How Talking Pictures Are Made

This feature article looks at actors behind the screen from the producer's perspective. It seems to have been published as part of the publicity for Humanovo, along with Actologue, one of the more prominent companies staging "talking pictures" by synchronizing live voices to the images. Humanovo used the system of a rehearsed company that went on a circuit with a film; this differs from the system employed later by the theaters detailed by the New York Times and Washington Post, where the actors were hired, much like musicians, for extended runs by a particular theater.

How Talking Pictures are Made.

Scarcity of Picture Actors

Since the advent of the moving picture as an amusement feature no phase of the industry has ever become so popular as the talking picture.

Various devices of a phonographic nature have been placed on the market, and some of them have been in a large measure successful, but they have all, more or less, been characterized by the unnatural and discordant mechanical grate so usual with most forms of talking machine.

The most successful idea in the talking picture field is the plan recently introduced by Will H. Stevens, of New York City, and which consists of a small cast of versatile actors who speak the lines which are apropos to the various characters from behind the screen, and who imitate the different sounds descriptive of the varied situations in the picture.

The above system was termed “Humanovo” and was a phenomenal success from the start. Many different companies were sent out, each with one or more reels of film, and in most cases playing week stands. The Humanovo, like all successful undertakings, soon had its imitators, and up to the present moment there are at least a dozen different concerns engaged in the promotion of moving talking pictures.

The putting out of this new form of talking picture, is by no means as simple as one might at first imagine, and it requires a thoroughly competent and long-experienced stage director to select suitable people and to rehearse the varied subjects. Many inexperienced and incompetent people have naturally drifted into the business, but their efforts are always immediately recognizable by the marked insipidity and amateurishness of their productions. In the staging of the talking picture there are many important details to consider, and the smallest detail is ofttimes the most important. It is, of course, imperative, that the author of the dialogue for the different parts be a writer of ability, with an all-round experience of foreign travel and a good knowledge of human nature. He must also be of an imaginative nature and quick eye, as the overlooking of small situation is sometimes apt to spoil the entire story. The writer must now be assisted by a rapid and able stenographer who can take down the lines as fast as the composer speaks them off. In the framing up of the impromptu dialogue for the talking picture, the reel is usually run off a few time to enable the producer to become familiar with his subject.

The lines and business are then crudely recorded in shorthand and are afterwards typed and modified, and the characters are sorted out to suit the different talkers. The actors are then rehearsed, and after a few suggestions and alterations, the company is ready for the road.

In the selection of actors some judgment must be used, and care must be taken to secure, when possible, people [138] properly fitted for the work. They should be possessed of good voices, above all things, as in talking behind a picture screen much depends upon the carrying power of the voice, as a feeble voice is unable to penetrate through the sheet and is soon lost in the echoes of the fly-loft. The talking picture actor should be a good all-around player and an artist, capable of extemporizing when occasion demands. In the rehearsing of talking pictures attention should be paid to mechanical effects, as thereupon depends much of the success of the picture. It is the better policy to allow the talkers themselves to work their own effects, as they are the most familiar with the subject, and will get better results than by relying upon the different house employees, who are often neglectful and careless, and are often absent when the cue for the effect arrives.

Now that the regular season is at hand it will perhaps be a matter of some difficulty to obtain capable people for the now popular talking picture, as most actors and actresses are either already on the road or are rehearsing for some legitimate production. The talking picture producer is unable to pay large salaries, and amateurs and dramatic students are being largely utilized. Much of the success of the talking film depends upon the competency of the talkers, and it is to be deplored that good professional people are so scarce. When the talking picture man is able to pay higher price for talent, the pictures will be materially improved; as it is, many companies are doing excellent work, and there is a demand for this kind of attraction all over the country.

The Humanovo pictures were put out during the light season and and some excellent talent was secured, the people being recruited from the ranks of the many thespians who were at that time idling and who were glad to take advantage of the opportunity it presented to earn a few dollars during the light season. The work was easy, as it does not necessitate any changes of costume or facial make-up. For this reason, and in spite of the small remuneration, many of the people have stayed in the work, but with the springing up of so many new producing concerns, and with the increased demand for picture actors, it seems as though the demand will more than counterbalance the supply, and will necessitate the employing of many who are hardly proficient enough for the work, which will be the cause of many weak and unsatisfactory productions.
The talking picture is in demand to-day, and is sure to have a big run during the coming season, and it is more than probable that most every picture theater that can afford the extra expense, will make it a feature until something newer and more suitable turns up to replace it.

