The history of Liberia was a story of hope and hard times, starting when the first American settlers arrived at Providence Island in 1822. Liberia began through the work of the American Colonization Society (ACS). Formed in 1816, this group was a strange mix of people: religious leaders, donors, and even slave owners from the South. The society was built on a confusing conflict. Some members really wanted to give free Black people a place to govern themselves, but others just wanted to remove free Black people from America. Under the ACS, Liberia was supposed to be a place of freedom for former slaves and their families—a Black-run nation based on the U.S. model. However, by 1909, that dream was under attack. Situated on the West African coast, the nation had spent decades battling the desire for land from France to the north and Britain to the west. But the most dangerous weapon used against them was not a gun; it was debt.
The $1.58 million debt that now crushed the nation had begun with a very bad British loan in 1871. Much of that money was taken by dishonest middlemen before it even reached Africa. This was made worse by a loan in 1906, which was a very unfair deal that took away Liberia's power over its own money. Under that deal, British "Inspectors" watched every cent of income. This meant that while the people were hungry and soldiers were not paid, the private lenders in London always got their money.
While the British held the debt, the Germans held the trade. By 1909, German businesses had total control over Liberian trade. The large German ships, like those of the Woermann-Linie, were the only way goods could move in or out of the country. German stores and trading houses controlled nearly three-quarters of all local business. They did not take land. Instead, they took control of the daily life of the people. They used Liberia as a source of cheap raw materials. They would buy palm oil, rubber, and coffee from local farmers for very low prices. Because the Germans owned all the ships, the farmers had no other way to sell their goods. Then, the Germans sold European goods like salt, cloth, and kerosene back to the people at very high prices. They often gave these goods on credit, making the people owe them more money than they could ever pay back. This trapped Liberia in a pincer: the British owned the government's money, and the Germans owned the people's work.
**************
September 30, 1909: The Executive Mansion, Monrovia
The Executive Mansion was located in Monrovia, the capital of the republic. Inside the Executive Mansion, the heat felt very heavy. President Arthur Barclay sat at his desk. With him were F.E.R. Johnson, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, and Daniel Edward Howard, the Minister of Finance. They were men trapped between losing their freedom and an impossible debt.
"The British want even more control over our land," Howard began, his voice flat. "They know we cannot pay. Our total money from taxes and trade is only about three hundred and eighty thousand dollars a year. That is very little compared to the debt that keeps growing. Our country is slowly slipping away, and we are becoming a financial colony."
Barclay leaned back, his gaze lingering on the heavy, leather-bound proposal. "And this American proposition?" he asked, his voice steady yet weary. "Speak plainly—strip away the legalities and tell me the heart of it."
Howard explained. "The Kingston family offers to pay off the entire 1.58 million dollar debt all at once. They want no interest and no control over our money. In return, they want a 99-year lease on the rubber lands and the right to open Kingston banks, stores, and factories on our land. If we allow their industries, the country will finally have enough work for our people. We can sell their cars here to those who can afford them, and we can produce everything they make in our own local factories."
Barclay turned to F.E.R. Johnson. "Have you checked the Kingston name? I know they are the richest American family, but what about their character?"
"I did several inquiries, Mr. President," Johnson replied. "The Kingston businesses and the family have a very solid name in the States. Even their rivals say they are just and fair. They have a reputation for honor."
Johnson paused, his face becoming serious. "But I knew what you truly wanted to know. I asked the question: will they be kind to people of our skin?"
Barclay nodded slowly. "That is the question that matters most. We have seen how the Europeans view us—as a resource to be used, not as men to be respected."
"The most I can say is this," Johnson said sincerely. "There is no word anywhere that the Kingstons are racist. In their factories, they pay Black workers the same fair wages as white workers. They do not see color; they see hard work and skill. They show no bias against a man because of his skin. To me, that is the best proof of their character."
Howard tapped the contract. "And the deal they offered is good. By bringing their factories here, they will create a real economy for us. It is more than just a lease; it is a way to build our future."
President Barclay looked out toward the window, watching the heat rise from the dusty streets. There was no real choice left for them anyway. To say no was to watch the republic slowly die under the weight of European debt. He decided to put his trust in the Kingston name, hoping that they would keep their word and prove to be the partners they claimed to be.
With a steady hand, Barclay reached for his pen and signed the agreement. "Inform the Kingstons. Tell them the gates of Liberia are open."
*****************
October 3, 1909: Los Feliz, Los Angeles
The evening breeze was cooling the porch of the house as Michael sat reading a book, enjoying the quiet evening with Evelyn at his side.
Jack Copper stepped out, holding a yellow telegram.
"The word just arrived from the State Department, sir," Jack said. "The deal is complete. President Barclay has signed the agreement. We are paying off the British debt right now, and the lease for the rubber lands is officially ours."
Michael nodded slowly. "Make the arrangements to send some of our selected men to go there, Jack," he said, staring at the distant lights of the studio. "And also include some locals there to involve in management. I want their own people to have a hand in running this future."
Michael paused, his mind already moving to the challenges ahead. "Make detailed plans to open our businesses there. We are going to have conflict with other countries like Britain and Germany who feel they are losing their grip. I want you to recruit more members into Kingston Security Services. Send our best veterans, but also recruit the locals there to stand with us. I want a force that can protect what we build."
He leaned forward, his voice turning cold. "And instruct the security teams to study the local bureaucrats. I want to know their weak points—their debts, their habits, and their loyalties. In a place like this, the officials are usually the ones who cause the first problems. We need to know how to handle them before they become an obstacle."
