University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER IX

PAINTING-IN-MOTION

This chapter is founded on the delicate effects
that may be worked out from cosy interior
scenes, close to the camera. It relates directly
to chapter three.

While the Intimate-and-friendly Motion Picture
may be in high sculptural relief, its characteristic
manifestations are in low relief. The
situations show to better advantage when they
seem to be paintings rather than monumental
groups.

Turn to your handful of motion picture
magazines and mark the illustrations that look
the most like paintings. Cut them out. Winnow
them several times. I have before me, as a
final threshing from such an experiment, five
pictures. Each one approximates a different
school.

Here is a colonial Virginia maiden by the
hearth of the inn. Bending over her in a
cherishing way is the negro maid. On the

other side, the innkeeper shows a kindred solicitude.
A dishevelled traveller sleeps huddled
up in the corner. The costume of the man
fades into the velvety shadows of the wall.
His face is concealed. His hair blends with
the soft background. The clothing of the other
three makes a patch of light gray. Added to
this is the gayety of special textures: the
turban of the negress, a trimming on the skirt
of the heroine, the silkiness of the innkeeper's
locks, the fabric of the broom in the hearth-light,
the pattern of the mortar lines round the
bricks of the hearth. The tableau is a satisfying
scheme in two planes and many textures.

Here is another sort of painting. The young
mother in her pretty bed is smiling on her
infant. The cot and covers and flesh tints
have gentle scales of difference, all within one
tone of the softest gray. Her hair is quite
dark. It relates to the less luminous black of
the coat of the physician behind the bed and the
dress of the girl-friend bending over her. The
nurse standing by the doctor is a figure of the
same gray-white as the bed. Within the pattern
of the velvety-blacks there are as many
subtle gradations as in the pattern of the
gray-whites. The tableau is a satisfying

scheme in black and gray, with practically one
non-obtrusive texture throughout.

Here is a picture of an Englishman and his
wife, in India. It might be called sculptural,
but for the magnificence of the turban of the
rajah who converses with them, the glitter of
the light round his shoulders, and the scheme
of shadow out of which the three figures rise.
The arrangement remotely reminds one of
several of Rembrandt's semi-oriental musings.

Here is a picture of Mary Pickford as Fanchon
the Cricket. She is in the cottage with
the strange old mother. I have seen a painting
in this mood by the Greek Nickolas Gysis.

The Intimate-and-friendly Moving Picture,
the photoplay of painting-in-motion, need
not be indoors as long as it has the native-heath
mood. It is generally keyed to the
hearth-stone, and keeps quite close to it. But
how well I remember when the first French
photoplays began to come. Though unintelligent
in some respects, the photography and
subject-matter of many of them made one
think of that painter of gentle out-of-door
scenes, Jean Charles Cazin. Here is our last
clipping, which is also in a spirit allied to Cazin.
The heroine, accompanied by an aged shepherd

and his dog, are in the foreground. The sheep
are in the middle distance on the edge of the
river. There is a noble hill beyond the gently
flowing water. Here is intimacy and friendliness
in the midst of the big out of doors.

If these five photo-paintings were on good
paper enlarged to twenty by twenty-four inches,
they would do to frame and hang on the wall
of any study, for a month or so. And after the
relentless test of time, I would venture that
some one of the five would prove a permanent
addition to the household gods.

Hastily made photographs selected from the
films are often put in front of the better theatres
to advertise the show. Of late they are making
them two by three feet and sometimes several
times larger. Here is a commercial beginning
of an art gallery, but not enough pains are
taken to give the selections a complete art
gallery dignity. Why not have the most beautiful
scenes in front of the theatres, instead
of those alleged to be the most thrilling? Why
not rest the fevered and wandering eye, rather
than make one more attempt to take it by force?

Let the reader supply another side of the
argument by looking at the illustrations in
any history of painting. Let him select the

pictures that charm him most, and think of
them enlarged and transferred bodily to one
corner of the room, as he has thought of the
sculpture. Let them take on motion without
losing their charm of low relief, or their serene
composition within the four walls of the
frame. As for the motion, let it be a further
extension of the drawing. Let every gesture
be a bolder but not less graceful brush-stroke.

The Metropolitan Museum has a Van Dyck
that appeals equally to one's sense of beauty
and one's feeling for humor. It is a portrait
of James Stuart, Duke of Lennox, and I cannot
see how the author-producer-photographer
can look upon it without having it set his
imagination in a glow. Every small town
dancing set has a James like this. The man
and the greyhound are the same witless
breed, the kind that achieve a result by their
clean-limbed elegance alone. Van Dyck has
painted the two with what might be called a
greyhound brush-stroke, a style of handling
that is nothing but courtly convention and
strut to the point of genius. He is as far from
the meditative spirituality of Rembrandt as
could well be imagined.

Conjure up a scene in the hereditary hall

after a hunt (or golf tournament), in which
a man like this Duke of Lennox has a noble
parley with his lady (or dancing partner), she
being a sweet and stupid swan (or a white
rabbit) by the same sign that he is a noble and
stupid greyhound. Be it an ancient or modern
episode, the story could be told in the tone
and with well-nigh the brushwork of Van Dyck.