Sidney Wise, “How Talking Pictures are Made,” Moving Picture World 22 August 1908, 137-38.

Actors on the Films

This article from the St. Louis Times and reprinted in Moving Picture World advocates creating talking pictures by putting actors behind the screen. The article seems to be floating the idea rather than reporting on it, though 1908 was a peak year of the practice, with numerous commercial troupes being formed, and the practice seems to have been around since at least 1905.

Actors on the Films

The success of phonograph houses in recording for sale the voices of notable singers, including such individual successes as Caruso and Melba, Calve and Nordica, suggests that there is open another opportunity for the actor.

Moving pictures have taken their place among the standard entertainments of the day in which we live and make progress. They are furnishing cheap and wholesome amusement and education for the multitude. Their pictures take audiences on far tours. They show the latest in the world of invention. They amuse and instruct. The next step is the adaption of the idea to the serious drama.

Many of the smaller cities of the country have small chance of seeing players of the Drew and Adams type. Plays such as “Peter Pan” and “My Wife” are a long time in reaching towns of the third and fourth class. Operas seldom if ever get to the smaller cities. The moving picture machine and a pair of clever imitators ought to supply the omission. Let John Drew and his company “My Wife” go before one of the cameras, giving it exactly as presented on the stage at the Olympic. Then, when it is reproduced in Williamsburg or Kokomo, a man or a woman, rehearsed in the lines of the piece, speaking the dialogue as it is acted by the films, will complete the drama for eye and ear.

In the comic operas the tasks would be a bit more difficult, for singing voices would be required; but the expertise, even for this form of the moving picture entertainment, would be trifling as compared with the cast of Marie Cahill’s company or the organization playing “The Merry Widow.”

At this time there is no mechanical reproduction of the best plays, but it will come, as sure as the reproduction of voices for commercial purposes came by way of the phonograph. When Mark Twain had Pudd’n Head Wilson use the thumb print in detective work there was no Bertillon system, but the lines of the thumb are now important in the tracing and recording of criminals.

Source: “Actors on the Films,” St. Louis Times, reprinted Moving Picture World 7 March 1908, 184.

Photoplay Music

The Susquehanna Valley Theatre Organ Society has a number of PDFs of photoplay music available for download here. The Silent Film Resource Page of the site also has a number of good links.

(H/T Rebecca Doran Eaton)

When Actors Make Dramatic Moving Pictures Talk

This article appeared in the Washington Post and, like the article posted yesterday from the New York Times, it documents the practice of "talking pictures" with actors behind the screen. As mentioned yesterday, by 1911, this practice was decidedly on the decline—though it had once been quite popular, peaking sometime in 1908. Its decline was at least partially a function of cost—actors require wages and the shows, in 1908 at least, required rehearsal. The acting company featured in the article below and in the 1910 article from the New York Times, on the contrary, seemed to work more or less as many pianists at the time did—by watching a film once, getting a basic sense of it, and then improvising. The reporter in fact seems a bit surprised by how effective the troupe was: while far from perfect, the synchronization seemed at least passable. In any event, the practice never did make a resurgence. When after 1910 exhibitors invested in live entertainment, they tended to hire vaudevillians or to augment their orchestra.

When Actors Make Dramatic Moving Pictures Talk

The Stage in the little 5-cent moving-picture theater, into which the usual audience had begun to drift slowly, was just big enough for the three chairs necessary for the members of the company. Only a few feet in front of the chairs was the sheet on which the moving-picture machine was now making a great circle of light. The stage behind the curtain was strewn with rubbish.

It was the usual type of moving-picture theater—a gilded box office outside, inside a large room almost bare but for the chairs and the white sheet at the further end. As the piano player began to beat out the preliminary ragtime overture the company appeared, coming through a side door which led out into an arcade.

First came the former vaudeville star, and manager of the company, a rather large woman, who possibly belonged to the Mrs. Leslie Carter type when younger. She explained that she had only to run across the street from her flat, and therefore hadn’t dressed up at all, but had simply thrown on an ulster. A tall, rather attenuated man, who talked with a decidedly English stage accent, and looked as if he had played heavy tragedy parts once, was next to appear. Without saying a word, he climbed up the little steps to the platform behind the curtain, and took his seat with an oh, have I got to do it again expression. Just at the last minute the third member of the company appeared. He was a younger man, rather nattily dressed, and looking like a real actor.

“Guess they’re about ready, boys,” remarked the former vaudeville star, as she climbed up on the platform rather ponderously.

“The Great Drummer.”

