Scene 1. _New England farm-yard._

[Illustration:

(_Edison_)

INTERIOR OF A TYPICAL MOTION-PICTURE STUDIO]

[Illustration: A-B-C

OF

MOTION

PICTURES

ILLUSTRATED]

BY

ROBERT E. WELSH

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS

NEW YORK & LONDON

HARPER’S A-B-C SERIES

A-B-C OF COOKING. By CHRISTINE TERHUNE HERRICK

A-B-C OF GOLF. By JOHN D. DUNN

A-B-C OF VEGETABLE GARDENING. By EBEN E. REXFORD

A-B-C OF CORRECT SPEECH. By FLORENCE HOWE HALL

A-B-C OF ARCHITECTURE. By FRANK E. WALLIS

A-B-C OF HOUSEKEEPING. By CHRISTINE TERHUNE HERRICK

A-B-C OF ELECTRICITY. By WILLIAM H. MEADOWCROFT

A-B-C OF GARDENING. By EBEN E. REXFORD

A-B-C OF GOOD FORM. By ANNE SEYMOUR

A-B-C OF AUTOMOBILE DRIVING. By ALPHEUS H. VERRILL

A-B-C OF MOTION PICTURES. By ROBERT E. WELSH

A-B-C OF HOME SAVING. By LISSIE C. FARMER

16mo, Cloth

HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK

A-B-C OF MOTION PICTURES

Copyright, 1916, by Harper & Brothers

Printed in the United States of America

Published April, 1916

FOREWORD

The marvelous development of the motion picture and the important place

it has won in the heart of the entire civilized world have attracted

an interest never before attained in so short a time by any form of

amusement. The author of this volume has commendably explained the

essential facts in the history of this popular art, and the principles

allied with it of most general interest to the public at large. It

contains answers to questions commonly and constantly asked, and I

believe that its perusal will be well worth while.

DAN’L FROHMAN.

INTRODUCTION

Both as a form of entertainment and as an educational force the motion

picture now merits consideration in the front rank of the world’s

activities. Conservative estimates state that twelve million persons

attend the picture theaters of the United States every day. Were

figures available for Europe they could not add any to the amazement

of those who remember that the motion picture’s strides to its present

popularity have been taken in a period of less than twenty years.

Perhaps it is because of the rapidity of its growth that the art is

still a mystery to the layman. In this book the author has set himself

the task of answering the hundred and one questions that must occur

frequently to followers of the motion picture. In a logical manner

every stage in the process of making motion pictures is covered, while

due attention has been paid to the historical and business phases of

the subject. A studied effort has been made to use terms clear to

the lay mind. With the task completed, it is the conviction of the

author that the reader will find his puzzling doubts replaced by a

clear understanding that should add immeasurably to his interest in the

motion-picture art.

Additional chapters of instruction in the writing of photoplays have

been included in the belief that they will meet a widely-felt need for

accurate information and authoritative advice on this aspect of the

silent drama. Though the book is explanatory throughout, a chapter

of specific advice to the amateur organization desirous of staging a

motion picture has been provided. This is an untouched field in works

on pictures, and one that we believe is steadily becoming of interest

to a wider circle.

R. E. W.

NEW YORK, _December, 1915_.

A-B-C OF MOTION PICTURES

I

HISTORY AND PRINCIPLES OF MOTION PICTURES

Like practically all other modern mechanical wonders, the motion

picture was not the invention of any one man. Rather, the picture

as we know it to-day is the cumulative result of the toil and

experiments of a score of workers, whose efforts cover over half a

century. As far back as 1795 scientists were striving to produce the

phenomena of pictures that moved. Succeeding generations all saw

experimenters working toward the same object, each contributing his

mite of improvement, until, with Thomas A. Edison’s invention of the

kinetoscope, in 1893, the day of modern motion pictures dawned.

Though all these seekers for knowledge worked constantly with “pictures

of objects in motion” as their goal, it is not possible that any saw

in the motion picture the possibility of development to its present

important place. Dreamers as they necessarily were, there were no

imaginations even among picture-men of the last decade that would

dare such wide stretches of fancy. No other artistic or industrial

development of history will bear comparison with the motion picture’s

leap from humble beginnings to exalted favor.

Let us go back to the lowly antecedents of the present-day giant.

In the year 1830, we find a description of the zoetrope, or “Wheel

of Life,” which was introduced in the United States in 1845. Though

pretending to be nothing more than a toy, the zoetrope embodied the

optical principle that is at the basis of all motion-picture work.

It consisted of a revolving cylinder, in appearance much like a

common hat-box, with the top removed to permit the light to enter.

Vertical slots were made equal spaces apart around the upper half of

the cylinder, and ten or more drawings showing a particular object in

different positions were placed around the lower half of the interior.

The cylinder revolved on a vertical spindle, and the spectator,

peering through the slots, received the impression of seeing the object

on the interior in motion. Simple drawings were used, a favorite being

the figure of a dancer.

