Gertrude Coghlan — Sans Grease Paint and Wig (1913) 🇺🇸
Gertrude Coghlan was about to make her debut as a screen artist, Marshall Farnum was to have his first try in the field of producing and, as the Selig limousine rushed away from the Selig studio, past Riverview park and on to none-of-us-knew-where, Miss Coghlan was anxious, Mr. Farnum calm, Max Sargent (the leading man) quiet and Miss Pringle, in serving-maid attire, demure, and I was being glad that the Miss Coghlan of “Lion and the Mouse” fame was beautiful, was exquisitely gowned and naturally pleasant.
by Mabel Condon
“If I only knew what was going to happen to me!” she sighed as she found one long, white glove in the lace folds of her gown and looked around for the other.
“Nothing, absolutely,” assured Mr. Farnum. “Allow me,” he volunteered, rescuing the missing glove from the floor.
“Thank you; do you know, I can’t realize that I’m to be one of the ‘as is’ profession. But I like pictures so well that I’m anxious to like the making of them.”
“I’m sure you will,” put in Miss Pringle. “It’s awfully nice work and everybody at the studio is so nice, too.”
“Nothing like it!” came from the silk-hatted, top-coated, monocled Max.
“Will somebody please introduce this gentleman to me?” inquired Miss Coghlan with a smile and nod toward Mr. Sargent. Miss Pringle did the honors, after everybody had apologized for something that was nobody’s fault, seemingly, and Miss Coghlan wanted to know what part in her life Mr. Sargent was to play. Mr. Sargent explained that he was to be a rival for her heart and hand, and maybe would be a hero and rescue her from the villainous attack of a robber. He wasn’t quite sure yet, about the hero part, but was certain he was to escort her home from a ball in about half-an-hour. An auto raced madly along ahead of us; its burden comprised the burglar and two camera-men, flanked by three policemen, a butler and a foot-man, and the car led us a fast chase around corners and down long streets.
“That’s the mansion where the ball is to be held,” pointed out Mr. Farnum, as we passed a large, white, colonial-looking structure with a hedge fence and a long, graceful approach to the house. “And this is to be your home,” as we came to a stop opposite a homey-looking, wide-verandaed house on the next corner.
“Just stay here till I need you,” he directed Miss Coghlan and Miss Pringle, as he and Mr. Sargent got out to join the rest of the company. The camera-men had already placed their camera and the policemen were tightening their belts and making ready for a rescue rush on the corner house.
“Before Mr. Farnum’s ready for you, you can tell me about yourself,” I invited and Miss Coghlan did, like this:
“I made my stage debut when I was sixteen, with my father. He was Charles Coghlan, an English actor, and was the first one to come to this country and use the natural method of acting. Up till then actors would eat the scenery and all that kind of thing, you know. Augustus Pitou, Sr. — my father-in-law now — brought my father over here when I was a tiny baby. My mother and I were brought too, of course, and since then I have crossed the Atlantic forty times — that doesn’t mean once each year though,” she warned, laughingly. We assured her we knew it didn’t, and she continued:
“Odd, wasn’t it, that Mr. Pitou, Sr., and our family were such friends and I didn’t meet his son until just a short while before we were married, eight years ago. And odder still, my husband, for years before he had met me, had pictures from scenes hanging in his room, which my father had painted and for which I had posed!
“But where in my ‘life history’ was I? Oh, yes — my father brought his art of natural acting over here and made such a success of it that he stayed. I was a delicate kiddie and my parents used to send me across the ocean a couple of times a year and then I studied painting at the South Kensington Art School in London, intending to adopt it as a ‘career.’ But my father introduced me as Juliet, to his Romeo, when I was sixteen, and I liked the stage so well that I gave up the thought of devoting my time to art and played with my father till the time of his death.
“We toured the country in The Royal Box and my father arranged the role of Becky Sharp for me. He died before I appeared as Becky, but I played that role for two seasons. Then I starred in Alice of Old Vincennes, played with Mrs. Pat Campbell [Mrs. Patrick Campbell] in The Sorceress, was in the all-star cast at the Fifth Avenue theater, New York, before it became a vaudeville house; played Beth in The Traveling Salesman and was Shirley Rossmore in Henry B. Harris’ The Lion and the Mouse, 1,000 times.
“I was playing Shirley out on the coast when Mr. Pitou, Sr. presented my aunt, Rose Coghlan, in a production out there. He had brought his son with him and that was how and where I met Augustus Pitou, Jr. We were married that year and each year thereafter I was going to give up my work on the stage and settle down at home and keep house. But I didn’t give it up until two years ago and now we’ve compromised on motion pictures. And — I guess that’s all, except that I’m tired out from staying up nights watching dress rehearsals. You know, my husband is manager of the Blackstone theater and has brought Fiske O’Hara here and they’re rehearsing half the night, almost. Mr. O’Hara has a wonderful voice, don’t you think?”
I thought, and just as I said so there was a dash of blue-coated men up the steps of the corner house, while the burglar they sought stood calmly beside the cameraman, watching the dash.
Then it was the burglar’s turn to perform; he tied a red bandana about his neck, pulled his winter cap down over his eyes and wriggled his way toward the corner house in the protection of a hedge-row.