Picking her way over the rubbish heaps, she took her seat in the largest of the three wooden chairs ranged behind the curtain. It held her comfortably, but that was all. The former vaudeville star, it was plain, had begun to lose her figure, and also her former agility. You began to see the reason for her present occupation.

Just as she got seated the piano player in front of the sheet gave a final bang as the wind-up of his ragtime piece, and started some soft, slow music. The machine at the other end of the hall began to sputter and the light to flicker fitfully on the sheet, so you knew the show was about to commence.

“The Gallant Drummer” suddenly stared at you from the curtain and you heard the audience on the other side give a gurgle of delight.

“Remember it, I hope, boys,” said the former vaudeville star, cheerfully, getting up for a second to throw off her ulster. “My! but it’s hot back here.”

There was no doubt that it was hot. In the gloom you could just discern the former tragedian mopping his face with his handkerchief. All three had their eyes fixed intently on the curtain in front, waiting for their cues. All three had something of a strained look as they waited. Evidently their occupation was not altogether easy.

Bang! went the ragtime man in front, and the curtain, swaying slowly in a gentle breeze, suddenly took on animation. It was a hotel office. A clerk stood behind the desk. Bellboys appeared and disappeared. The door opened and guests began to arrive from the bus.

“A room and a bath, please. I don’t want to go above the third story.”

You jumped. It was the man right beside you sitting there in the dim light that came through the curtain, the former tragedian, who had spoken. All the time his eyes closely followed the action of the arriving guest whose lips you noticed moving.

“Guess this will fix you up all right, Front!”

The smaller man sitting next to the former vaudeville star was doing the talking for the hotel clerk, speaking in a loud voice and distinctly so that his words would issue out beyond the curtain as if coming from the pictures the audience was watching. Gazing at these pictures, sitting there in the dark, you noted the door of the hotel office open again. This time a woman rushed in breathlessly, carrying a hat and a bag.

“I want a bedroom and sitting room, and please see that I get my trunk at once. And oh, by the way, where’s the mail? I’m expecting a letter, a very important letter.”

It was the former vaudeville star who rattled this off as easily as if she had been taking the part in a real comedy with a Broadway audience hanging on her words across the footlights. Now they were all talking. Other women came in and talked to the hotel clerk. Some of them were young girls and others older. The woman who had been on the real stage never faltered, taking part after part as they appeared and changing her voice to suit the different ages, now raising it to a high girlish pitch, now imitating the quavering tones of a querulous old woman.

It was evident that she had done some hard training for this. The men, too, did the same, although their work did not seem quite as hard. Both of them sat in their chairs, rigidly erect and alert, the strain showing on their faces. The former actress took it more easily, leaning back in her chair, but always with her eyes glued to the curtain, where the pictures flickered dreadfully at times.

For five minutes the hotel scene went on, while beads of perspiration rolled down the faces of the members of the company speaking for the picture. Then there was a final sputter and the curtain was blank again. Somewhere beside you in the dark you heard a sigh expressive of relief.

“Gosh, but that was a bit stiff!” some one murmured. Turning around you saw it was one of the male members of the company. “It’s always tough when there are so many characters. Keeps you on the jump. I think I get a rest in the next one.”

Again the curtain had become animated. This time it was a railroad station.

The drummer had come to say good-by to the girl of the theatrical company he had met in the hotel. The head of the talking picture company behind the sheet, she of the portly frame and the interesting past, all of a sudden began to talk again.

The girl in the picture was broke, it appeared, the company disbanded, and she hadn’t the fare home. You saw the drummer appear on the platform and his lips begin to move, and that was the signal for the tragedian to talk. Pretty soon the former actress and the former tragedian were shooting out rapid-fire sentences at the curtain.

It Is Profitable.

“I’m awfully sorry you’re going home.”

“Are you really? Now isn’t that sweet of you. Do you know I’ve lost my purse?”

“Can’t I lend you some money?”

And so it went. From the front came the strange sounds made by a moving picture audience as it follows the story of the film. Occasionally one of the company behind the sheet got off something funny. In the strange filtered light behind the sheet it sounded rather queer when the laugh would come back, showing that the audience had caught the joke just as if the picture had said it. At times the words were considerably behind the actions of the figures on the sheet, but even then it seemed near enough the reality to entertain the crowd.

“When the last scene was over the two men jumped up and hurried out. Their woman partner took it more leisurely.

“Like it?” she said, as she put on her ulster. “Talking pictures, we call it. No it’s not altogether new. I’ve been doing it for several years in Pennsylvania, and there are a few others in New York, I believe.

