Pauline Frederick — How I Became a Photoplayer (1916) 🇺🇸
It is not hard to understand that there are many kind friends who are astounded by my decision to permanently eschew the stage for the screen.
by Pauline Frederick
At first blush, the uninitiated may easily conceive such a move on the part of any actress who had gained a fair amount of prominence on the stage to be nothing short of foolhardy. It seems like nothing more than flying in the face of Providence, no doubt, to deliberately turn one’s back on the scenes of one’s proven success — for the public was kind enough to call my appearance in “Innocent” and “Joseph and His Brethren” successful — and to set out boldly in a practically unexplored field of endeavor.
Some of my friends were thoughtful enough to tell me just what they thought of me when they learned what I had done. There were those who called me just stupid, others who thought I was a sentimental idiot and still others who simply gasped and asked, “Why?” Then there was another element of near-humorists who prescribed a straight-jacket and the appointment of a guardian, lest I sign away my birth-right or do myself some other irreparable injury.
But even the scornful humorists fail to raise my ire, for I had very definite reasons for making my decision, and I have found no cause to regret it thus far. And since the majority of my friends were kind enough to ask, “Why?” rather than invent their own explanations and prescribe “remedies” for my failing mentality, I am going to set forth reasons which impelled me to make my choice in favor of the film as against the stage.
In the first place, let me frankly admit that, had the same proposition been made me before I played in the Famous Players Film Company’s great production of Hall Caine’s “The Eternal City,” I should have laughed it to scorn. It would have struck me as being the height of impertinence for a film company, however powerful and however far-famed for its magnificent productions, to request an actress who had attained stardom on the stage to relinquish her prerogatives behind the footlights and to seek a new field of endeavor before the camera.
To go further in my confession, I do not mind acknowledging that I was indignant when first approached by the Famous Players and offered the leading role in “The Eternal City.” Never having been interested in motion pictures to any great extent, I had never studied the situation thoroughly and the “movies” were “movies” to me, no matter by whom they were produced.
Like every other actress, I had long since decided that the movies were more or less of a haven of refuge for those inferior actors and actresses who had difficulty in obtaining regular employment on the stage. This had been literally true in the early history of the motion picture industry, and, with the fact impressed upon my mind, I had never taken the trouble to further investigate the situation.
So the representatives of the producers received what I must confess to have been a rather chill greeting when they first broached the subject to me. But, undiscouraged by my unresponsive mood, they pointed out to me with infinite pains the fact that practically every player of distinction had appeared on the screen at one time or another. The divine Sarah Bernhardt, William H. Crane, James K. Hackett, William Faversham, Mrs. Fiske, Marie Doro, Marguerite Clark, Hazel Dawn, Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson, Ethel Barrymore and others too numerous to mention had already played various roles of prominence on the screen and there was no evidence to show that any of them had suffered materially so far as their stage careers were concerned, by their decisions.
These facts were a revelation to me, inasmuch as I had never stopped to consider that actors and actresses of such recognized merit — the very leaders in their respective types of dramatic interpretation— were actually devoting time to the screen. If such was the case, what possible grounds could I have for refusing the offer of the pioneer producers of great photoplay adaptations from stage successes when they came to me tendering their unlimited resources and facilities and their traditional reputation for excellence of production as the setting for my endeavors?
As I wavered in the balance, the emissaries craftily began to outline the schemes they had already laid for the production of “The Eternal City,” the first photoplay in which they desired me to appear. To my amazement, they proposed to sail for Rome the instant they gained my consent. The picture was to be staged there, with the ancient buildings as a background instead of a painted canvas.
That settled it. A film organization that was prepared to spend a fortune on the acquisition of mere background for a production was one with which any actress might well be proud to ally herself.
So I agreed to appear in The Eternal City, and thereby began the most valuable acquaintance which I have ever made — that of Edwin S. Porter and Hugh Ford, who collaborated in the direction of the photoplay. For the genius of these two men I have the most profound admiration. Under their marvelous tuition there opened before my astounded gaze a vista of screen romance and vast technicalities that has still left me gasping for breath.
As the work on our production progressed, my respect for the two directors grew into delighted admiration. They are undoubtedly typical of the highest type of mentality that has devoted itself to the vast problems of the motion picture screen.