The similarity between the zoetrope, despite the fact that it did not

make use of photography, and the modern motion picture, lies in the

scientific principle responsible for the illusion of moving figures. In

viewing a particular object there is the briefest delay in conveying

the impression from the eye to the brain, so that the latter has the

conception of seeing the object after it has actually passed from the

field of vision. If, during this fractional part of a second, another

picture of the object, in a slightly different position, is presented

to the eye, the brain’s sensation will be that of having seen the

object move. Were a series of such pictures moved before the eye in

rapid succession, the impression registered would seem more like a

streak than an object in motion, so that there must be some way of

cutting off the vision until the second picture has been moved into

the exact position held by the first, and so on. The spaces between

the slots in the zoetrope served this purpose, and so rapid was the

revolution of the cylinder that the spectator was not aware of having

had his vision interrupted, and only received the impression that on a

direct line with the eye there was an object which seemed to be moving.

To understand the application of this principle to modern motion

pictures let us take a strip of film a foot in length as an example.

There are sixteen separate pictures on this piece of film. The screen

of the motion-picture theater serves as the fixed point at which the

spectator is gazing. One second is required to show this foot of film

on the screen, and the spectator is of the opinion that pictures have

been shown throughout that entire second. In reality, the shutter of

the projection-machine threw each separate picture on the screen for

about one thirty-second of a second, and there was an interval of about

the same duration while the next picture was being moved into place.

The zoetrope had many successors, as new devices of improvement were

discovered. It never became much more than a toy, however, interesting

solely because the simple objects shown appeared to move. The next

important chapter in motion-picture history concerns the experiments

of Edward Muybridge, an Englishman, in 1871-2. Photography had by this

time advanced so that it was possible to take pictures with an exposure

of less than one-twentieth of a second. Muybridge conceived the plan

of using several cameras to photograph an object in motion. Governor

Leland Stanford, of California, offered to finance an experiment by

which pictures were to be taken of his race-horse, Occident.

Muybridge placed twenty-four cameras along the rail of the California

race-track, where the attempt was to be made. Strings were stretched

across the track from each of the cameras and adjusted so that when

the running horse broke them it would operate the shutter in such a

manner that each camera secured a photograph of the animal. Muybridge’s

success received world-wide notice and set the scientists of Europe

and America to renewed efforts to perfect the motion-picture idea.

Some progress was made in the decade immediately following, the French

worker, Dr. Marey, being especially successful.

But for many reasons Muybridge’s methods, and those of his followers,

were not fitted to practical use. These faults all found their basis

in the necessity of using cumbersome glass plates in making the

photographs, so the search began for a flexible substance on which

pictures could be taken. Gelatine was utilized in many different ways,

with little success; preparations of all sorts were tried on paper. Our

own Edison was working on the problem in the early eighties, and made

many important discoveries regarding pictures, but they were not to see

practical application until the invention of celluloid film.

History, in this case found in dusty court records, awards the priority

of patent on the process of making motion-picture film to the Rev.

Hannibal Goodwin, of Newark, New Jersey. In the years between 1885

and 1887 the clergyman, working independently, and George Eastman,

experimenting with his co-worker, Walker, evolved a flexible film of

which celluloid was the basis. Eastman’s company began the manufacture

of the film on a large scale, and waxed strong, while Goodwin, and

later his heirs, were forced to a court battle that did not end

until 1914, when a final decision was given in favor of the owners

of the Goodwin patents. At present the Eastman Company manufactures

practically all of the world’s film supply under an arrangement with

the holders of the Newark clergyman’s patents.

When Edison saw that the flexible film was successful in ordinary

photography he again turned to serious work on motion pictures, and

the Chicago World’s Fair, held in 1893, saw the introduction of his

kinetoscope. This was a coin-in-the-slot device and a nickel was the

charge at that time to view a picture about thirty seconds in duration.

The novelty soon wore off, mainly because the pictures were so short,

and Edison placed the kinetoscope on the shelf. Apparently foreign

mechanical workers attending the Fair thought more of the apparatus

than did its inventor, for in the years immediately following they made

many advances on the original model, while Edison had even neglected

to patent his invention abroad. Paul in London, Lumière in France, and

numerous others were at work, and by 1896 signs of their success were

apparent. The result was that Edison again turned to his kinetoscope,

and soon he presented an improved machine, the vitascope, which could

be used in theaters to show pictures on a screen.

The motion picture was here. It was not long before pictures were

being shown in theaters in Paris and London, and in July, 1896,

Lumière’s cinematograph was exhibited at the Union Square Theater

in New York. Others entered the field, some of the pioneers being

Siegmund Lubin, William N. Selig, Henry Marvin, George Kleine, Francis

Marion, William T. Rock, Albert E. Smith, and J. Stuart Blackton.

These early picture-men were also, by necessity, somewhat capable as

inventors, and numerous patents were secured on different portions of

the apparatus for making and exhibiting pictures. The next few years of

the industry’s history is the tale of numerous patent suits that wound

in and out of the courts. The legal battles accentuated the naturally

bitter competition to be expected in exploiting the new wonder. But the

public had given a hearty welcome to the latest form of entertainment,

and the picture-makers waxed prosperous, despite the handicap of

internal strife. Theaters in all the big cities were showing the

pictures as novelties, and traveling exhibitors were frequent. The

“store show,” a picture theater made by remodeling a common store, came

into being, and to supply them with pictures exchanges were opened all

over the country. These exchanges were the “middle-men” of the picture

field, buying the films from the manufacturers, and in turn renting

them to the theater-owners.

The patent litigation came to an end in 1908 when a group of the most

important companies united to protect their patents, and to distribute

their output through a common channel. For a time it seemed that the

motion picture was to become a monopoly. But the independents, by

co-operation with foreign manufacturers, succeeded in maintaining their

position, so that the field is to-day as open to individual activity as

any other line of commercial effort.

