Without Lying Down. Cari Beauchamp

costumes accumulated over the past three years was gone and ten of the eleven finished films being held for distribution were all or partially destroyed.

      It was a major setback for the company, but they were recovering quickly. Filming was shuttled to a studio in Yonkers, offices were opened within days at the Columbia Bank Building on Fifth Avenue, and Adolph Zukor hired double shifts of workers to build a new studio on 225th Street.³⁵

      For Frances, the loss was devastating. The Foundling negative was burned beyond repair and she had counted on a successful New York premiere to help her obtain a writing contract. Mary assured her The Foundling would be remade eventually, and feeling responsible for her being in New York, offered her a role in her next scheduled film, Madame Butterfly.

      There was no doubting Mary’s sincerity, but Frances already felt in debt to Mary for taking a chance on her and was uncomfortable with any further favors. She knew it would be some time before The Foundling was reshot; Allan Dwan had left to work with another studio, so not only would time have to be found in Mary’s schedule but a new director as well. Besides, Frances didn’t want to act, she wanted to write. There was little or no public credit, but she actually found comfort in the anonymity and fulfillment from the accomplishment of telling a story well.

      She thanked Mary and promised to think about it, but vowed to herself she would not return to California. She was already captivated by the mix of theater, art, and films that New York radiated; even without a produced film to point to, she would figure out a way to stay.³⁶

      Mary may have been her only real friend in New York, but Frances had brought several letters of introduction for insurance. The most promising of her potential contacts were Mr. and Mrs. Harrison Fiske—the editor of the Dramatic Mirror and his actress wife, whom she had met in Arnold Genthe’s studio. Minnie Maddern Fiske was an established star of theater and she would do anything for her favorite photographer, “Ginky.”

      When Frances called, their niece Merle invited her to lunch. Mrs. Fiske was in Washington rehearsing a play, but Merle and Harrison Fiske were enthralled by Frances’s stories of Hollywood and the movies. The Dramatic Mirror had been reviewing films since 1907 and Mrs. Fiske had reprised her Broadway role of Becky Sharp in Vanity Fair before the movie cameras for Kleine-Edison. The Fiskes viewed motion pictures as “an art form that has not yet found itself,” but believed that “its possibilities reach beyond the boundaries of the imagination.” Merle was the same age as Frances and they became friendly immediately.³⁷

      Both Merle and her uncle were confident they could help Frances find a job in New York, but they were about to leave to join Mrs. Fiske in Washington. Frances knew she needed something right away, but tried not to appear deflated. To hide her concern, she assured them she had an alternative plan and as she was about to divulge that she could pass as a professional cook, the doorbell rang. As other company was being ushered in, Frances left, telling Merle she looked forward to seeing her again soon.

      Frances tried her luck with the various New York film studios, but after a long week of knocking on production office doors and fruitless waits for calls that didn’t come, she knew she had to conserve her resources. The Algonquin was two dollars a day and she had only thirty dollars left. She moved to a cheaper hotel downtown and on the way, ducked into the Hotel Astor and slipped some of their stationery into her bag.³⁸

      In a burst of courage born of desperation, Frances wrote individual letters on the Astor letterhead to the prominent New York producers Daniel Frohman, William Fox, and William Brady. Introducing herself as an experienced scenario writer who had worked with Lois Weber, she informed them that since The Foundling negative had been burned and The Fisher Girl was only now being filmed, she proposed to prove her worth by working for two weeks at no salary. Assuming “the results are satisfactory,” she would be willing to accept a one-year contract at $200 a week. She closed by saying she would call in a few days to arrange a personal appointment.³⁹

      The highest-paid scenario writer in 1915 was C. Gardner Sullivan, providing plots for cowboy star William S. Hart at $75 a week, so she was frankly amazed when both Fox and Brady agreed to see her. Frances waited an hour in William Fox’s anteroom with a variety of other aspirants, watching as his stern-faced secretary, whom Frances mentally nicknamed “The Judge,” informed each of those leaving, “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.” Finally it was her turn to be ushered in and Frances found a little man sitting behind a desk who seemed to methodically undress her with his eyes.

      Trying to ignore the implication, Frances poured out her meager qualifications, mixing them with substantive suggestions for scenarios and productions. But Fox’s response was to tell her that such a pretty girl should be wearing beautiful furs and jewelry, not thinking about a lowly writing job. “Well,” he asked, smiling meaningfully, “what do you think?”

      In spite of a combination of nerves and irritation, Frances smiled back. “I’m paid to think, Mr. Fox; two hundred dollars a week. As a scenario writer.”

      He laughed as if he would dismiss her completely, then offered her eighty dollars a week. Frances was simultaneously shocked and thrilled, but tempted though she was, it wasn’t on her terms. Unable to bring herself to say no outright, she demurred with “Thank you very much, Mr. Fox, I’ll consider your offer.”

      But as she left the inner sanctum and heard The Judge’s “Don’t call us, we’ll call you,” Frances had second thoughts. Fox had referred to writers as “poor schlemiels” and he was right. She told herself that any fool, especially a hungry one, who turned down eighty dollars a week was nothing but a “poor schlemiel.” She was sure William Brady would have the same reaction, and she had no one to blame but herself.⁴⁰

      What Frances didn’t know was that William Brady proudly called himself “a born gambler.” Originally from San Francisco, Brady gravitated toward the theater, where he met another aspiring actor, James Corbett, at an amateur show. Convincing Corbett that the quickest route to recognition was as a heavyweight boxer, Brady became his manager. Leasing the sedate Drury Lane Theatre for “Gentleman Jim” Corbett’s London boxing debut, they traveled all over Europe and America and Brady became known as the “veritable apotheosis of the word promoter” with “enough brass for an entire marching band.” He added other fighters to his management roster and took over the Metropolitan Opera House for a wrestling match. If it was on the stage, Brady loved it.⁴¹

      William Brady was fifty-three years old and had already made and lost several fortunes when Frances’s inquiry arrived. He had produced dozens of Broadway plays over the past twenty years and owned and operated several theaters in New York and Chicago. Introduced to moving pictures when he sold the rights to a boxing match in 1897, he quickly realized that producing was the only source of unlimited profits, so he had welcomed Lewis Selznick’s proposal to form a partnership to film Brady’s plays.⁴²

      The Kiev-born Selznick was a promoter at heart, but his experience had been limited to selling jewelry when he talked his way into Universal’s New York offices in 1912. World was a distribution agency for independent films when he joined them as vice president and general manager in 1914 but by convincing theater producer Lee Shubert and then Brady to invest in the studio and put their plays on the screen, Selznick built World into a major player.

      The same week Frances wrote her letters, Brady, Selznick, Shubert, and the board of directors of World had celebrated the company’s one-year anniversary. They were committed to releasing three feature films a week and announced expansion plans for their Fort Lee, New Jersey, studios that included a state-of-the-art laboratory for both black-and-white film and experimenting with “natural colors.”

      World Films attracted a relatively experienced stable of actors including former Vitagraph darling Clara Kimball Young and established Broadway stars Robert Warwick, William Farnum, and Alice Brady. Lillian Russell had made her screen debut in World’s production of Wildfire. Veteran French film directors Emile Chautard, Albert Capellani, and Maurice Tourneur, along with art director Ben Carré, all joined World when the American branches of their film companies foundered with the onslaught of the European war. With