He arrived there with caution and secrecy, as any one of us and the hundred or more school-children who watched the performance will vouch, and when he had climbed the railing and gripped the climbing ivy on the veranda-pillar, as though he would fain burgle further, the director shouted “Stop!” Mr. Walcott — the burglar — stopped and descended the steps with his hand on his heart and bowed his appreciation of the ungiven applause.
“Seems to me I must know Mr. Walcott,” reminisced Miss Coghlan.
“He used to be with George M. Cohan,” said Miss Pringle.
“I think he’s the same man I have reference to,” went on Miss Coghlan. “But it would be rather embarrassing,” she laughed, “to ask him if he were the Mr. Walcott who was so good an actor, and then have to admit I was thinking of somebody else.”
“All right, Miss Coghlan, we’re ready for you now,” called Mr. Farnum, and Miss Coghlan appealed to us and her mirror to help her arrange her black satin evening coat over her shoulders, to make the lace ruff stand up at the neck, to put another hairpin in the net that had allowed a few strands of wavy, red-gold hair to escape and — was her nose shiny?
“Oh agony of cold heart and cold feet!” she lamented, and Miss Pringle accused her of being struck with stage fright. “Not a bit,” she answered.
I left her and Miss Pringle to the solitude of the car and it rolled up to the entrance of the corner-house. There was rehearsal of Miss Coghlan, with her maid in attendance, departing for the ball, then the hum of the busy camera sounded — and Miss Coghlan’s film career had begun.
After an hour of “exteriors,” Selig’s new leading-lady had finished her day’s work and we started studiowards. “I’m just wild to see what I did and how I did it,” she exclaimed enthusiastically. “How soon do you suppose ‘The Countess and the Burglar’ will be released?”
“Maybe a month — maybe a year,” Miss Pringle encouraged.
“Mercy! I’ll ask to see it in that little room — what do you call it? Oh, yes, the projecting room!”
And as we blew back along Irving Park boulevard, Miss Coghlan in evening gown, a pearl necklace, satin wrap, and the chauffeur’s cap held tightly on her head, to keep the curl from blowing out of her hair, declared that she loved picture-making, but that hereafter she intended to carry a lunch with her when she went out “doing” exteriors.
Three o’clock in the afternoon and a kindred feeling of inward-vacancy prompted everybody to chorus “A good idea!”
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Mignon Has Adventures
Playing in widely separated localities for the sake of true “atmosphere,” James Cruze and Mignon Anderson, leads in Thanhouser’s “Plot Against the Governor,” were just slightly fagged out when the picture was completed. They were filmed in action at the Capitol, at Albany, in studio scenes at New Rochelle, and at the State prison, Sing Sing. For the latter scenes Director Heffron obtained permits that planted moving picture cameras on the walls of famous Sing Sing, for the first time in its history. Never, it is stated, have such “close-up” views of the great jail been taken, and through it all Miss Anderson wasn’t a bit scared, although some of the prisoners looked pretty tough. In the “Daughter Worth While,” another of Director Heffron’s pictures, the Little “Thanhouser Blonde,” is shown in a quite perilous stunt. This is nothing less than racing an auto against a Jersey Central train, and the film shows more than flashes of the race, too. The little Thanhouser “lead” had never driven an automobile before, and took lessons especially for this picture. It was a great big touring car in which she out-speeded the train. In this picture, she also races a yacht against a ferry-boat, and wins.
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Three Reel Show Assured
The three reel maximum limit for five cent theaters goes into effect in Chicago on September 15. This is the effect of a resolution adopted at the regular meeting of the Illinois branch of the International Motion Picture Association, held in Room 512, Masonic Temple on Thursday, September 4, 1913, which was largely attended. The officers of the Association have the united support of the members of the body, and also the hearty co-operation of other branches of the motion picture industry. The limit for the ten cent show was fixed at five reels.
Much discussion attended the passage of the resolution referred to above, as some exhibitors were of the opinion that the maximum limit of three reels would never work out successfully, but those who were in favor of the resolution pointed out that not only would the shorter show cut down expenses in many instances, but would also effect many other changes for the better. In the first place, the limit of three reels would do away with practically all of the present danger of “repeats,” as there will now be plenty of films to go around, even though two competitive houses running the same program are located in the same neighborhood and taking service of about the same age. This change would result in more confidence on the part of the patrons, for they would feel reasonably sure that they would not be compelled to sit through films they had already seen at some other theater.
The ventilation committee reported that it was making progress and would at a near date be prepared to make a report to the body which appointed it to investigate the ventilation of Chicago theaters.
The new schedule of the operators’ union, which becomes effective on September 15, was then called to the attention of the meeting and much discussion followed its reading.
The new schedule is based upon a sliding scale, which is figured according to the seating capacity of the theater, and results in the majority of the smaller houses having to pay their operators anywhere from five to fifteen dollars per week more than they have been doing. The old rate of $21 per week is now increased in a few instances to as high as $35. The operators no longer wish to carry film either to or from the exchange, explain that they no longer will trim arc lamps, in cases where it is necessary to leave the ground, demand time-and-a-half for supper, and will charge in the future $2.50 additional for running matinees on any day except Sunday.
The following committee was appointed to take the new schedule under consideration and will report at the next meeting: William J. Sweeney, chairman; A. C. Krebs, James McNarney, Fred Schaffer, and John D. Rose.
Collection: Motography Magazine, September 1913