In the years immediately preceding the organization of this group of

the biggest concerns, the picture itself was not progressing. There

was no longer any novelty in seeing people in motion on the screen,

and the inane subjects shown offered little more than that. While

the pessimists, who, as a matter of fact, had never taken a deep

interest in the motion picture, were predicting its early demise, the

manufacturers set about to find means of renewing the interest. Short

dramas and comedies were written, and players drafted from the stage.

The public responded readily, and once more Fortune smiled upon the

picture-men, never again to desert them.

Until about 1911 the average motion picture was approximately one

thousand feet long, and occasionally two or more distinct subjects

were included on a piece of film this length. The reels on which the

film is wound for easy handling will hold one thousand feet, so that

in the United States a picture of this length came to be known as a

“single-reel” picture. In England and on the Continent this term has

not come into general use, the practice being to state the approximate

length of the film in feet or meters. Though Richard G. Holloman’s

three-thousand-foot or three-reel production of “The Passion Play,”

in 1905, had proved most profitable, the American manufacturers did

not heed the indication that audiences would welcome stories longer

than one thousand feet. Foreign producers were quicker to see the

possibilities of the longer picture, but as recently as 1912 their

productions of greater length than two thousand feet were offered

without response on the American market. Then came the success of “Quo

Vadis?” an Italian multiple-reel picture, exploited in this country by

George Kleine, of Chicago, to whom credit must be given for the rise

of the long production, with its results in placing the picture in the

best theaters in the country. “Quo Vadis?” earned a fortune, and was

followed by a scramble on the part of buyers to get the long-neglected

foreign productions, while the American manufacturers turned their

attention to the staging of multiple-reel pictures.

To-day the short picture, though still forming the bulk of the output,

is somewhat neglected, for the quickest way to the public’s fancy

seems to lie in the big production that rivals the stage-play. In

Europe the long picture is declining in favor, and the picture of one

and two thousand feet returning to popularity. In the United States,

however, it would seem that the future of the motion picture lies in

the production that gives an entire evening’s entertainment, offering,

as it does, opportunities for the exercise of artistic effort that are

denied by the fifteen or thirty minute picture.

II

THE STUDIO--THE MECHANICS OF PICTURE MAKING AND SHOWING

Picture studios dot the map of the world. One or more will be found

in practically every capital of Europe. In France there are three

principal manufacturing companies, each with a chain of studios.

Germany and the Scandinavian countries likewise produce a number of

pictures, while Italy ranks second to France in the European field. For

reasons probably finding their root in the stolid British temperament,

England has not kept pace with France, Italy, and the United States as

a producer of film. Within recent years, however, there have been signs

of an awakening on the part of the English which should give to that

country a more fitting place in the new art.

Los Angeles and New York, and the territory around these cities,

share the honors as picture-producing centers in the United States.

Several other large cities have picture studios, however, and the list

is constantly being added to by the search for new settings or the

enterprise of local capitalists. New York has been found to be ideal

as a location because of the variety of scenery, from seashore to

crowded city street or pretty rural settings within easy reach. But

southern California, with almost continuous sunshine, has become the

picture Mecca and it is estimated that over one-half of the world’s

picture-supply is made there.

Around New York the studios are almost all solely for indoor work, the

producers using the “highways and byways” for their outdoor scenes. In

California, however, several of the companies own estates covering many

hundreds of acres, and it is seldom necessary to go off the company’s

property to take any scene desired. Dotting the estates you will find

village streets that would seem to have been transplanted from the

four corners of the globe. Well-stocked zoos, that would be the prize

possession of many a municipality, are a unique feature of some of

these plants. Philadelphia also boasts of a large picture-producing

estate of this type. Indoor studios may be recognized by the glass

top and sides, an evidence of the desire for sunlight. Mercury lights

and electric arc-lights are the means of illumination used for work at

night or on days when the sun’s rays do not prove sufficient.

A knowledge of the workings of the motion-picture camera is essential

to a clear understanding of the chapters that follow, so it might

be well to include that here. You have seen the large box camera

employed in the ordinary photographer’s gallery. The motion-picture

camera appears very much like an enlarged box camera, with the

addition of a crank on the side and a dial to measure the amount of

film used. It is mounted on a tripod which is also movable, either

laterally or horizontally, by means of cranks. In all essential points

motion-picture photography is really continuous snap-shot photography.

Celluloid film is used, that for motion-picture purposes being one and

three-eighth inches wide, and supplied in long strips, the average

length being two hundred feet. By turning the crank at the side the

motion photographer is able to get continuous photographs of a person

or object in motion, instead of the single picture that the snap-shot

photographer gets. As each of these photographs is only three-quarters

of an inch high, it will be seen that the cinematographer can take

sixteen separate photographs on each foot of film in his camera. This

“sixteen” is a cabalistic figure in motion pictures. There are sixteen

photographs on each foot of film. For average work the camera-man

photographs the pictures at the rate of sixteen to the second, and they

are shown on the screen in the picture theater at the same speed.