And they are real problems the solution of which must be accomplished without precedent of any kind, for the motion picture business is such a comparatively new one that it has relatively few traditions and still fewer established rules by which to guide itself.
So it is permissible to look upon Mr. Porter and Mr. Ford as pioneers exploring in a virgin field of art and of mechanics, for the peculiar thing about the motion picture business is the fact that many of its most artistic effects are dependent entirely upon ;i thorough technical and mechanical knowledge for their proper accomplishment.
Perhaps the most striking feature of photoplay production which impressed me with the greatest force was the marvelous realism of the whole thing. When The Eternal City was given a stage presentation, a wonderfully clever scenic artist, armed with a few good photographs of Rome, had painted a canvas backdrop that resembled the ancient mistress of the world as closely as paint and canvas might.
So much for the theatre. How different was it in the case of the photoplay. The action of the novel takes place with such classic backgrounds as the Coliseum, the Castle of St. Angelo, St. Peter’s, the Vatican Gardens and the famous Villa d’Est at Tivoli. the former property of the Archduke Ferdinand, whose death furnished the excuse for the world war. To my amazement, these marvelous motion picture men took it for granted that a proper screen adaptation of the book, must of necessity have these backgrounds or fail in its mission.
Therefore, to my astonishment, when we landed in Italy, I found that arrangements had already been completed for us to make use of these historical buildings.
Though I had been prepared by the directors for the use of these famous old buildings as the back-drops for my action, I can never put into words the thrill which ran through me as I actually faced the camera for the first time within the confines of the huge Coliseum. Before my mind there danced the vision of the great contests of another day, when thousands of Romans gathered in the huge arena to witness the spectacles which have made the great structure famous throughout the centuries.
It would be impossible to describe the thrill, the enchantment of actually being in the presence of those other stately old buildings, the heritages of another age. The thought of the thousands who had trod the streets of Rome and gazed upon those same magnificent structures for centuries lifted me out of myself and seemed to make a superwoman of me. What audience in any theatre in the world could give to an actress the same inspiration which those historic buildings afforded me?
The very Vatican Gardens themselves were used as the background for some of our scenes and the interior of the Castle of St. Angelo, within which Donna Roma is confined, was also photographed by these enterprising spirits. It is true that a little chicanery was necessary in order to obtain these interior views after the exterior had been taken, but nevertheless realism demanded that the pictures be secured — and they were.
Another instance of the pains that are taken to get just the right sort of atmosphere for a film production will serve to show why I am so thoroughly impressed by this phase of the photoplay. When we were making a photo-adaptation of the tremendous dramatic sensation, “Zaza,” under the direction of Messrs. Porter and Ford, we needed a mob of Frenchmen for a scene. Now if this had been a theatrical production, a call would have been sent out for a mob, and the first group of people that arrived would have been accepted, provided they had the necessary wardrobes.
But in the case of the photoplay production, Mr. Ford spent a full week in picking from the applicants who applied in response to his call real Frenchmen who answered the requirements of the story both in appearance and in fact.
When I remarked to the director that it seemed like stretching a point to go to all that trouble for a few scenes, he said:
“Of course it does. But did you ever see a mob of American actors who could really imitate Frenchmen in the thousand and one little mannerisms that go to make a gathering of Frenchmen the most interesting group in the world?”
I had not thought of it that way before, but the result which was obtained by the picked players in the scenes for which they were culled, as it were, more than justified the pains that had been expended upon them.
The contemplation of the ancient structures of old Rome, to which I have alluded before, brings to mind another phase of the motion picture which had great weight in my final determination to espouse the film and desert the stage; that is, the permanency of the photoplay, which makes a lasting record of one’s performance that time will not obliterate.
The popular actress scintillates upon Broadway and her name twinkles upon the electric lights for a season. Then a new play must be found and a new name appears on that electric sign, while the actress moves into another theatre, and, if the play is a success, appears in her new role for a season. If the production is a great hit, it may run for two seasons before being consigned to the road. But the memory of the public is as fickle as its taste, and the star’s loudly-applauded performance is soon forgotten in admiration of the latest managerial discovery.
How different is it with the player who appears on the screen. No matter how great the popularity of the stage player, her performance will not live in the memory beyond a brief period, but the photoplayer need not depend upon the ephemeral, fleeting glory of the popular favor for her record of achievement, for the film itself is a permanent record of her performance.