“Seems quite a change from Broadway, and the real thing, but I’m making money, and for the first time in my life have something in the bank. What’s more, I’m actually keeping house right across the street. You see there’s an hour between our acts, and then I just run home.

“I’m sorry we haven’t a green room to receive company in,” she went on with a laugh. “I think talking pictures are going to be more popular, for we’re doing very well.

“I got the idea first in New York, and then I went to Pennsylvania and got together my company and went from place to place for a while. Most of my friends, of course, don’t know what I’m doing.

“How do we do it? Well, it seems hard, but really it isn’t so hard as it looks.

“We have rehearsals. That is, we see the pictures just once before the show and then I assign the parts. Then we make up what we are going to say. That picture you just saw we never had seen before today.

“I’ve made a study of the lip language and I can tell what the people in the picture are saying, for you know the people say something so that their lips will move right in the pictures. That gives us our cue.

“At first I started in to write out the parts, but that was too difficult. And there wasn’t time to memorize them properly. I found it was better just to see the pictures and make up things to go with them as you go along. I take all the women’s parts and sometimes they keep me pretty busy. It beats a phonograph, anyway. Of course, Mr. Edison says that he will soon make the pictures talk, but I doubt it.

“We get a percentage of the receipts of the house. You’ve got to be quick, but the practice you fine that you can easily think of something that will go with the part provided you’ve seen the picture once before and know a little bit of what is coming.”

The piano player out in front had begun another ragtime piece as a prelude to another set of pictures, only these were not going to talk.

“Guess I’ll run across the street to my flat,” remarked the former vaudeville favorite. “You might say talking pictures make you tired.”

Source: “When Actors Make Dramatic Moving Pictures Talk,” Washington Post 26 March 1911, MS6.

Making Plays While You Wait

Some things apparently never change. Here is a New York Times' article from 1910 purporting to stumble on the "talking picture" (actors behind the screen) as though it were something rather new but just in time to announce its demise. By 1910, the talking picture craze had passed, as its novelty wore off and its economics proved unviable over the long term; the practice was now confined, as the article notes, to the cheaper theaters (that had not always been the case, a fact the article neglects to mention).

Nevertheless, the article mentions a number of interesting details about the practice, including that the cast numbered two (a male and a female), that these talking pictures apparently remained very popular (the theater is described as "overcrowded"), and that, like cinema musicians of the time, the actors had little time for rehearsal (this differs from earlier attempts at such talking pictures, where troupes were carefully rehearsed for a particular set of pictures and they were then sent from theater to theater on a circuit).

Today's post initiates an eight-part series on the practice of producing talking pictures by placing actors behind the screen.

Making Plays While You Wait

Some Odd Experiences of the Audible Illustrator.

Everyone is familiar with the moving picture, the director, the machine and the actor, but few seem to know the audible illustrator. That unseen voice belongs to one of he cleverest of entertainers, and gives an example of what wit combined with concentration really means. A man and woman usually work together in a picture, the man playing, of course, all the male roles, and the woman playing everything from a six-months-old baby to a decrepit old woman.

This can be done only by voice imagination, for to time the voice to the action is little opportunity for imitation. In the talking picture, situations suggest dialogue, while the written story would suggest the situation.

The mind reversing has the peculiar effect of entertainment. It never antagonizes the listener. Whatever the situation presented to him may be, he accepts the dialogue as natural and logical. It is not generally conceded, however, as an improvement to the story on the screen to explain it by dialogue, but whether or not this be true is a matter that will solve itself according to the demand.

The man who directs the action of a moving picture may be an artist in his line, but he has time to rehearse his art, time to drill his actors, select his locations, costumes, and props. Each individual actor is rehearsed in his scene and has his one character to portray, but the man who vivifies the screen is nothing more or less than a human phonograph, attached to a piece of canvas, colored by the camera.

The talking picture man may be an inferior actor, a poor photographer, and an uninteresting conversationalist, but when placed behind the screen, if he succeeds in an acceptable dialogue, he may well be labeled the artist of spontaneity. The talking picture has found favor only in the cheaper houses, and whether or not it will ever reach a high standard of entertainment, depends more upon the picture than the artist who gives audible life to it.

The applicant for moving picture dialogue is at a disadvantage from the start. The picture is run off only once and must be lucid in the extreme for him to be courageous enough to invent the probable lines of the actors.