Then there is a picture my teachers, Chase
and Henri, were never weary of praising, the
Girl with the Parrot, by Manet. Here continence
in nervous force, expressed by low relief
and restraint in tone, is carried to its ultimate
point. I should call this an imagist
painting, made before there were such people
as imagist poets. It is a perpetual sermon to
those that would thresh around to no avail, be
they orators, melodramatists, or makers of
photoplays with an alleged heart-interest.

Let us consider Gilbert Stuart's portrait of
Washington. This painter's notion of personal
dignity has far more of the intellectual quality
than Van Dyck. He loves to give us stately,
able, fairly conscientious gentry, rather than
overdone royalty. His work represents a certain
mood in design that in architecture is
called colonial. Such portraits go with houses

like Mount Vernon. Let the photographer
study the flat blacks in the garments. Let
him note the transparent impression of the laces
and flesh-tints that seem to be painted on glass,
observing especially the crystalline whiteness
of the wigs. Let him inspect also the silhouettelike
outlines, noting the courtly self-possession
they convey. Then let the photographer, the
producer, and the author, be they one man or
six men, stick to this type of picturization
through one entire production, till any artist
in the audience will say, "This photoplay was
painted by a pupil of Gilbert Stuart"; and the
layman will say, "It looks like those stately
days." And let us not have battle, but a
Mount Vernon fireside tale.

Both the Chicago and New York museums
contain many phases of one same family
group, painted by George de Forest Brush.
There is a touch of the hearthstone priestess
about the woman. The force of sex has turned
to the austere comforting passion of motherhood.
From the children, under the wings
of this spirit, come special delicate powers of
life. There is nothing tense or restless about
them, yet they embody action, the beating of
the inner fire, without which all outer action is

mockery. Hearthstone tales keyed to the
mood and using the brush stroke that delineates
this especial circle would be unmistakable in
their distinction.

Charles W. Hawthorne has pictures in
Chicago and New York that imply the Intimate-and-friendly
Photoplay. The Trousseau
in the Metropolitan Museum shows a gentle
girl, an unfashionable home-body with a
sweetly sheltered air. Behind her glimmers
the patient mother's face. The older woman
is busy about fitting the dress. The picture
is a tribute to the qualities of many unknown
gentlewomen. Such an illumination as this, on
faces so innocently eloquent, is the light that
should shine on the countenance of the photoplay
actress who really desires greatness in the
field of the Intimate Motion Picture. There
is in Chicago, Hawthorne's painting of Sylvia:
a little girl standing with her back to a mirror,
a few blossoms in one hand and a vase of flowers
on the mirror shelf. It is as sound a composition
as Hawthorne ever produced. The painting
of the child is another tribute to the
physical-spiritual textures from which humanity
is made. Ah, you producer who have grown
squeaky whipping your people into what you

called action, consider the dynamics of these
figures that would be almost motionless in
real life. Remember there must be a spirit-action
under the other, or all is dead.

Yet that soul may be the muse of Comedy.
If Hawthorne and his kind are not your fashion,
turn to models that have their feet on the
earth always, yet successfully aspire. Key
some of your intimate humorous scenes to
the Dutch Little Masters of Painting, such
pictures as Gerard Terburg's Music Lesson in
the Chicago Art Institute. The thing is as
well designed as a Dutch house, wind-mill, or
clock. And it is more elegant than any of
these. There is humor enough in the picture
to last one reel through. The society dame
of the period, in her pretty raiment, fingers the
strings of her musical instrument, while the
master stands by her with the baton. The
painter has enjoyed the satire, from her elegant
little hands to the teacher's well-combed locks.
It is very plain that she does not want to study
music with any sincerity, and he does not
desire to develop the ability of this particular
person. There may be a flirtation in the background.
Yet these people are not hollow as
gourds, and they are not caricatured. The

Dutch Little Masters have indulged in numberless
characterizations of mundane humanity.
But they are never so preoccupied with the
story that it is an anecdote rather than a
picture. It is, first of all, a piece of elegant
painting-fabric. Next it is a scrap of Dutch
philosophy or aspiration.

Let Whistler turn over in his grave while
we enlist him for the cause of democracy. One
view of the technique of this man might
summarize it thus: fastidiousness in choice
of subject, the picture well within the frame,
low relief, a Velasquez study of tones and a
Japanese study of spaces. Let us, dear and
patient reader, particularly dwell upon the
spacing. A Whistler, or a good Japanese
print, might be described as a kaleidoscope
suddenly arrested and transfixed at the moment
of most exquisite relations in the pieces of glass.
An Intimate Play of a kindred sort would
start to turning the kaleidoscope again, losing
fine relations only to gain those which are more
exquisite and novel. All motion pictures might
be characterized as space measured without
sound, plus time measured without sound.
This description fits in a special way the delicate
form of the Intimate Motion Picture,

and there can be studied out, free from irrelevant
issues.

