A FILM STUDIO FROM THE LAY POINT OF VIEW

Bay of Plenty Beacon, Volume 13, Issue 32, 13 December 1948, Page 5

A FILM STUDIO FROM THE LAY POINT OF VIEW

How It Struck A Visitor From N.Z.

(By Reece Smith, New Zealand Kemsley Empire Journalist) London, October 1. Oodles of all'ure was the prosipect borne on the morning breeze the other day. The breeze was by courtesy of J. Arthur Rank, whose declared, intention it was to unveil to us the mysteries of his Denham studios. We wondered circumspectly whether these mysteries embraced the back row of the chorus. Maybe we could do the same. The Denham main door led straight on to a set, very much a lath and plaster, affair, as any film star knows. We stood, around for quite a while before discovering it was just the entrance hall being done up, and that none of those fellows in overalls were Michael Redgrave, Eric* Portman or even Gerta Garbo. Later we made ample amends by seeing a set on which John Mills himself would be filming before 24 hours were past. By The Side Door Very evidently so as not to be embarrassed by the adulation of the seething hordes of chorus beauties in the main passages, we were whisked by a side way out to the meadows and streams to watch the shooting of Cardboard Cavalier. . Without so much as a glimpse of the script we sensed this to be either an epic, a musical, a .comedy drama, a psychological thriller,' a costume piece, or a sehii-document-ary. It featured, so we were told, Sid Field. “Ah, Sid Field,” I intoned reverently, wondering where I should have heard the name before. I once met a fellow Sid in a Kaikoura hotel, but never did make sure of his surname. “We might manage an introduction.” “Overwhelming,” I gasped, meditating the chances of swapping a Sid Field handshake for the telephone number of that nice little girl over the cameraman. Sid Was There Work was going on beside a creek and/or moat into which, whei* the sun pleased the director, Mr Field’s double was about to fall. Never one to shirk hard work, Mr Field was on hand to watch. , Beside me stood an extra in Wellington boots, a delicate gesture which I acknowledged by bestowing a word of appreciation on behalf of Mr Appleton, and an assurance of a place ori the waiting list for Te Aro municipal flats if he was thinking of emigration in about 10 years’ time. Then a vehicle drew up, a hush descended, followed by a female form nullified in property finery. The publicity man pressed my* right arm. “Margaret Lockwood,” he panted. His .understrapper bore down on my left ear. - “Maggie,” she sighed. “Wrong number,” I corrected. “Smith’s the name.” They were not with me. flip cfpr 55 “Who’s doing it for the Herald?” I inquired, always interested in colleagues at Work. •' Scenery Obscured ( But their attention was focussed on the lady, to such effect that within five minutes,. at a range of fifteen yards, they sadly admitted she was only Maggie’s stand-in. With all those Restoration wrappings obscuring the scenery, it made little odds either way to me. Cameras were not yet grinding (Rank got his start in milling) and despite thq catastrophe of Miss Lockwood’s defection a golden opportunity now offered for us to be introduced to Mr Field, and actually to shake him by the hand, in person. The publicity man introduced our party as from the Empire. “My daughter was born in Australia,” Field ad libbed brilliantly, and clicking cameras recorded the imperishable scene in the short space before he dashed back to his friends. When you see those stills of me and Field magging away there together, just you remember that I’ve been around, and know the stars by their Christian names. He’s Sid.