos,' 3 he explains: brightly. Ho pries around inside, mutteringi You knock off while the camera >.s being repaired. An hour later, fortified with a thin slice of ancient beef, lumpy potato, and a cup of something vaguely reminiscent of coffee,, you return to the. ware. ■ : "I feel terrible," your leading lady greets you. "I shouldn't have had those cucumbers. Do you think wo can knock off early todayl" "It's fixed," tho cameraman choers you up. "Film, got off. the track and. got chewed up, but wo cleaned nor out, and she's oko now." "Think wo can make orio!"

"Why not?" ' m, Tour principals are placed. _lne cameraman now decidos one lighfcisn t hitting just'right. He floods it, tips it up, and is satisfied. You shoot tfCut! It's a perfect take.-. . "Say," says the wardrobe girl, timidly, "is she wearing tho right shoes?' "Oh my gosh," wails Sue Strange: "I took those things off before lunch .because they hurt my feet. Ana those cucumbers'made .mo forget to put Jem back on." • ' . Out of it all finally, comes ,a. pie* ture. Tho executives sit in the projection room, cussing, admiring, grossing, eroaning. . . . Among them is a battered oM gent who looks as if he had seen better days. He has. He is the director!