When the camera-man turns the crank at the side of his camera two

independent mechanisms are affected by the operation, the shutter and

the device for feeding the film. The shutter is opened to allow the

brief exposure of the film necessary to take a single picture, and it

is then closed while another three-quarter inch of film is moved into

position ready for the next picture. The camera-man continues to turn

his crank, thus repeating the operation over and over again until the

entire scene is photographed.

The shutter in motion-picture cameras is a revolving disk, in which a

“V”-shaped opening is cut, or also the aperture may be formed by two

disks superimposed, in which case the operator is able to vary the

size of the opening. The operator’s crank is connected by gears to the

shutter, which is placed between the lens and the film. The action

of the shutter has been explained in the paragraph above. It might be

stated here that the exposure of the film is a trifle longer than that

which would be allowed by the ordinary snap-shot photographer, since

the blurring which results on the picture is indistinguishable, owing

to the rapidity with which the photographs follow each other on the

screen.

Two light-tight boxes are contained in the camera, one at the top to

hold the raw film, and the lower one to receive the film after it has

been exposed. Perforations have been made along the edges of the film

before it is placed in the camera, the holes being oblong in shape,

one-eighth of an inch wide and one-sixteenth of an inch in height.

The film-feeding device, which is either of the sprocket-wheel type,

which drives the film through, or the claw-hammer type, which pulls it,

engages in these holes. The perforations serve a similar purpose in

the camera, the projection-machine, and in the process of developing

the negative and printing the positives. It will be seen that the

perforating, which is done by machinery, must be accurate to the

one-hundredth of an inch.

The working of the projection-machine, the apparatus which throws the

image on the film onto the screen, is in many ways similar to that

of the camera. Or, a simpler comparison, the projection-machine is

really the familiar stereopticon, or magic lantern, with the addition

of mechanism for feeding the film rapidly before the light and the

lenses. In the first place, there is a “lamp-house,” a small cabinet

which contains the light, supplied by means of an arc-light, and the

condensing lens. The light created by the carbons of the arc, while

strong, is diffused in the lamp-house, and it is the purpose of the

condensing lenses to concentrate the rays before throwing them on the

screen. The pictures are outlined on the screen because of the fact

that the figures on the film obstruct light in proportion to their

density.

From the lamp-house and the condensing lenses we naturally pass to

consideration of the film, and the devices by which it is fed before

the rays of light with such accuracy that the picture is always in

place on the screen, and with such rapidity and uniformity of speed

that the spectator is not aware of the fact that he is really looking

at sixteen separate pictures each second. The principle of the

operation is similar to that used in the camera. The film passes from a

fire-proof magazine above, being pulled out by a sprocket-wheel that

engages in the perforations. After passing from these sprockets there

is a brief respite for the film, a loop being provided to relieve it so

that the pull will not be too great when passing through the film-gate

which holds the image in place before the rays of the condenser. It is

necessary that the gate hold the film perfectly taut and in alignment,

for it can be seen that the slightest fractional deviation would appear

great when the image is magnified by the objective lenses onto the

screen.

Below the film-gate we find another sprocket-wheel, this one to pull

the film through the gate, being operated by an intermittent movement.

This movement brings the required length of film before the condensing

lens’s rays, allows it to remain there the necessary length of time,

and then repeats the operation over and over until the entire reel

is shown. Improvements in projection-machines, and especially in the

“intermittent movement,” have eliminated the flickering, “jumpy”

pictures we remember so well only a few years ago. The film is put in

motion by a crank at the side of the machine, operated either by hand

or by electric power. It is the function of the intermittent movement

to convert this rotary motion into the short rectilinear motions that

move the film, with the corresponding rests while it is being shown.

The principal type of intermittent movement consists of a revolving

“pin”wheel, operated by the turning of the crank. The pin engages in

the arm of another wheel, a cross in shape, which makes one-quarter of

a revolution, and, since it is connected to the sprocket-wheel, thus

pulls the film through the gate. At the completion of its down stroke

the pinwheel necessarily disengages with the arm of the cross and

continues to revolve. But the cross is idle, so the film is held firm

in the gate until the pinwheel completes the circle and engages with

the next arm of the cross. This will serve the purpose of explaining

the principle of the intermittent movement, though improvements and

variations are constantly being made.

The portions of the projection-machine yet unexplained are the

objective lens and the shutter. The lens, which is immediately in front

of the film-gate, receives the rays of light passing through the film

from the condenser and throws them on the screen. The shutter, which

is usually of the revolving-disk type, interrupts the light while the

film is being moved to allow the next photograph to reach the correct

position. It may be remarked here that the film cannot be allowed to

remain in the film-gate indefinitely, for the intense heat of the light

from the condenser would soon ignite it. This occasionally happens

when the film buckles, and the operator’s first thought when there

is trouble with his machine is to shut off the light. Safety fire

appliances prevent the blaze from spreading beyond the film-gate.

The motion photographer is able with the aid of his camera to perform

any number of miraculous feats. He can have one man play two or

three parts on the screen at one time, thus having an actor engage

in conversation with himself, and so on. And then, readers are most

likely all familiar with the pictures showing magical appearances and

disappearances of characters. Or the picture-maker can give you a

thrilling view of the burning of a city, yet he need not have journeyed

outside the studio or expended more than a few dollars to get the scene.

