The average number of prints for a Keystone Comedy release was twenty. Thirty was considered quite successful. The last picture, which was the fourth one, reached forty-five copies, and demands for further copies were increasing. Hence Mack’s friendliness after the telegram.
The mechanics of directing were simple in those days. I had only to know my left from my right for entrances and exists. If one exited right from a scene, one came in left in the next scene; if one exited towards the camera, one entered with one’s back to the camera in the next scene. These, of course, were primary rules.
But with more experience I found that the placing of a camera was not only psychological but articulated a scene; in fact it was the basis of cinematic style. If the camera is a little too near, or too far, it can enhance or spoil an effect. Because economy of movement is important you don’t want an actor to walk any unnecessary distance unless there is a special reason, for walking is not dramatic. Therefore placement of camera should effect composition and a graceful entrance for the actor. Placement of camera is cinematic inflection. There is no set rule that a close-up gives more emphasis than a long shot. A close-up is a question of feeling; in some instances a long shot can effect greater emphasis.
An example of this is on one of my early comedies, Skating, The tramp enters the rink and skates with one foot up, gliding and twirling, tripping and bumping into people and getting into all sorts of mischief, eventually leaving everyone piled up on their backs in the foreground of the camera while he skates to the rear of the rink, becoming a very small figure in the background, and sits amongst the spectators innocently reviewing the havoc he has just created. Yet the small figure of the tramp in the distance was funnier than he would have been in a close-up.
When I started directing my first picture, I was not as confident as I thought I would be; in fact, I had a slight attack of panic. But after Sennett saw the first day’s work I was reassured. The picture was called Caught in the Rain. It was not a world-beater, but it was funny and quite a success. When I finished it, I was anxious to know Sennett’s reaction. I waited for him as he came out of the projection-room. ‘Well, are you ready to start another?’ he said. From then on I wrote and directed all my own comedies. As an inducement, Sennett gave me twenty-five dollars’ bonus for each picture.
He now practically adopted me, and took me to dinner every night. He would discuss stories for the other companies with me and I would suggest crazy ideas which I felt were too personal to be understood by the public. But Sennett would laugh and accept them.
Now, when I saw my films with an audience, their reaction was different. The stir and excitement at the announcement of a Keystone Comedy, those joyful little screams that my first appearance evoked even before I had done anything, were most gratifying. I was a great favourite with the audience: if I could just continue this way of life I could be satisfied. With my bonus I was making two hundred dollars a week.
Since I was engrossed in work I had little time for the Alexandria Bar or my sarcastic friend, Elmer Ellsworth. I met him, however, weeks later, on the street. ‘Say, listen,’ said he, ‘I’ve been seeing your pictures lately, and, by God, you’re good! You have a quality entirely different from all the rest. And I’m not kidding. You’re funny! Why the hell didn’t you say so in the first place?’ Of course, we became very good friends after that.
There was a lot Keystone taught me and a lot I taught Keystone. In those days they knew little about technique, stage-craft, or movement, which I brought to them from the theatre. They also knew little about natural pantomime. In blocking a scene, a director would have three or four actors blatantly stand in a straight line facing the camera, and, with the broadest gestures, one would pantomime ‘I-want-to-marry-your-daughter’ by pointing to himself, then to his ring finger, then to the girl. Their miming dealt little with subtlety or effectiveness, so I stood out in contrast. In those early movies, I knew I had many advantages, and that, like a geologist, I was entering a rich unexplored field. I suppose that was the most exciting period of my career, for I was on the threshold of something wonderful.
Success makes one endearing and I became the familiar friend of everyone in the studio. I was ‘Charlie’ to the extras, to the stage-hands, the wardrobe department, and the camera-men. Although I am not a fraternizer, this pleased me indeed, for I knew that this familiarity meant I was a success.
Now I had confidence in my ideas, and I can thank Sennett for that, for although unlettered like myself, he had belief in his own taste, and such belief he instilled in me. His manner of working had given me confidence; it seemed right. His remark that