As the film is today being used in Europe to record the passing of the great events of the world war for the contemplation of posterity, so does the camera catch for all time the acting of the photoplayer.
The case of Sarah Bernhardt will serve as a striking example of the great service which the motion picture camera will do for the generations to come. It was only recently that the sad news was received in this country that the divine Sarah had not sufficiently recovered from the amputation of her leg to be able to appear on the stage, as she had planned this fall. It has been stated that she has not yet sufficiently mastered the use of the artificial limb to enable her to move about without a very perceptible limp. How immensely fortunate, then, for the coming generations that the Famous Players had had the foresight when the great actress was in her prime, to make a superb picturization of her famous characterization of “Queen Elizabeth.” Thus will the art of the greatest actress of our time be preserved for posterity by means of the motion picture.
Is there a man or woman alive today who would not welcome with unbounded joy the opportunity of seeing the great Booth, Mansfield, or dozens of the recognized leaders of the theatrical world of bygone days reincarnated on the screen today? What a boon it would have been had their far-famed talents been preserved for us as have those of the players of this generation. It was not conceit that led me to desire that my work should be more than a thing of today. It was the thought that I had devoted my life to the public and that the public had been kind enough to say that it was pleased with my work. If, then, it pleased today, was it too much to expect that it might please tomorrow? True, I shall not be here to know whether it does or not, but I find inspiration in the thought that I am working for generations yet unborn when I attempt to portray the emotions of such a character as Zaza or Bella Donna.
And the thought of devoting myself to the public naturally leads to another chain of thought that had great weight with me in the formation of my determination. If one has dedicated one’s life to the public, is it not the part of folly and of short-sightedness to neglect the means of communicating with the greatest number of people, which medium the motion picture supplies?
And how startling are the discrepancies in numbers between the largest possible audience to which a theatrical star can play and the vast army of spectators before whom the motion picture player appears.
There are thirty-five million people attending the motion picture theatres of this country every week.
How long would a theatrical star have to live in order to reach this vast number of people in the course of her career, no matter how successful she might be? It is a discouraging thought for even the youngest star. But do you realize that the thirty-five million represents only the number of people who attend the picture theatres in the United States? There is still Canada, Europe, South America — in fact, all the civilized countries in the world from which to draw for an audience. The total number of spectators that can be reached by a photoplay er in a successful production is simply staggering and it is no exaggeration to say that the audiences of the most popular theatrical star in the country would fade into insignificance compared to the audience of the film star.
Does my decision to forsake the stage for the screen begin to look less foolhardy than it did? Then let me cite another reason for it. When I made the resolution it was with the understanding that I would be starred in “Zaza” and “Bella Donna,” two of the greatest dramatic roles that have ever been written. Like every emotional actress, I have always wanted to interpret those roles and now I have my opportunity. Again, in the case of these two dramas, the idea of the permanent record appeals to me. They will probably both be attempted by every actress who attains fame in the generations to come, but their efforts will be matters of the fleeting moment. On the other hand, my impersonations of the immortal roles, whether good or bad, will be for all time.
It seemed almost like the irony of fate that the studios of the Famous Players should have been destroyed by fire so soon after I had decided to cast my lot with them. Particularly hard, in my own case, was the loss of the huge wardrobe which I had installed in the building just before the fire.
When I determined to become a photoplayer, I had made a resolution to put my whole heart and soul in it. Realizing that the tremendous amount of work involved and the wide variety of roles which I would be called upon to play would necessitate a vast array of costume, I had just added to my collection of gowns $5000 worth of brand-new dresses, many of which never were worn. It was a bitter blow to have them swept away as they were, but I have already taken steps to replace them as rapidly as possible. We were in the midst of the production of “Bella Donna” at the time of the fire, and my costumes were all lost, but, with the assistance of my maid, a few photographs, the occasional suggestions which I was able to make, and her own excellent memory, my modiste was able to duplicate the lost costumes exactly.
But possibly my personal experiences are of no interest here. Let us stick to the main point and recapitulate in order to establish our position. It was a love of realism, a realization of the permanency of the film record, the thought of the vastness of the photoplay audience, and the prospect of playing Zaza and Bella Donna which led me to abandon the stage for the screen.
Collection: Photoplay Magazine, May 1916
(The Photo-Play Journal for May, 1916)