Cecil M. Hepworth — Came the Dawn — Chapter 14 (1951) 🇬🇧
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It has been suggested that I should give some short description of my method of working upon a film production in those days, since it differed in many respects from that of my contemporaries — which is not, of course, to hint that it was any better than theirs and merely implies that the comparison might be informative but not odious.
In this connection there is a little incident which jumps to my memory, probably because it tickled my conceited vanity. I was strolling past a partition which hid me from a group of three or four of my producers and before I realised it I overheard what they were saying. One said: ‘He is always so beastly cocksure: knows exactly what he wants and jolly well means to get it.’ ‘Yes,’ said another, ‘and the trouble is the beast is always right.’ It dawned upon me that this was my cue for silent departure, with probably a silly fatuous smile upon my face at the slightly sinister compliment.
But I think I see what they meant. I did always know what I wanted and certainly did intend to secure it. This was roughly the method. When I read a book or saw a play or studied a synopsis, there came into my mental vision a fairly detailed and consecutive pattern of what the film would be like. That pattern stuck in my head and gradually crystallised out into a definite form, while the working scenario was being prepared for me.
The next step was to complete the crystallisation process. I chewed the scenario over bit by bit, suggested alterations and discussed them and finally I took it home and lived with it. At this stage I re-typed every scene, large and small, one page or more to each, wrote in titles and sub-titles by hand wherever they seemed necessary, and saw each detail of every set-up just as it was to appear. It was an imaginary picture but it was complete.
Well, having got my personally transcribed scenario in treble form, that is in three books, one for me, one for camera and one for art director, we were ready to make a start. Scenery and furniture got ready for ‘sets’; itineraries prepared for exteriors (location, in modern speech) , artists consulted and encouraged, and all the usual preparations made — all this, of course, was common to every studio.
Now it came to going on the floor and this is where my alleged foreknowledge came in. I was able to tell each actor where he was to stand, what his movements were to be and when, and give some indication of necessary gestures. The point I am trying to make is that I did not experiment with my actors, try them out first in one way and then in another and then clear them all off the stage and start over again. That is what breaks their hearts and shows up an incompetent director immediately. Then the scene was rehearsed quietly and gently as often as seemed necessary — I never possessed a megaphone — and when all the people were happy and comfortable in their parts, uncertainties smoothed away and ‘inferiority complexes’ resolved in confidence, then I set the camera exactly where I wanted it and gave the word to go.
In those silent days the director was able to give a great deal of help to his actors by quiet prompting while the scene was actually in progress, for emotions had to be expressed and reactions indicated without the use of words. That is utterly different now that all the words are spoken and the action suited to them.
But from all this it is not to be assumed that I was generally wedded to an indoor studio. The contrary was usually the case, for I would never work indoors if I could possibly get into the open air. It was always in the back of my mind from the very beginning that / was to make English pictures, with all the English countryside for background and with English atmosphere and English idiom throughout.
When the Transatlantic films began to get a stranglehold upon the trade over here it came to be generally assumed that the American method and style of production was the reason for their success, and the great majority of our producers set about to try to imitate them. The Americans have their own idiom in picture making just as they have their own accent in speaking. It is not necessarily better than ours and it cannot be successfully copied. We have our own idiom too which they could not copy if they tried. It is our part to develop along the lines which are our heritage, and only in that way can we be true to ourselves and to those qualities which are ours.
So it was that whenever I possibly could I packed apparatus and staff into a big car and set off into the country, Surrey or Sussex, Devon or Cornwall, wherever there was prospect of beautiful scenery within the environment of the film to be produced.
I do want to stress this point for it was not only true for me and my time but it is, I believe, always true for all time. We in England cannot make the films of foreign countries as they should be made, not for lack of skill or opportunity or material but for lack of inner understanding; of the sense and the feeling of their idiom. And they cannot make ours as well as they might be made, because they have not and cannot have the inner perception of our spiritual atmosphere.
Still, perhaps I ought to drop the gentle reminder — against myself — that these are, after all, only my own ideas, that I have always had ‘funny’ notions. I would never use electric light if I could get daylight, would never allow the use of make-up of any description, made the stock-company players do small parts when necessary, however ‘big’ the parts they had just been taking; and so on.