His try out, or first performance, is usually his best one for him, fortunately, as from this he secures his engagement. As he has from four to six performances a day, he is liable to become careless with his characters, varying their language to suit his mood.

One night the picture talker was interpreting the joke of an inebriate who tried to move to pity the heart of a shrewish wife, who had turned him out of the apartment, by writing all over the wall of the hall that he had gone to commit suicide. He usually shambled down the stairs, weeping and begging for pity, but one night the temporary author endowed his character with Shakespeare, and made a rollicking Falstaff out of him.

This is no way seemed to fit the situation, but it suited the mood of the monologist. The policeman on deck, discovering the clothing of the would-be suicide, was sometimes a weak-voiced Cockney and at others a stentorian-toned Irishman. The companion that led the inebriate into the saloon was sometimes a hale, hearty good fellow in the afternoon and a surly dog in the evening, but whatever he was he talked incessantly on the screen with two of his companions—each companion having a voice quite unlike the other, but gauged in volume and temperament by the man who interpreted the picture.

To read the scenario of a story and act in it under the author’s direction in, for example, the woods, fields, and streets of a town in New Jersey bears not the slightest resemblance to sitting in the audience on Third Avenue in the overheated, overcrowded house and seeing one’s self on the screen repeating lines that in his wildest imagination, never entered the actor’s head. Knowing the company at the time of rehearsing and playing the picture and being familiar with their separate tones of voice, makes the rapid dialogue in a strange voice come to one’s ears in the nature of a shock.

Upon several occasions circumstances have forced men and women of ability to the position of “dialogue” behind the moving picture screen, and it was not so much of a surprise to the audience as to the manager of the house to listen to a plucky little woman give a dialogue between a French lady and an Irish laundress in a dialect that was nothing short of unmistakable art.

A young man whose great ambition was excelled only by his sense of humor and run of hard luck was told that he might prepare to talk for a Roman picture that afternoon, and as there was no time for running off the picture previous to the performance they gave him a short synopsis. After the ordeal was over he walked out of the narrow hallway and met a friend on the street.

“How did you get along, Jim?” asked the friend.

“Oh, all right, I guess,” he replied rather dubiously. “I had no trouble with the Roman lovers and the angry father, but when they flashed Nero and the burning of Rome on the screen I found it rather difficult to make a noise like a mob.”

The extemporaneous speaker may be great in his line. He may have his subject well in mind and speech, the leading townsman on one side of him, a pitcher of water on the other, and audience hanging breathless on his sliver tones, but the extemporaneous playwright has nothing around, above, or beside him but his ready wit timed to electric action, without a pause for applause or second thought, or a drink of water in the case of choking.

Source: “Making Plays While You Wait,” New York Times 30 January 1910, SM6.

Special Music for Prisoner of Zenda and other Productions

This ad for the Prisoner of Zenda (1913) includes a notice for "Special Music by Joseph Carl Briel [sic], Composer of 'The Climax' and orchestration of 'Queen Elizabeth.'" It appeared in the 8 March 1913 issue of Moving Picture World.

In that same issue, music was also mentioned in this for Hiawatha.



and this two-page spread for Dick Whittington and His Cat.

Opera Selections

This week's "Music for the Picture" column is once again a grab bag. It opens with a letter on using opera selections to accompany the films. The writer also makes a comment that most people in the audience seem unaware of the music, which prompts Sinn to argue that just because an audience seems not to paying attention to the music doesn't mean that the music is not affecting them, even deeply.

The remainder of the column is taken up with a plug for a collection of appropriate numbers for organ (Moving Picture World had been carrying an ad for the collection) and suggestions for music to three war films.

The following was crowded out of my last letter through lack of space: “Dear Sir: I always find your articles and department in general a great help in settling the question, ‘What shall I play for the picture.’ Even though I know for a certainty that three-fourths of the patrons of our theater are utterly oblivious to the music, for the other fourth, I feature every possible situation and climax in each picture as much for my own satisfaction as anything else.

“I agree with Miss Ditmar, in the February 1st number, in regard to opera selections; they are my especial hobby. I might suggest that in addition to those Miss Ditmar cites, the most of which I have used to advantage, the following are equally excellent: Little Boy Blue, Rose Maid, Spring Maid, The Firefly, The Love Cure, Oh, Oh, Delphine, Under Many Flags, Hanky Panky, Count of Luxembourg, He Cam From Milwaukee, Mlle. Modiste, Lady of the Slipper, and The Red Rose. Also the overtures, Pique Dame, Jolly Robbers, La Boheme,and Madame Butterfly. Fraternally, G. Warner Metcalfe, Grand Theater, Holyoke, Mass.”

