Arthur V. Johnson — Sans Grease Paint and Wig (1913) 🇺🇸
We were in the midst of a fragile repast of cornbeef and cabbage, green corn and iced tea — Mr. D’Arcy and I — in the Lubin studio’s dining room, when Arthur V. Johnson found us.
by Mabel Condon
We had been trying to find him for an hour, ever since the noon train from Wildwood had come in, but finally had taken our discouragement and appetites to the dining room, though Mr. D’Arcy [Hugh Antoine d’Arcy] didn’t know he was accompanied by his appetite; in fact he remarked that he was not hungry — iced tea and a little bite was all he wanted. But my appetite was full-grown; an early breakfast in a Pennsylvania diner had left one or two things to be desired (corn beef and cabbage, green corn and iced tea, for example), and while we waited for these delicacies Mr. D’Arcy ate rye bread and drank ice water, as an appetizer, and later was able to make out a fairly substantial meal with the addition of an extra order of corn, a second glass of tea, some white frosted cake and strawberry cream.
It was with the corn beef course that Mr. Johnson made his appearance. He was tired and hot, despite the cool look of his gray-striped silk shirt, and he was glad to be back in Philadelphia. Wildwood sounded a lot cooler to me than Philadelphia did, but Mr. Johnson said that was because I had never been there making pictures, and I admitted that maybe it was.
“This is the coolest little spot in town,” he remarked as he found room for his long legs under the table, tucked an extra-size handkerchief inside his collar, ran his long fingers through his black hair, waved the waiter aside and breathed “Whew!”
It was at this point that Mr. D’Arcy ordered a repetition of green corn and iced tea.
“Well, the hottest city I’ve ever been in is in Iowa,” I remarked as I helped my tea to two spoonfuls of powdered sugar. “In the month of May in Davenport —”
“Davenport!” exclaimed Mr. Johnson with interest, “Why, that’s where I grew up, in Davenport! Remember the Barryhill property and the little church — Trinity church, it was called — across from it? Well, my father was pastor of that church and I went to school at Kemper Hall, in Davenport. Haven’t been back there since those days but it was a dandy town, then.”
“And is a dandy town, now,” I offered, “but it can be dreadfully hot.”
“I’m going to visit Davenport, some day,” went on Mr. Johnson reminiscently.
“Born there?” I inquired.
“No, I was born in Cincinnati in 1876; that makes me — am I thirty-seven or thirty-eight?”
“Thirty-seven,” I answered doing some rapid calculation on the table-cloth with the handle of my fork.
“Well, that’s old enough. I lived in Chicago for a while, after Davenport; Englewood, they call the section —”
“Englewood! Why that’s where half of our office lives; it’s one of those places that George Evans never fails to inquire about, asking if it’s a town or a disease.”
“It’s all right; I like Englewood,” championed Mr. Johnson. “My father had the St. Bartholomew pastorate for a while —”
“Across from the Normal college?”
“That’s the one. I was slated for the ministry by the family but gave all my time to neighborhood theatricals. Then, when I was twenty-one a show came along that had, as its manager, a friend of my father and I persuaded my father to persuade his friend to give me a place in the show. So when the company moved on, I moved on with it and played Shakespeare and melodrama. Then I graduated myself from this company and went with James M. Corbett; I was with him for several years. After that, I was with a number of companies, Robert Mantel’s, Marie Wainwright’s and Smith Russell’s were among the number. Then —”
“Hello Arthur — when’dye get back?” hurricaned a new arrival whom I learned was “Benny;” he is not the office boy, his duties are more important. He has charge of the switch-board, has general information of everybody and everything at the Lubin plant and can tell anybody, any day, just what team in either league is going to win.
“Sit down, Benny,” invited Mr. D’Arcy as Benny seated himself and ordered from soup to orange ice. “If you’ll excuse me?” said Mr. D’Arcy, finishing his cake and hurrying away to his busy desk. Benny’s soup and my cream arrived together and Mr. Johnson resumed —
“It’s five years since I went into picture work.”
“How did you happen to?” I asked, guessing that Arthur Johnson’s start was an interesting one.
“I was looking for a job,” confessed Mr. Johnson, “and had visited nearly every agency on and off Broadway, but it was during the summer and there was nothing to do. Lawrence Griffith, he of the Biograph, was in the last agency I called at; he was looking for a man and after I left, told the agent I might do. So they followed me down to the street and Griffith asked me how I’d like to work in pictures. It sounded like a joke to me, for I had seen only a few pictures, but I was broke so asked ‘How much?’ and Griffith said ‘Five dollars a day.’ ‘All right,’ I answered, and we started for the studio. But when we got as far as the subway, Mr. Griffith seemed worried and said he thought I was a little too tall. Well, if you can’t use me, tell me so before we go any further,’ I said. ‘Come on; we’ll try you, anyway,’ replied Griffith. And I was there for about two years. Those were Mary Pickford’s early days on the screen and we played opposite each other until I left.”
“You must ‘a’ looked like a giant, beside Mary,” Benny stopped pleasant operations long enough to remark.
“I left the Biograph for the Reliance,” continued Mr. Johnson, “and was there one year. Then I came to the Lubin studio and have been here for two years.”
“Do you direct all your own films?” remembering that I had heard that he does.