The use of models built in exact miniature explains the producer’s

ability to burn a thriving metropolis to the ground so easily. The

wreck of an ocean liner is another feat accomplished in a small

tank with papier-maché models. When photographed with the camera

comparatively close these scenes appear on the screen to be absolutely

realistic, though to the spectator in the theater it seems that the

camera was placed at a great distance. Readers who remember the

startling volcanic eruption shown in “Cabiria” have evidence of the

remarkable deceiving power of the models.

Plays with twin brothers or sisters in the principal rôles became

popular with picture producers after they discovered that it was

possible to have one player appear simultaneously in the two parts.

This is accomplished by “double exposure,” which, as the words

indicate, is performed by exposing the same strip of film twice. Take

the case mentioned, the showing of twin brothers, as an example. First

a hair-line division is made of the stage, marking off the two parts

on which the different brothers are to appear. Then the scene on one

side of the stage is photographed, the film on the other side being

protected from exposure--“masked” is the technical term. Following

the photographing of this scene, the actor playing the twin brothers

steps to the other side of the stage and, with the action already

photographed now “masked,” the same strip of film is run through the

camera. When the picture is developed it will appear as though two

actors appeared in the scene. In making such scenes the director of

the production makes use of a split-second watch in order that the

action may be timed perfectly and that on both sides of the film chime

correctly. It can be seen that a slip of a fraction of a second can

easily make the character’s actions appear ridiculous. Despite the

difficulties of the work, however, it has become quite common, and

daring directors have gone so far as to have dual characters, played

by one person, clasp each other’s hands. Where physical contact is

attempted, it will be seen that the director, in addition to accurately

timing the action on both sides of the film, must have a marker that

will note to the fraction of an inch the point at which the character

stretched his hand outside the camera’s range, so that, when the other

side of the film is photographed, the joining will be perfect. A

thread, invisible to the camera, and stretched from above the stage to

the floor will serve this purpose.

A type of double-exposure work that is, perhaps, even more familiar

to readers is that used in showing visions, as, for instance, when

the producer desires to show the thoughts that are passing through a

character’s mind. The vision may appear in one of the upper corners

of the scene, the more common method, or, for novelty’s sake, it may

form on the pages of a book the character is reading. The principle in

these cases is similar to that explained in the twin-brothers scene.

First the action covering most of the scene is photographed, with that

part of the film masked on which the vision is to appear. Then the

same strip of film is run through the camera to photograph the players

enacting the action of the vision. It will be readily apparent that

in this work the camera’s perspective must be altered, where in the

twin-brother scene it was necessary that there be no change in the

position of the camera until both scenes were photographed.

The magical appearances and disappearances of characters will be simple

to readers who now understand the operation of the motion-picture

camera. They will see that it is an easy matter to have a character

disappear by ceasing to turn the crank, covering the lens, and then

having the character walk off the scene, after which the turning of

the crank is resumed. When the picture is developed the player will be

seen up to a certain point, then he will suddenly disappear, but the

other objects in the scene will appear unchanged. In the same manner a

person can be brought suddenly on the scene, appearing to spring from

the air. Trick effects may also be secured by running the film through

the camera backward, and reversing the actions of the players, that

is, making them “do things backward.” When the film is run through the

projection-machine correctly, and shown on the screen, you see the

player perform such miraculous feats as jumping from the middle of a

river clear up a steep bank, when in reality to take the picture he

leaped backward from the bank to the river--but the film was reversed.

In securing all these effects the producer does not fail to make use

of the power of suggestion in the mind of the audience. For instance,

the amazing disappearance will be accompanied by the ignition of a

smoke-pot, so that it will appear that the character “went up in

smoke,” a decidedly more impressive effect than to have him of a

sudden vanish into thin air. The latter appears too artificial. In

photographing visions, also, the camera’s eye will be narrowed, then

gradually widened, so that the audience imagines it can see the

figures taking shape and form. With the use of models especially

the power of suggestion must be adroitly employed, for, if given

undistracted opportunity to examine a scene, the audience would quickly

note its artificiality. If a producer were forced to use models in

depicting a train wreck, for example, he would be careful to work up

to it by showing views of real trains speeding along the rails, and

even actual views of the spot at which the wreck was to occur. The

models would then be built in exact duplicate of this spot. Flashes

of the model trains rushing to destruction would then be interspersed

with close-up views of the characters in the story, who, we will say,

are supposed to be on one of the trains, or else they are rushing to a

switch in a vain attempt to prevent the wreck. Following the crash of

the trains the producer would be quick to give us close-up views of a

real train wreck, probably taken months before by a news photographer,

or else he might batter a studio-built car, upset a smoke-pot or two,

and have the characters in the story rush about in the dimly lit--but

apparently harrowing--scene. The different scenes might be taken days,

weeks, or even months apart, yet when joined together by a careful

producer the effect would be that of a swift, onrushing climax.

What about talking-pictures and natural-color films? is one of the

first questions asked by the layman. He remembers that perfect

talking-pictures were announced some years ago, and that kinemacolor

pictures which reproduce all the coloring of nature have long been

on the market. Why have they not crowded the old black-and-white

and silent pictures out? Let us take the talking-picture first. The

illusion of seeing the characters and hearing them speak at the same

time is produced by the synchronization of a phonograph and the

picture-projector. Now, while perfect timing can be secured, no way

has been found to keep the synchronization perfect. A scratch on the

talking-machine record, for example, can be seen to result disastrously

if it jumps the conversation a word in advance of the figure on the

screen. Again, motion-picture film must undergo considerable wear in

the projection-machine and frequently the perforations are torn. The

operator will then cut the torn piece out and paste the film together

once more. The lost bit of action is not noticed on the screen; the

pictures follow one another too rapidly for that. But a corresponding

change cannot be made in the talking-record, and it does not require

many patches to throw film and phonograph out of time. It is possible

that these mechanical difficulties will be overcome, and also that the

talking-picture will be perfected so that, instead of the simplest of

scenes as at present, it will be able to depict the entire action of an

ambitious drama, but to-day it is clear that the picture patron greatly

prefers the silent drama.