My earlier memories of the Walton studios, before they began to get entangled with visions of what are later called ‘feature films,’ are mixed up with all sorts of strangely different personages from Cabinet Ministers and great actors to barrow boys and costers. One very famous comedian came to have a film made of his ever-popular music-hall act — I won’t quote his name because he may have some posterity who might not like to hear it mentioned in this way. When we got him on the stage we could not do anything with him at all — his alleged comedy was just a sobbing misery of sheer boredom. Over and over again we tried but he only got worse. Then someone who knew him whispered to me to send out for some brandy; plenty of it, for his friend, he said, was never much good unless he was thoroughly drunk. Much against my will I did so. The gentleman duly got drunk, very unpleasantly drunk, but as he progressed in inebriety his act became increasingly comic until he reached a stage when both his condition and his comedy became too outrageous to be borne.
Another comedian I remember was a complete contrast for though he was certainly not of the upper classes, he was a shy and friendly and very decent chap. He came with his equally nice little wife and it was delightful to see how kind and helpful she was to him and how much he depended upon her for advice and counsel.
In the middle of one of the rehearsals he suddenly asked her whether she would advise him to wear his hat or not. Her reply is, I think, almost a classic of cockneydom. She said: ‘Ow, ‘av yer ‘at on yer ‘ead, ‘Enry. Yer made yer ‘it in yer ‘at.’ He did so and as far as I can remember, ‘e ‘ad another ‘it.
As evidence of the infinite variety of the personages who strode for a brief hour upon the studio stage at Walton, let me lift a paragraph from the Kinematograph Weekly of 1915. ‘Eminent people in Hepworth films: — Henry Ainley, Clara Butt, Hall Caine, Sir J. Forbes-Robertson, Martin Harvey, Violet Hopson, Lionelle Howard, Bonar Law, Stewart Rome, Kennerley Rumford, Sir F. E. Smith, Alma Taylor, Chrissie White and Sir Charles Wyndham.’
It was about this time that a trade paper promoted a popular competition to decide who was the favourite British film player. This was the published result of the voting: Alma Taylor, first, with over a fifth of the total number of votes; then, in this order, Elizabeth Risdon, Charlie Chaplin, Stewart Rome, Chrissie White, Fred Evans.
This was in 1915 which, be it remembered, was the second year of the first great World War. Griffith’s [Birth of a Nation] was reported as the masterpiece of that year — which it certainly was — but it was also described as Charlie Chaplin’s year, but there is, of course, no contradiction in that for they occupied entirely different spheres. A note which marked a most remarkable and important change in the politics of the film world was to the effect that the ‘open market’ was suffering severely owing to the coming of the ‘exclusive.’
These two terms require a little explanation for they have no meaning at the present time. Films were originally sold in the ‘open market’ to anyone who would buy, at so much a foot, without any reference to quality or value of the subject. First it was a shilling a foot, less [33J] per cent, to ‘the trade.’ This soon dropped to sixpence net, then fivepence — at which there was a firm but ineffectual effort to fix it — and then fourpence, at which it stuck for years. But it came in time to be realised that the value of a film was not really a factor of length alone, but primarily of the interest of its material. That is so entirely self-evident now that it is difficult to realise that several years went by before anyone thought of it.
The open market film, since anyone could buy it, introduced unlimited competition between the purchasers of any really popular subject, reducing its value both to the buyers and to the producer. The ‘subject’ began to matter more than the ‘length.’ Thus was born the film with subject value — the ‘feature’ film as it came to be called. And this, from its very nature, could best realise its value by being sold exclusively to one buyer for each district, or for the nation, or for the world, according to circumstances.
Now it became really worth while to concentrate upon making feature films which were saleable according to their entertainment value and not merely like so much ribbon at so much a yard.