“Yes; that’s why I like being here so well. But it’s work, in weather like this,” and he removed the extra-size handkerchief from his collar and applied it to his face. “These five days at Wildwood have been strenuous ones.”
“What do you do for recreation?” I wondered and he replied, “Rest. The only vacation I’ve had was last winter when I had an abscess in my ear and was in bed for two weeks.”
“Vacation!” murmured Benny, with disgust in his voice and hot corn-bread in his mouth, “I’d like to see anybody wish a vacation like that on me.”
“Breathes there a man with soul so brave?” I reflected with my final spoonful of cream.
“Seen any of Philadelphia?” Mr. Johnson inquired. I told him “No” and he said he’d see if one of the Lubin cars was at leisure and he’d get up a little sight-seeing party. As we left the dining-room, Benny called out, “Say, Arthur, how tall are you?”
“Seventy-three inches,” called back Mr. Johnson, as he disappeared down the stairway into the studio yard to look for an idle car and I went into Mr. D’Arcy’s office to say good-bye and remove my hat from its resting-place on the filing cabinet.
“They’re waitin’ for you,” announced the voice of Benny from his private office outside the publicity room. So I hurried downstairs to Mr. Johnson, Florence Hackett and Howard M. Mitchell and we started.
The “Phillies’” ball park was a first sight; Mr. Mitchell pointed out places of interest on Chestnut street and we walked around the Liberty Bell twice before Miss Hackett found the beginning of the around-the-bell inscription and somebody else found the end of it and then we all did the tour again, for the sake of reading it correctly. In the little house sacred to the memory of Betsy Ross and the making of the first flag, Mr. Johnson had to “low bridge” through each door-way and decided that Betsy must have been a very tiny person.
After viewing historic parliamentary houses, elaborate city buildings, riding through narrow streets and wide residential ones, we glimpsed the inconspicuous grave of Benjamin Franklin, with its decoration of silken stars and stripes.
Then we rushed for the 4:16 to New York.
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Edison Doings in England
From England come interesting letters telling of the experiences of Miriam Nesbitt and Marc McDermott. The fisher folk of Devon and Cornwall have been furnished several exciting moments by these two players, not the least of which occurred when they were caught by the famous tides at the foot of the Ball Point Lighthouse and received a thorough ducking before they could escape to a safe place above the oncoming water. On another occasion the whole fleet of fishing smacks was hired and several scenes were taken three miles out at sea. Then the wrecked German ship Alma was found slowly being battered to pieces by giant waves and the camera man, Otto Brantigan, insisted upon being put aboard. The natives lined the shore expecting to see him and his camera washed overboard, but he succeeded in getting the pictures he was after, though drenched to the skin.
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Prominent Exhibitors
Milwaukee, Wisconsin, was the birthplace of Charles H. Phillips, president of the Wisconsin state branch of the Motion Picture Exhibitors League of America. He is a son of a former mayor of Milwaukee and a graduate of the University of Wisconsin’s Law Department. Since 1895 he has been practicing law, being associated with his son, Joseph, having handled all the legislation, both local as well as state, pertaining to motion picture interests and has been very successful in combating adverse legislation. A little over two years ago Mr. Phillips, together with his son and Henry Imhof, formed a corporation under the name of the Phillips-Imhof Amusement Company and built a motion picture theater on Milwaukee’s north side. This house has been highly successful and in the fall it is expected several other theaters will be acquired, and operated by the Amusement Company. Mr. Phillips was one of the prime movers in the organization of the Wisconsin branch of the League, and has been an officer of the body ever since its inception. He has been active as council for both the local and state leagues, and was elected president of the state league at its first meeting, an office which he holds up to the present time. The subject of this little sketch did much to make the recent Wisconsin state convention successful and was elected president of the International Motion Picture Association at the recent convention held in New York City. At all times standing for only the best in pictures, it is men of Mr. Phillips’ stripe who have brought the field of motion pictures to the high level which they today occupy.
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During the recent convention of motion picture exhibitors in New York City there was one man who was on hand for every event. No entertainment was quite complete until he appeared and it’s a certainty that no visitor to the convention or exposition was neglected by the genial fellow, who made it his duty to see that everybody had a good time. That man was Samuel Herman Trigger, president of both the New York State and the New York City local organizations. His was the one predominant figure during convention week and it was quite natural, therefore, that to him should fall the task of bringing matters to a head when discontent made itself evident among the exhibitors. When the battle was all over and the smoke had cleared away Mr. Trigger was found to be president of the Motion Picture Exhibitors’ Association of Greater New York. His rise to fame has been remarkably rapid, for some forty-five years ago he might have been discovered as a Bowery employee. The hard knocks he received early in life only toughened him for the after struggles, however, and all helped to elevate him above his fellow men. At the age of twenty he went into the lodging house business, and was the first man in New York to put in free baths for the unfortunates who are compelled to seek lodging in a “flop.” Some five years later he became a pawnbroker and still retains an interest in a number of such establishments, although during the past ten years he has devoted the most of his time to his various picture theaters. In fact Mr. Trigger claims the unique distinction of having erected the first building in New York state for the sole purpose of showing films. Mr. Trigger was 61, June 2.
Collection: Motography Magazine, August 1913