Natural-color films, which are taken by means of two cameras,

photographing separately the red and green rays of the spectrum, the

two being superimposed in projection, though more successful than

the talking-pictures, have failed of being universally adopted. The

brilliance of the pictures was found to be tiring to the eyes, while

the depiction of rapid action without the presence of a blur or

“fringe” around the characters was found difficult. Open-air stages and

ideal conditions were necessary to secure the full benefit of the sun,

and the requirement for a specially designed projection-machine proved

a handicap. But the prophet would be foolish who would pronounce either

natural-color or talking-pictures as dead because of early failures.

III

MOTION-PICTURE SUBJECTS

The camera’s eye may roam the world for subjects; its range equals

that of the newspaper or magazine. The stage and literature, travel,

science, news and advertising, all are open to the motion picture. The

photoplay, presenting a visualized story, is the most popular form,

for the public heeds quickest the call of entertainment. But serious

students of the motion picture believe that, in time, its purely

amusement features will be dwarfed by the development along lines that

may be roughly grouped under the heading “educational.”

Even to-day the news pictorial is one of the most interesting and

profitable of motion-picture subjects. Five of the picture companies

have representatives stationed all over the globe, gathering material

for these “animated newspapers,” while there are scores of small

companies covering limited territories with a direct appeal to local

picture theaters. The news pictorial camera-man must be as alert as

his stepbrother, the reporter, for the competition is every bit as

keen as that in the newspaper field, and a victory over a rival just

as great cause for elation. But the photographer must be “on the spot”

while his news is happening, so that his work is much more difficult

and his field limited. Furthermore, the camera-man’s news must,

either by its importance or its human interest, have an appeal to the

entire country, and the ideal piece of “news-film” is that which may

also be used abroad. Especially disastrous fires, which can often be

photographed while they are happening, the effects of train wrecks

or other accidents, personages prominent in the news of the day, all

these are grist for the camera-man’s mill. Parades are the bane of

the pictorial editor’s life, for he knows that lengthy views are not

of great interest, yet he is often forced to use them because of the

scarcity of views of real news events. Occasionally the editor of the

news pictorial will create his own news by having a daredevil perform

some unusual feat.

When the representative has taken his picture the negative is rushed

to the headquarters, where it is developed, and the editor starts to

work assembling the film that has been received from the different

field men. Often there are little office tragedies when the film is

developed and it is found that a singularly interesting piece of film

must be thrown away because of poor photography. The news camera-man

cannot make his own conditions; he must take big chances, for the news

will not wait for him. After the editor has assembled the film that he

can use, subtitles are written, and the completed films shipped to the

various exchanges, which distribute them to the theaters. The greatest

handicaps the news pictorial has had to overcome are the difficulty of

getting the film to the theaters while the news is fresh, and the fact

that the news picture’s life is short. A dramatic picture will live,

that is, earn money by rentals to exhibitors, almost indefinitely, but

the news-film that is two months old is practically ready for the shelf.

Commercial reasons have likewise retarded the development of the

educational picture. Indeed, in view of the return that it was

possible, until recently, to secure from educational pictures, one

must compliment the manufacturers on the moderate attention they

have bestowed on the subject. Theater-managers have always been wary

of offering their audiences pictures that were avowedly educational,

so that the income from this source has always been small. Within

the past few years, however, schools and other institutions of an

educational character have devoted more attention to the possibilities

of the motion picture, and the development of systematic and profitable

methods of distribution is likely. Once this is brought about, the

growth in importance of the educational picture is certain to be

astounding.

The “industrial,” which is the trade term for the picture that is used

to advertise a particular product, is another field that has been only

slightly touched. There are a number of companies that specialize in

such work, but the stumbling-block thus far has been the exhibitor’s

unwillingness to show the pictures in his theater. He rightly feels

that the patron who has paid to see the performance feels cheated when

his time is taken up with a strictly advertising picture. Many of these

“industrials” can be made very interesting, however, by weaving light

stories around the product to be advertised, so that the advertiser

achieves his purpose indirectly and without the necessity of throwing

his sermon broadside at the spectator.

We recollect one such subject which was circulated by the makers of

a brand of ready-made women’s clothes. An elaborate social function

was the basis of the story, and two women who had been invited to the

affair the principal characters. One patronized a select Fifth Avenue

tailor who disappointed her at the eleventh hour and forced madam to

wear an old gown to the function. This tragedy to the female heart

was avoided by the second woman. More resourceful than her sister,

she purchased the advertised brand of apparel at a department store

and was later the envied center of attraction at the society affair.

To drive home his lesson the author now had the patron of exclusive

modistes visit a relative who lived in the city that was the home of

the ready-to-wear clothes. An invitation to visit the factory followed,

and the camera carried us along with madam through all the interesting

departments. Though it was advertising, such a picture could not fail

to appeal to women.