This was a real incentive to the making of good films and it is impossible to over-estimate its result for good upon the film industry as a whole. Unfortunately, however, it also resulted in the introduction of perhaps the greatest evil the industry has ever suffered from. For it was no sudden and complete change-over. Some makers were selling ‘exclusives,’ many were still clinging to the open market and many more trying to serve both masters — superimposing a few ‘features’ upon their regular trade of so-much-a-footers. This last was the course which was almost inevitably forced upon me.
But thus it came about that the middleman who had a large stock of small pictures upon his shelves, and bought up a big one to boost his trade, said in effect to his customers: ‘If you want my big feature you must also book half a dozen of my small ones at the same time.’ This was called ‘block booking’ and it transpired that booking dates receded further and further into the future until there were none to be had for eighteen months or two years after publication. It was what, I suppose, modern economists would call too many films chasing too few theatres. Anyway the result was that the capital sunk in the making of a big film would not begin to come back to the maker until about two years afterwards. It can hardly be wondered at that so many makers preferred to keep to their old policy of small pictures and quick returns and so helped to build up and succour the very evil which was bringing about their own downfall.
Nevertheless it was reported at the end of 1915 ‘the picture theatre in England, after seventeen months of war, is more firmly established than ever.’ But the war years brought a large share of those troubles — other than the war itself — which war always brings to any community. A large number of picture theatre companies failed, though often for other reasons than those directly connected with the war, and tax was imposed upon imported films as well as upon prints and raw film-stock, and entertainment tax was imposed upon the theatres. This was the most unkindest cut of all.
Although I have admitted by innuendo that my company was slow to take up the challenge of the specially expensive feature film made from copyright books and plays, it must not be assumed that we were still playing about with unimportant open market subjects mainly. On the contrary we had for some time been making lengthy and important pictures and had won great success with most of them. But I had always had the feeling that picture making was an art in itself and should depend upon its own original writers for its material. It was while I was waiting for those original writers to show up that I agreed to the making of such films from books as those quite successful Dickens films and the plays I have mentioned.
But it was gradually brought home to me — notably by my friend Baynes, the man with the mackintosh and the big dog — that I must break away from this inexpensive material and pay good money for books or plays that were already successfully in the eye of the public. In other words, cash in on the popularity already secured.
It was somewhere about the middle of the first World War — say 1916 — that I had occasion to produce a film in which a portable typewriter would be conspicuous. I suggested to the Remington people that in view of the publicity value, they might care to make me a present of one of their portable machines to be used in the picture. They liked the idea, agreed to the suggestion and sent me the typewriter.
I used it, though not to any great extent, and then found to my dismay that for some reason — now entirely forgotten — I could not put the picture into production. So there was nothing for it but to take the typewriter back to Remington’s. Of course I explained the situation and apologised and they were exceedingly nice about it. But they said they had no existing facilities for selling used machines, even so little used as this was, and in the end they said they quite understood the position and in the circumstances they would like me to keep the machine.
I have had it ever since, and if I say that its behaviour has always been worthy of the gracious manner of its coming to me, I shall not be guilty of exaggeration.
It has only one fault; it is a shocking bad speller.
A typical example of a good war-play was The Man Who Stayed At Home which ran for a long time at the old Royalty Theatre in Dean Street, Soho. The name part, played by Dennis Eadie, told of a man who was always being gibed at for not enlisting and going out to serve his country as every fit man should. He bore all this with exemplary patience which was mistaken for cowardice, but it turned out in the end that he had a wireless-set concealed in his fireplace and was doing noble and valuable secret service work with it. We bought the rights in this play and made a good film of it, and I have always been very grateful to it for it was the means of introducing my greatest colleague, Henry Edwards, to the Walton Studios, where he worked finely and very successfully until the end. He was carrying a not very important part in this play but he did it so supremely well that I was very glad to be able to persuade him to join us. All his acting work was excellent and he very soon took on production as well, and afterwards started a series of productions of his own side by side with me. Chrissie White became the leading lady in many of his pictures in the same way as Alma Taylor was usually mine, but we changed about occasionally when the films we were making seemed better suited that way.