As to space measured without sound. Suppose
it is a humorous characterization of
comfortable family life, founded on some
Dutch Little Master. The picture measures
off its spaces in harmony. The triangle occupied
by the little child's dress is in definite relation
to the triangle occupied by the mother's
costume. To these two patterns the space
measured off by the boy's figure is adjusted,
and all of them are as carefully related to the
shapes cut out of the background by the
figures. No matter how the characters move
about in the photoplay, these pattern shapes
should relate to one another in a definite design.
The exact tone value of each one and
their precise nearness or distance to one another
have a deal to do with the final effect.

We go to the photoplay to enjoy right and
splendid picture-motions, to feel a certain
thrill when the pieces of kaleidoscope glass slide
into new places. Instead of moving on straight
lines, as they do in the mechanical toy, they
progress in strange curves that are part of
the very shapes into which they fall.

Consider: first came the photograph. Then

motion was added to the photograph. We
must use this order in our judgment. If it
is ever to evolve into a national art, it must
first be good picture, then good motion.

Belasco's attitude toward the stage has been
denounced by the purists because he makes
settings too large a portion of his story-telling,
and transforms his theatre into the paradise
of the property-man. But this very quality
of the well spaced setting, if you please, has
made his chance for the world's moving picture
anthology. As reproduced by Jesse K. Lasky
the Belasco production is the only type of the
old-line drama that seems really made to be
the basis of a moving picture play. Not always,
but as a general rule, Belasco suffers less
detriment in the films than other men. Take,
for instance, the Belasco-Lasky production of
The Rose of the Rancho with Bessie Barriscale
as the heroine. It has many highly modelled
action-tableaus, and others that come under
the classification of this chapter. When I was
attending it not long ago, here in my home
town, the fair companion at my side said that
one scene looked like a painting by Sorolla y
Bastida, the Spaniard. It is the episode where
the Rose sends back her servant to inquire

the hero's name. As a matter of fact there
were Sorollas and Zuloagas all through the
piece. The betrothal reception with flying
confetti was a satisfying piece of Spanish splendor.
It was space music indeed, space
measured without sound. Incidentally the
cast is to be congratulated on its picturesque
acting, especially Miss Barriscale in her impersonation
of the Rose.

It is harder to grasp the other side of the
paradox, picture-motions considered as time
measured without sound. But think of a
lively and humoresque clock that does not tick
and takes only an hour to record a day. Think
of a noiseless electric vehicle, where you are
looking out of the windows, going down the
smooth boulevard of Wonderland. Consider
a film with three simple time-elements: (1)
that of the pursuer, (2) the pursued, (3) the
observation vehicle of the camera following
the road and watching both of them, now
faster, now slower than they, as the photographer
overtakes the actors or allows them to
hurry ahead. The plain chase is a bore because
there are only these three time-elements.
But the chase principle survives in every
motion picture and we simply need more of this

sort of time measurement, better considered.
The more the non-human objects, the human
actors, and the observer move at a varying
pace, the greater chances there are for what
might be called time-and-space music.

No two people in the same room should gesture
at one mechanical rate, or lift their forks
or spoons, keeping obviously together. Yet it
stands to reason that each successive tableau
should be not only a charming picture, but the
totals of motion should be an orchestration of
various speeds, of abrupt, graceful, and seemingly
awkward progress, worked into a silent
symphony.

Supposing it is a fisher-maiden's romance.
In the background the waves toss in one tempo.
Owing to the sail, the boat rocks in another.
In the foreground the tree alternately bends
and recovers itself in the breeze, making more
opposition than the sail. In still another
time-unit the smoke rolls from the chimney,
making no resistance to the wind. In another
unit, the lovers pace the sand. Yet there
is one least common multiple in which all
move. This the producing genius should
sense and make part of the dramatic structure,
and it would have its bearing on the

periodic appearance of the minor and major
crises.

Films like this, you say, would be hard to
make. Yes. Here is the place to affirm that
the one-reel Intimate Photoplay will no doubt
be the form in which this type of time-and-space
music is developed. The music of silent
motion is the most abstract of moving picture
attributes and will probably remain the least
comprehended. Like the quality of Walter
Pater's Marius the Epicurean, or that of
Shelley's Hymn to Intellectual Beauty, it will
not satisfy the sudden and the brash.

The reader will find in his round of the picture
theatres many single scenes and parts of
plays that elucidate the title of this chapter.
Often the first two-thirds of the story will fit
it well. Then the producers, finding that, for
reasons they do not understand, with the best
and most earnest actors they cannot work the
three reels into an emotional climax, introduce
some stupid disaster and rescue utterly irrelevant
to the character-parts and the paintings
that have preceded. Whether the alleged
thesis be love, hate, or ambition, cottage charm,
daisy dell sweetness, or the ivy beauty of an

ancient estate, the resource for the final punch
seems to be something like a train-wreck.
But the transfiguration of the actors, not their
destruction or rescue, is the goal. The last
moment of the play is great, not when it is
a grandiose salvation from a burning house,
that knocks every delicate preceding idea in
the head, but a tableau that is as logical as
the awakening of the Sleeping Beauty after
the hero has explored all the charmed castle.