Mr. Metcalfe says that though a majority of his audience may be oblivious to the music, he plays for the minority as well as for his own satisfaction. This is the right spirit. But very often a great part of the oblivious majority may sense the fitness of the musical accompaniment without being aware of it. Anyhow it is pretty generally understood that the music should never be so prominent as to detract from the picture, but should at all times be made subservient to it. For that reason many patrons may not always notice the music in particular unless there is something wrong with it. And, after all, a musician’s greatest satisfaction is found in his own approval of his work.

* * *
Organists, of whom the number employed in moving picture theaters is constantly increasing, will be delighted with the new book of organ music published by Meyer & Bro., 77 W. Washington Street, Chicago, Ill. I have examined this book and can vouch for the excellent quality of its musical contents and their adaptability to moving picture work.

* * *
The militant spirit seemed to predominate among the feature films viewed last week. Here are suggestions for music to three most excellent war pictures—every one a feature:

“The Woe of Battle” (Kalem).

1. Heavy hurry (for battle), p. and f. until title: “General Green Makes Headquarters, etc.”
2. “Flight of the Birds” (by Rice, pub. Walter Jacobs) until title: “You Are My Brother’s Murderer.”
3. Short sentimental—one scene.
4. Short march until title: “A Broken Heart.”
5. Pathetic music for one scene.
6. Long heavy, hurry (for battle) until hospital scene.
7. Plaintive until title: “Love’s Last Farewell.”
8. “The Vacant Chair,” very pathetic until close of picture.

“The Retreat From Moscow” (Pathe).(Courtesy William E. King.)Part First.

1. “Russian National Hymn” until title: “Napoleon, To Inflame the Courage, etc.”
2. “Marsellaise” (short) until change of scene.
3. Hurry (for battle) until man is brought to general; then subdue until change of scene.
4. Agitato p. and f. until title: “After the Battle.”
5. “Reine de Sabe” (March by Gounod) once through, then:
6. “Festmarsch from Tannheuser” [sic] until end of reel.

Second Part.

1. Storm scene from “William Tell” (long) until officers come out of the Krimlin [sic].
2. “Partant Pour la Syrie” (French song) until change.
3. Agitato p. and f. until title: “The Incendiaries.”
4. Solemn (for execution) until title: “Napoleon, Fearing the Russian Winter.”
5. “Marsellaise” until title: “The Grand Army Pursued by the Russians.”
6. “Partant Pour la Syrie” until title: “The Cossacks harass the Retreating Army.”
7. Second movement “Halka” overture until peasants attack straggling soldiers.
8. Short agitato until change of scene.
9. “Partant Pour la Syrie” until title: “At Last Getting the Remnant of His Army.”
10. “Marsellaise” until end of picture.

* * *
“Pauline Cushman, the Federal Spy” (Selig).Part First.

1. Third Movement of “Raymond Overture” pp. until title: “The Toast.”
2. “It Is Better to Laugh Than Be Sighing” (from “La Traviata”) until title: “Here’s to Jeff Davis and the Southern Confederacy.”
3. “Dixie” until change of scene.
4. Introduction to “Pique Dame” overture pp. until title: “In the South.”
5. “Bonnie Blue Flag” until title: “Pauline is Overheard.”
6. Short agitato until back to camp scene, then:
7. “Bonnie Blue Flag” again pp. until change of scene.
8. Semi-mysterious (similar to No. 4; long) until “Holmes Informs Rosecrans.”
9. “Military March” mf, and p. to action until she crawls out from under tent.
10. Agitato p. and f. according to action until she discards drum and rides away.
11. Hurry; begin p. and increase with action until she enters Union camp.
12. “Yankee Doodle” until end of Part First.

Part Second.

1. Short March until she is left alone in second scene.
2. Mysterious through next three scenes until she takes officers arm and exits.
3. Ling semi-mysterious with military suggestions; similar to second movement in “Halka” overture or “Lady Moon” song from Bohemian Girl played in march tempo until old negro left along in room.
4. Mysterious semi-agitato until title, “The Confederate Ambush.”
5. March, “Gate City” (Weldon); subdue while writing is seen; play until she is seen in cane brake.
6. Agitato p. and f. At tinted scene change to:
7. Hurry (for battle) p. and f. until title: “General Rosencrans Honors Pauline.”
8. March, until end of picture.

Source: Clarence E. Sinn, “Music for the Picture,” Moving Picture World 5 April 1913, 56.