In our screen version of The Man Who Stayed At Home which was produced by me, Dennis Eadie played his own part but most of the other parts were taken by the members of our stock -company. I don’t think Eadie was very happy with us, which is worth remarking for that did not often happen. But the film was successful and helped to confirm the theory that stage plays were good material for us to work upon.
Nevertheless I still clung to the belief that they were not the only or even necessarily the best foundation for picture-plays. It is an argument which has never yet been settled, for there are always examples bobbing up to prove or disprove it either way.
The Pipes of Pan was founded upon a pretty fanciful little picture or picture postcard which was popular in the shops at the time. I produced the film, which was of no great importance but it comes to my memory now because of an ingenious trick which
I used to obtain a particular effect. The story was of the fanciful thought-pictures of a small boy which came to him when he played the pipes. One of his visions which I wanted to show, was of a number of fairy children playing round his heroine, the girl who was so kind to him and seemed to understand him so well. Alma Taylor was that girl, and the fairy children were supplied, I think, by Italia Conti. Among them was one whom I picked out at once as being a specially clever little dancer. She was about nine or ten years old and her name was Angela Baddeley! I wanted them to appear to be dancing on the surface of a lake. I fastened a little piece of very thin, optically worked and surface-silvered glass horizontally in front of the lens, just touching it and just below its optical axis. The dancing children were shown clearly but the grass they were really dancing on had disappeared and their inverted images were reflected as if in water. I hope this little trick will be useful to someone else some day — it was certainly very effective. It was very much cheaper than laying down a whole mirror large enough to cover the lawn and the reflections were softer and more pleasing.
Helen of Four Gates, from the novel by Ethel Holdsworth, was another of my productions with Alma Taylor but in an entirely different style, for what I really wanted in this case was to capture the wonderful atmosphere of the story. So we all went to Haworth — where Emily Brontë and her sisters had lived and where she wrote Wuthering Heights — for it was a somewhat similar atmosphere that I was anxious to obtain. As soon as we left Hebden Bridge and began to climb the hill to Haworth we seemed to feel the dour, cruel environment which I wanted. Up on the moor at the top it was far more intense and somehow it managed to get into the picture as I wanted it. It was one of Alma’s best bits of work and I was pleased with the whole job. But it was not a popular film.
A better picture which gave her more scope was Tansy, a sheep-farming story on the Sussex Downs, written by Tickner Edwardes. Alma played the part of a shepherd girl and to get under the skin of it, she lived with a shepherd’s family for some weeks and studied the work thoroughly. And she borrowed a sheep dog and brought it home with her so that he got to know her and obey her every word. There was much delightful pictorial photography in this film and here again the very atmosphere of the story really crept into it.
There was a curious technical incident in connection with Tansy which is perhaps worth recording. It was necessary for the purposes of the story to show the sheep-herding skill of the heroine and of her dog. This called, I felt, for one long scene rather than a number of short ones, for that would not be so convincing since the effect could be so easily faked. So what might have been a long sequence was taken in one scene of 398 feet, the equivalent in modern practice of 600 feet; just on seven minutes.
It was on the Sussex Downs and a place was chosen on the top of one hill overlooking a broad valley and another hill opposite. The scene began with Tansy standing at the entrance to a pen and the sheep were dotted like mushrooms all over the valley and on the far hill side. The dog was told to collect them and off he went at full speed. The camera was, of course, on a stationary tripod stand — tracking cameras had not been invented then — but it could be swung around on its revolving head in any direction. It kept the dog in focus right away into the far distance, until the sheep were all rounded up and collected and driven into the pen.
At this point at the trade show where, of course, there was no music or sound of any sort from the film, there was a round of applause from the audience, hard-boiled as most of them were. Geoff. Faithfull was the camera-man and for that long scene he did a real job of work, for to turn the camera steadily by hand for seven minutes and follow all the movements of dog and sheep at the same time was no mean effort of muscle and will.
There is no doubt whatever that that long scene absolutely held the interest throughout and it is interesting to see that the same technique has recently been re-discovered and hailed as a complete novelty.
I begin to be appalled at the number of these films: for though to recall them is interesting to me because I worked hard in them, I must call a halt; for they cannot be of more than slight interest to other people.
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