Many artists have entered the picture field either by means of the

animated cartoon, in which the figures seem endowed with life, or the

picture that shows the artist drawing his sketches. Since sixteen

separate drawings must be made for each foot of film it will readily be

seen that the work is long and laborious. The strong lights necessary

for photographing the pictures also make it trying for the artist, who

must work directly beneath the camera. Mechanical contrivances are

called upon to lessen the artist’s troubles as much as possible, and

many ingenious schemes are resorted to in order to photograph rapidly a

series of pictures. For instance, the artist may draw the head, arms,

body, and limbs of a figure and then, by means of tabs, move them about

under glass plates so as to secure the impression of animation. The

idea of perspective may be secured by drawing the object in different

sizes, to the proper scale, of course, and then bringing the object

forward from a distance by using gradually increasing figures, or, by

reversing the process, carrying the object away. “Stop” cameras are

used, which remain idle while the artist is moving his figures for the

next photograph. Even with all the recent inventions to facilitate the

work, animated cartoons are by no means easily made, and a film that

can be shown on the screen in ten minutes is a good week’s labor for

the artist.

And now we come to the photoplay--the picture that tells a story by

means of actors. “Where do the stories come from?” is one of the first

questions asked by the layman, though the adapted plays and novels

provide their own answer. But what of the ordinary picture stories that

form the bulk of the offerings on the screen? Are they bought, like

magazine stories, from writers who submit to all the magazines, or are

they turned out by staff writers who provide all the stories needed by

each company? How much do the companies pay for the stories? How can

I enter this profession? The questions are innumerable. Let us answer

them in turn.

The first motion-picture stories, following on the period of trick

pictures and other simple scenes, when there was still some novelty

in seeing pictures that moved, were concocted by the directors and

players from day to day, and were usually of a very simple nature.

But the producers were showmen enough to see that the public wanted

even better stories, and each studio soon had its staff writer or two,

usually former newspaper-men, who wrote all the stories required by the

players. But the motion picture soon outgrew this period, the staffs

of writers at the studios increased in size, and the call for stories

from outside writers was heard. During the past few years an increasing

number of the stories have been from the pens of outside writers, who

send their wares to all the studios just as the ordinary author submits

his manuscripts to the different publishers. The latest phase is the

demand for the highest quality of stories by the purchase of play and

novel rights for long pictures, and magazine short-story rights for the

short films.

The staff writer continues, for the producing companies cannot rely

on the outside writer, though thousands of stories are submitted each

week. And even the stories accepted must usually be rewritten by the

staff writer to suit the requirements of his company.

For many reasons the profession of photoplay-writing is not as rosy

as one would be led to believe by some of the advertisements of

correspondence schools. The prices paid for stories are not very

high, though it can be said that they are steadily increasing, and

the author of really good work has little difficulty in securing very

good rates. From fifteen to fifty dollars may be paid for one-reel

stories--that is, pictures that require about fifteen minutes to

show. Longer stories are usually paid for at the same basis per reel,

though here again the well-known author may demand his own price, or an

exceptionally good idea bring a special reward.

Another fact that renders the writing of picture stories more

profitable for the beginner as an avocation than a vocation, is the

necessity of meeting unusually trying conditions. Like the magazines,

the companies favor particular types, but a more binding rule is

the necessity of securing stories that suit the requirements of the

particular company’s players, or the locality in which the pictures

are being staged at the time. There are a multitude of smaller

circumstances that may weigh for or against the purchase of stories

regardless of the question of merit. The staff writer knows these

conditions, his stories are written while the iron is hot, and he is

always ready when called upon.

Say to any photoplay editor or manufacturer, “Are you buying stories

from the outside now?” and his reply is certain--it seldom changes.

“We are--if we can get them,” he tells you. This does not mean that he

is not receiving stories; there is scarcely a studio whose mail is

not overloaded with manuscripts. Nor does it mean that the stories he

accepts must be worthy of being placed on the screen at once as they

are written, for the scenario editor takes it for granted that the

scripts purchased will have to be rewritten. It is because over ninety

per cent. of the stories received are absolutely impossible; one editor

places the figure at ninety-eight per cent. In later chapters we will

take up more fully the reasons which place these manuscripts in the

“rejected” class.

It was their inability to secure a steady supply of good stories from

the picture ranks that drove the producers to the magazine field. The

entry of the well-known stage-player into pictures and the growth in

popularity of the long photoplay caused the purchase of novels and

plays. In addition to the large sums paid outright for these subjects

the owner of the original rights usually receives a royalty on the

earnings of the picture. Staff-men employed by the picture companies

adapt the plays and novels to the form suitable for presentation by

means of motion pictures.

The censoring of pictures is a subject of interest to those who aspire

to write photoplays. In choosing his theme the amateur must remember

that the manufacturer is not anxious to invest money in the production

of a subject that will later have to lie idle on the shelf because

it will not pass the censors. The most important censoring body, the

National Board of Censorship, was established voluntarily by the

manufacturers in co-operation with the People’s Institute of New York.