Jack nodded, noting the strategic gravity of the orders. "I will make the arrangements immediately, sir. I'll contact the relevant people and begin the vetting process for the teams."
"Good," Michael said. He picked up a crystal glass of whiskey from the small table beside him and took a slow, thoughtful sip, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
Jack bowed slightly and turned to leave.
Evelyn, who had been sitting quietly beside him, asked softly, "Will it be successful? Can you truly change the way the world works there?"
Michael met her gaze, his eyes reflecting the sharp, cold fire of the setting sun. "If we only build for profit, Evelyn, we are no better than the empires we're replacing there. But I am trying to build a partnership that is a fortress—one that no diplomat can breach and no debt collector can dismantle. It has to succeed. I will make it succeed."
He set his glass down, his tone turning cold. "Success isn't achieved simply by wish or hope ; you build it with structure, methodology, and relentless planning. We aren't gambling on luck or the whims of world politics. We are applying a repeatable system—a mindset where every obstacle is just another variable to be balanced. When the logic is sound and the foundation is solid, the outcome isn't a guess; it's a guarantee. And I intend to solve it by making the Kingston name synonymous with their own prosperity."
Evelyn watched him return his attention to his book, his profile etched against the fading light with the same unyielding precision he applied to his machines. She felt a quiet, profound wave of certainty settle over her. Listening to the clinical conviction in his voice, she realized that despite the massive scale of the challenge Michael would do exactly what he said. She felt that there was nothing in this world Michael couldn't do if he simply put his mind to it.
*******
With the Liberian deal finalized and the wheels of his industrial expansion in motion, Michael pivoted his focus back to the creative front. The logistical and diplomatic hurdles were cleared, leaving him free to dedicate his full energy to the production of The Count of Monte Cristo. The filming would prove to be a marathon of technical innovation and artistic discipline, stretching from October 1909 into January 1910.
The first weeks of filming for The Count of Monte Cristo revealed a fascinating, unintended phenomenon that would eventually define the film's unique atmosphere. As the cameras began to roll, a stark contrast emerged between the lead actor and the prestigious ensemble Michael had gathered.
The supporting cast—William J. Ferguson, George Arliss, and King Baggot—were products of the high-theatrical tradition. Their training was rooted in the demand of the stage, where every emotion had to reach the last row of a thousand-seat gallery. In 1909, "acting" for the camera was still largely an extension of this: broad gestures, expressive eyes, and a tendency to "pantomime" thoughts to compensate for the lack of spoken word in traditional silent films. Even with Kingston's sound system recording their voices, their bodies remained tethered to the dramatic flair of the theater.
Michael, however, was a total anomaly. He had no theatrical training, no knowledge of "stage presence," and no interest in the dramatic posturing of his peers. His "acting" was not an art he had learned in a school, but a survival mechanism he had mastered in the shadows of a previous life.
When Michael stood before the lens as Edmond Dantès, he didn't "perform." He simply wore a mask, much as he had done when infiltrating high-security zones or charming a target before a strike. His movements were minimal, efficient, and hauntingly still. He didn't use his hands to emphasize a point; he used the cold, steady focus of his eyes. His voice didn't rise in theatrical anger; it dropped into a quiet, vibrating intensity that made the hair on the crew's necks stand up.
This became the primary challenge of the production. Michael didn't change his style—partly because he didn't know how to, and partly because he didn't see the point. To him, the Count was a man who had been hollowed out by fourteen years of stone and silence; a man who had emerged with a mind like a clockwork machine. He couldn't be "theatrical."
As a result, the rest of the cast found themselves forced to adapt. George Arliss and Lionel Barrymore began to "underplay" their scenes with Michael, stripping away the broad gestures and leaning into the subtlety that the Kingston microphones allowed. They learned that in a scene with Michael, less was infinitely more. Yet, even as they dialed back their performances, a fundamental difference remained. The professionals were still "acting" at being still, while Michael simply was still.
Surprisingly, this stylistic gap became the film's greatest asset.
In the narrative, the Count of Monte Cristo is meant to be a figure of profound, unsettling change. He is a man who has returned from the dead, a powerful man who is fundamentally different from the society he has re-entered. The fact that Michael moved and spoke with a naturalism that the others couldn't quite replicate highlighted this "otherness."
It reinforced the idea that Edmond Dantès was no longer entirely human—that the prison had burned away the "theatricality" of his youth and left behind something far more dangerous.
While the emotional scenes were a challenge for the theatrical actors, the physical combat was a revelation. In early cinema, fight scenes were often clumsy, rehearsed dances with broad, sweeping swings that looked more like ballet than battle.
For Michael, however, action was not a performance; it was instinct.
He didn't need to learn how to move in a fight; he had to learn how to slow down so the camera could actually capture him.
Michael stepped into the role of a trainer, working for hours with King Baggot and Lionel Barrymore. Both men were athletic, but they were used to "stage fencing"—noisy, showy clashes of steel meant to be seen from the rafters. Michael stripped that away. He taught them the economy of motion, the way a man actually holds a blade when his life is on the line, and the cold, unblinking focus required during a parry.
The sword fights were already emerging as the undisputed highlight of the production. Captured with multiple cameras the duels were unlike anything that had ever been put to screen. They were fast, brutal, and possessed a lethal grace that Barry knew would make the future audience hold their breath.
Filming finally wrapped at the end of January 1910 after a grueling three-month schedule that had pushed the entire studio to its physical and creative limits. Post-production and editing took another month of intensive work to integrate the French location shots and refine the synchronized sound. With the film now officially scheduled for an April release, they could only wait and see if the public would love the work they had created. The final verdict was no longer in their hands.