comfortable in joining his moviemaking enterprise.
That and the fact that he had no money of his own and Lovejoy was
rolling in it.
Charlie simply nodded complacently, as if
he’d only wanted to know.
Martin guessed it was a cowboy thing, and
went on explaining his role in Peerless as he and Charlie lifted
tent flaps and searched under benches and chairs. Damn Huxtable
anyway.
“I have to line up extra people if we need
crowd scenes and so forth. If we’re filming near a town or city,
the local folks are generally happy to oblige for five dollars or
so.”
“You mean you’d pay them five bucks a day to
stand around and be part of a crowd?”
“Oh, yes. When we filmed Betsy of the
Badlands , we needed a whole bunch of people milling around
during the lynching scene.”
Again, Charlie nodded. “Not bad. Five bucks
is a lot of money for some of us.”
“Right. Then there are the animals.”
“Animals.”
“Yes. If we need horses or cows or something,
I have to find them. For instance, in this picture, we have several
horses and we’ll be using a lot of cattle eventually. Those are
some of the horses.” He pointed to a fenced in area where six
horses grazed lazily beneath some trees.
“I see. Better go over there and see if he’s
got himself kicked by a horse and had his head stove in.”
“Don’t even say something like that!” Martin
cried, horrified by the mere thought of his star being killed by a
horse.
Chuckling, Charlie said, “I don’t think you
need to worry about it. Huxtable don’t seem to me to be the horsy
type.” He climbed the fence and strode over to the horses.
Martin bit his fingernails and watched with
great anxiety, expelling a huge gust of breath when Charlie ambled
back, shaking his head. “He isn’t there.”
“Thank God,” breathed Martin, thinking he
wasn’t up to this sort of nonsense, and that if Phineas did want to
use Horace Huxtable in another picture, he’d have to pay Martin
triple his regular salary for putting up with the big ham and
seeing that he stayed out of trouble.
“So that’s a whole lot of stuff you have to
do, Martin,” Charlie said, making Martin’s mind veer back to their
earlier conversation. “Do you have to do other stuff, too?”
“Yes, indeed. I have to make sure the cast is
fed and housed. Sometimes we can rent rooms in a hotel. Often we
can make an entire moving picture in a single day of filming. The
short stuff, you know. We’ll take the cast and the camera, head to
the park, and voila! We have a single-reeler all set to go.”
“I didn’t know that. How come this one’s
takin’ so long?”
“This one’s different.” Martin couldn’t keep
the swell of pride he felt from leaking into his voice. “This is
going to be a major motion picture. A feature. It’s not just one of
those cheap shorts. It’s going to make people sit up and take
notice. Why, Charlie, pretty soon the moving pictures will be the
biggest thing in the whole U.S. of A.”
“That so?” They’d finished with the Peerless
village and the outlying pastures, and now headed out to the
desert. Charlie vaulted over a fence and jogged over to inspect a
pile of boulders.
Martin raised his voice so Charlie could hear
him. “Oh, yes. Why, you can send a can of celluloid anywhere. It’s
not like the theatre, where a person has to travel to New York or
Chicago or San Francisco to see a good stage production. Pictures
have the potential of reaching everyone in the world eventually.
They’re already building picture palaces in some of our bigger
cities. That’s why the premiere performance of One and Only is
going to be held in Chicago.” He was disappointed when he saw
Charlie head back empty-handed.
As he vaulted back over the fence, Charlie
said, “I guess I never thought about it before, but I expect you’re
right.”
“The industry is growing by leaps and
bounds,” Martin said firmly. “And you’re fortunate to be in it at
the
That and the fact that he had no money of his own and Lovejoy was
rolling in it.
Charlie simply nodded complacently, as if
he’d only wanted to know.
Martin guessed it was a cowboy thing, and
went on explaining his role in Peerless as he and Charlie lifted
tent flaps and searched under benches and chairs. Damn Huxtable
anyway.
“I have to line up extra people if we need
crowd scenes and so forth. If we’re filming near a town or city,
the local folks are generally happy to oblige for five dollars or
so.”
“You mean you’d pay them five bucks a day to
stand around and be part of a crowd?”
“Oh, yes. When we filmed Betsy of the
Badlands , we needed a whole bunch of people milling around
during the lynching scene.”
Again, Charlie nodded. “Not bad. Five bucks
is a lot of money for some of us.”
“Right. Then there are the animals.”
“Animals.”
“Yes. If we need horses or cows or something,
I have to find them. For instance, in this picture, we have several
horses and we’ll be using a lot of cattle eventually. Those are
some of the horses.” He pointed to a fenced in area where six
horses grazed lazily beneath some trees.
“I see. Better go over there and see if he’s
got himself kicked by a horse and had his head stove in.”
“Don’t even say something like that!” Martin
cried, horrified by the mere thought of his star being killed by a
horse.
Chuckling, Charlie said, “I don’t think you
need to worry about it. Huxtable don’t seem to me to be the horsy
type.” He climbed the fence and strode over to the horses.
Martin bit his fingernails and watched with
great anxiety, expelling a huge gust of breath when Charlie ambled
back, shaking his head. “He isn’t there.”
“Thank God,” breathed Martin, thinking he
wasn’t up to this sort of nonsense, and that if Phineas did want to
use Horace Huxtable in another picture, he’d have to pay Martin
triple his regular salary for putting up with the big ham and
seeing that he stayed out of trouble.
“So that’s a whole lot of stuff you have to
do, Martin,” Charlie said, making Martin’s mind veer back to their
earlier conversation. “Do you have to do other stuff, too?”
“Yes, indeed. I have to make sure the cast is
fed and housed. Sometimes we can rent rooms in a hotel. Often we
can make an entire moving picture in a single day of filming. The
short stuff, you know. We’ll take the cast and the camera, head to
the park, and voila! We have a single-reeler all set to go.”
“I didn’t know that. How come this one’s
takin’ so long?”
“This one’s different.” Martin couldn’t keep
the swell of pride he felt from leaking into his voice. “This is
going to be a major motion picture. A feature. It’s not just one of
those cheap shorts. It’s going to make people sit up and take
notice. Why, Charlie, pretty soon the moving pictures will be the
biggest thing in the whole U.S. of A.”
“That so?” They’d finished with the Peerless
village and the outlying pastures, and now headed out to the
desert. Charlie vaulted over a fence and jogged over to inspect a
pile of boulders.
Martin raised his voice so Charlie could hear
him. “Oh, yes. Why, you can send a can of celluloid anywhere. It’s
not like the theatre, where a person has to travel to New York or
Chicago or San Francisco to see a good stage production. Pictures
have the potential of reaching everyone in the world eventually.
They’re already building picture palaces in some of our bigger
cities. That’s why the premiere performance of One and Only is
going to be held in Chicago.” He was disappointed when he saw
Charlie head back empty-handed.
As he vaulted back over the fence, Charlie
said, “I guess I never thought about it before, but I expect you’re
right.”
“The industry is growing by leaps and
bounds,” Martin said firmly. “And you’re fortunate to be in it at
the
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