Chapter VIII

_Over-acting and a horrible example--the value of_
_repression and emphasis--How we_
_act with the body._

Good screen acting consists of the ability to accurately portray a state of mind.

That sounds simple, yet how often upon the screen have you seen an important part played in a manner that made you, yourself, feel that you were passing through the experiences being unfolded in the plot. I imagine not often.

If a part is under-played or, worse, over-played--for there is nothing so depressing as a screen actress run amuck in a flood of sundry emotions--it exerts a definite influence upon you, the audience.

You begin to lose sympathy with the character itself. You are interested or irritated by the mannerisms--often hardly less than gymnastics--of the actor or actress. You never identify such an actor or actress with the part they are playing for the very good reason that they are not playing the part. They are playing their idea of acting _at_ a part.

In any event your interest in the story crumbles. What the author intended as a subtle character development flattens out. An ingenious plot is ruined by its treatment. You index that particular evening as among those wasted. I know. I have done the same.

For those who would like to take up the screen as a career, however, such an evening may prove very profitable. For it is the learning what not to do that is important. There never was a character portrayal done upon the screen that could not have been spoiled without this knowledge.

I have in mind a photodrama of 1920 that because of the excellence of its plot gained quite a success. But for me it was ruined by the ridiculous overacting of the heroine.

She had beautiful dark eyes and seemed to think--it was a melodrama--that the proper way to display screen talent was to dilate and roll those eyes as though she were constantly in terror.

She had added to that trick one of dropping her jaw which I understood to be her idea of the way to register astonishment. I cannot begin to describe the effect upon me of those horrified eyes and open mouth. At the end of six reels I felt like screaming. There was no time when I should have been surprised had she wiggled her ears.

Either she was unfortunate in her choice of a director or he, poor fellow, was powerless to stop her once she had decided upon her program of mouth and eyes.

One of the first things that a screen actress must learn is the value of emphasis. In the case that I have cited above the actress threw herself emotionally (?) so far beyond the mark in little moments that when a big situation in the development of the plot occurred she had nothing left. The impression consequently was one of a strained sameness. Than that there is no quicker way to wear out one’s audience. It is like shouting at one who has sat down for a quiet chat. The shout should be used at no distance less than a city block.

No screen actress makes a shrewder use of emphasis than Norma Talmadge. She seems invariably to hold much in reserve with the result that when she does let go in a big emotional scene the effect is brought home to the audience with telling force. There are other actresses who play with reserve. But it is important that with Miss Talmadge her repression seems ever illuminated by the fires of potential emotion.

The student of the screen will do well to study these matters of emphasis and repression. They are all important. Our manner of life itself is an accepted repression, outlined by laws for the streets and conventions for the drawing room. From the screen viewpoint repression is a vital thing, if for no other reason than the fact that it gives the audience a breathing spell. After a breathing spell it is the better disposed to appreciate emphasis.

Whenever I study a scenario or story it is with an eye for the contrast of moods and the situations that call for emotional emphasis. I plan in advance of the actual camera work the pace at which I will play various stages in the development of the story. By shutting my eyes I can almost _see_ how the part will look upon the screen. If there is a sufficient contrast of moods and opportunity for emphasis I feel that I shall, at least, be able to do all within my power to make the story a success.

The physical strain before a camera is a peculiar thing. At no time is the motion picture actress or actor called upon for a sustained performance such as is true on the spoken stage. For that reason we should theoretically be in condition to put forth our very best efforts on each of the short scenes or “shots”--averaging not over two minutes in photographing--that we are called upon to do. The ordinary director is well satisfied if he averages twenty “shots” a day during production.

But here, I should say, appearances are deceiving. Genius has been described as the ability to resume a mood. In the case of motion pictures it is necessary that a mood be resumed not once or twice, but possibly twenty times during a day.

This is no less important than it is at first difficult. There may be an hour or two hours’ interval between scenes--often longer than that--and picking up the thread of the story where it was dropped, the actress must resume the mood of her characterization.

I can suggest no better aid to this undertaking than retiring to one’s dressing room and remaining quiet. Absolute quiet is an excellent thing for the actress during the working day. It gives her a rest from the turmoil of the studio set. It provides her a chance to do a little mental bookkeeping on the part she is playing. I have found it a great help.

This ability to resume a mood, however, soon becomes something that is subconsciously accomplished and for that reason need not be too much worried over by the beginner.

There is one quality on the screen that the audience always likes. That is vivacity, and by vivacity I mean both of the face and the body.

Vivacity in this respect is a lively and likable sort of animation which goes a long way toward establishing that mercurial quality which is known as “screen personality.”

I have never heard anyone give a very good definition of “screen personality.” The most that can be said is that some seem to have it and some don’t. Certain it is that it is valuable quality, for it will not stay hidden.

In the news weeklies that are so popular on the screen I can, in a group of men or women, almost instantly pick those persons who have screen personality. It makes them stand out sharply in contrast to their companions. Ex-President Wilson, for instance, has screen personality while President Harding, I am certain, will make a better President than he would an actor.

The movement of the body contributes to this sought after animation. The body is almost the equal of the face in expression and the way to talk and use the hands and feet are things that must be sedulously studied.

Many stage directors have advised famous actresses to “learn how to walk” and before a camera one not only has to learn how to walk but how to walk in many different ways.

We would not, for example, expect a little girl on New York’s East Side to employ the same body carriage as a society girl walking down Fifth avenue. There seem to be so many schools of walking!

Thus in going over a part it is of the utmost importance that we decide upon the way our heroine is going to carry herself and then throw our body, as well as our thoughts and expression, into our role. I have often used this matter of walking--I was about to say art of walking--to very good effect. I should advise the beginner to observe the many different ways in which various persons accomplish expression through the movement of the body.

* * * * *

It was in the early days. It was in Yonkers. We were making “The Escape.” It was a street scene and we were working with a concealed camera. Mr. Donald Crisp was playing the brutal husband. He drew back his fist to strike me. I was the forlorn wife.

“If yu’ touch that lady I’ll knock yer block off,” said a threatening voice.

It was a young Yonkers bravo. Absorbed in the scene he had forgotten that it was acting, particularly with the camera concealed.

I often think of that incident when at a picture play I hear someone say: “People don’t act like that in real life.”

* * * * *

If I were a director there is nothing I should rank as more important than rehearsals. I do not mean merely running over the scene before it is filmed. All directors do that. The ideal rehearsal is one which calls together the leading parts perhaps a week before production and meticulously works out every vital scene in the story.

No director of the spoken stage would think of producing a play without doing this. Yet in motion pictures a production that may cost twenty times as much as the average spoken drama is often put on with twenty times less of care in rehearsal. It is illogical and costly.

Working with the director of the type who leaves everything until the last minute the actor or actress feels a strain that takes away from the performance rendered. On the other hand where painstaking rehearsal is practiced the actor acquires a poise and deftness of touch that justify the preliminary preparation, say nothing of the labor spared in editing.