In the Making

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1004, 21 June 1930, Page 27

In the Making

TALKIE STUDIO GLIMPSE Scene From Greta Garbo Picture

Clarence brown, scrip director’s chair on the s nap of the old carpet, polish fussed .with bric-a-brac and t big- sound stage Lewis Stone Attired in the mode of 1865, Such was the natural sett of a modern photoplay in sc cameraman, William Daniels, his aluminum camera per an Brown. . . . "Any time you’re read3 r ,” lie said. Mr. Brown returned the nod, and |at once the human mechanical sysI tem involved in the intricacies of making a talking picture was set in motion, as though an invisible button had been touched. Whistles trilled. The set blazed in a deluge of incandescent light. Buzzers sounded, lights flashed alternately red, green and yellow, and sound men talked to one another in low tones over hand phones. Up in the glassedin monitor tower, a tousled “headmixer,” as he is called, fidgeted with controls and viewed with a critical eye the panorama below. Then a peculiar resounding noise came from the loud-speaker. “Is that micro- ! phone boom going ' to be up against i that wall or does it pan with the camera in this shot?” asks a raucous voice from the control room. Camera men and sound aides conferred. “It doesn’t pan until after we go into the second position by the door,” a sound technician replied into the hanging microphone. “Then change it. We get too much bounce oft" that wall. Put it on the other side!” Tlfere is more moving of booms, cables, switch boxes, chairs and miscellaneous materials scattered about tile set. “How’s it now?” “One-two-three-four-five-six— —” “Okay—leave it —that’s line!” Mr. Brown peers about anxiously. “Are we ready to go?” he asks. “Interlock is ready,” assures the ‘ sound man. “Cali Miss Gai-bo,” orders Mr. Brown, and his assistant runs to her improvised dressing-room, a make-

shift of canvas backings upon which are scrawled such legends as “Scotty, the Dope,” “Scene IT., Broadway Babies,” and various initials and dates. Within its flimsy walls is a ! large mirror, a small dressing-table, : a curling iron, an electric heater, a I chair and a lounge. ! “Ready, Miss Garbo!” calls the j assistant. ' “Coming,” she replies. In a rustle of silks Miss Garbo i emerges from that nondescript hut a : vision of exquisite charm, a definite | personality. Before you are even aware of her physical presence, Greta Garbo, in curls and crinolines, is j ready for another scene in her new

it in hand, sat in 1 1 is canvas set; property-men brushed the hed the veneered flooring- and :apestries. At one side of the walked restlessly to and fro. lie puffed a 1930 cigarette, ting for tlie making of portion ound and speech. The chief , clamped down the bolts on abulator and nodded to Mr. j talking picture, “Romance,” an adaptation of the stage play in which Doris Keane starred for six continuous years. Quietly and quickly she takes her place at the tiny table on the set, opposite Mr. Stone, who is bending toward her imploringly. There is the usual tense stillness of waiting for the recording peak, then the relief when the players break the silence by action and words. "You remember Millefleurs—the lilacs under your window—the lime trees near the fountain —” Mr. Stone pleads. Miss Garbo turns an anguished countenance from him and wrings her eloquent hands. “No-no —dat ees imposs’ble—you do not onderstan’—” she protests. The pleading continues. They arise and move about the room, followed by camera and microphone. Minutes tick away as the scene progresses. They reach the door, when Mr. Stone humbly says good-bye. “Okay—cut!” snaps Mr. Brown. Director, camera man and technicians look up to the control tower. The mixer grins, turns his hands with both thumbs sticking up largely. “Okay for sound,” he shouts into his loud-speaker. “Okay for camera,” shouts Daniels. The lights dim. Mr. Stone moves out into the coolness for another cigarette. Miss Garbo picks up her ci-inolines and slips back into her dressing room. Brown sits down and again pores over the script. The property men again fuss around the set. ! That’s all there is to it —until the next scene is shot.