The members of the board, who are appointed from various sociological

organizations, serve without remuneration, the only paid employees

being the secretaries. The expenses of the organization are borne by

the manufacturers. The National Board has been of considerable benefit

to the motion-picture industry, a fact largely due to the whole-hearted

support of the manufacturers. A manufacturer cannot, of course, be

compelled to submit his pictures for the approval of the board, but

at present more than ninety-five per. cent. of the pictures shown in

this country are viewed by its score or more of voluntary committees.

The censors see the pictures at the New York offices of the producers,

usually far enough in advance to permit of making any changes they

may order before the pictures are distributed. In addition, state

and municipal bodies have been established in many sections of the

country. If you intend taking up photoplay work seriously, write the

National Board of Censorship, 70 Fifth Avenue, New York City, for a

pamphlet explaining its principles of judgment. It will be worth your

while.

IV

STAGING A PICTURE

The cost of producing a motion picture which provides a full evening’s

entertainment averages between ten thousand and twenty-five thousand

dollars. One-reel pictures, which require about fifteen minutes to show

in a theater, usually cost in the neighborhood of a thousand dollars to

produce. It may easily be said that this money is spent by one man--the

motion-picture director--yet, with all his responsibility, the director

is a character little known to the layman.

Within the picture ranks the terms “director” and “producer” have

become interchangeable, though not always correctly so. Directors

of the best type are deserving of the title “producer,” because

their completed productions bear evidence in every branch of their

imagination and creative ability. But the more common type of director

is really little more than a “stage-manager”; he takes the story as

it comes from the author’s hands and, “following instructions,” stages

the manuscript for the camera. He tells the players what they are to

do in each scene, lays out the scenic requirements, and so on, but

injects none of his own individuality into the pictures. Between the

two extremes there is the average director, and it is of his work that

we shall treat here.

Who, then, is the motion-picture director? We have explained in a

preceding chapter that he is “the man in charge of the making of the

picture.” But here we shall see him at close range, from the time he

receives the story from the photoplay editor until he finally turns

his negative film into the factory for developing and editing, after

which the positive prints are made. Between the manuscript and the

completed film many an interesting event has happened. Perhaps a

factory has been burned to the ground, and the heroine rescued from

almost certain death; mayhap a daring criminal has run amuck, only to

be brought to bay by the noted detective and captured after a thrilling

fight; or it is possible that armies have clashed in battle before a

battery of cameras. But one and all--heroine, criminal, detective, and

soldier--have answered to the beck and call of a director. “The world’s

a stage,” and the picture producer’s world is limited only by the

imagination of the author.

With his story in hand a director’s first task is to select the

players for the different characters in the plot. Each studio has a

large staff of “stock” players--that is, actors and actresses who are

engaged permanently and who may appear in as many as fifty different

rôles within a year. The most important of these players are grouped

into smaller companies, placed under the charge of a particular

director. Each of these players is suited to a particular type of

characterization, and the director now assigns the principal parts

in his story to the players for whom they are suited. For the minor

rôles he will draw on the stock players not assigned to any particular

company. If the story has scenes calling for the use of hundreds of

characters, such as a ball-room scene, the Stock Exchange, or a battle,

he will call for “extras,” who are engaged by the day, either from the

numerous applicants always to be found waiting expectantly around the

studios, or through agents who make a business solely of supplying

these supernumeraries to the picture producers.

In the case of long pictures, or “features,” as the trade term is, a

prominent stage-player is often engaged for the leading rôle. In the

selection of his supporting company the director will now be forced

to consider the type and characteristics of the “star,” and if the

latter be gifted with “temperament,” the days following are likely to

be anything but pleasant. One of the classics of studio history tells

of a famous actress, probably one of the best known in America, who was

engaged to appear in a picture to be made abroad to secure the correct

atmosphere. The company planned to produce the picture in six weeks,

but the leading woman’s uncontrollable disposition held up the work

until six months were actually expended on the undertaking. Petty fits

of temper caused this actress to refuse to appear before the camera for

days in succession, while at other times she would abandon the work in

the middle of a scene, and scarce a move was made that was not preceded

by a wordy argument with the director. But, while comparatively common

a few years ago, such occurrences are now very rare, with the dividing

line between players of the screen and stage not so sharply drawn.

Several preliminary details still await the director. A “scene plot”

must be laid out, to let the studio carpenter know what settings will

be required by the story, and a list of furnishings and small articles

necessary is prepared for the “property-man.” Most directors will now

read the complete story to the principal players, both that they may

understand the action and to allow them to make preparations for the

different costumes they will need. A decision will also be made at

this time on the particular places that will be used for the exterior

scenes. The directors study closely the country around their studios,

and some even make use of card indexes to catalogue the spots that may

be used at some future time as backgrounds for picture scenes. A house

of quaint Colonial architecture, a picturesque brook, or a winding road

shaded with stately trees, all will find their place in the director’s

list, for who knows what scenery his next story may call for?

I know you are impatient to have the camera set up, and to see the

action of the photoplay begin. But one more preliminary decision

remains for the director before he can do this. He must prepare his

“working script,” which will outline the order in which he is to

produce the different scenes of the story. It is a surprise to most

laymen to learn that the scenes in a motion picture are not taken

consecutively as they appear on the screen. This would appear to be

the more logical and artistic method, but a little investigation will

show that this is not practicable. Take, for instance, a story in which

a hotel lobby scene appears many times. Were the picture taken in the

order in which it is seen when completed the expense on this scene

would be repeated several times, since it would be necessary to rebuild

the hotel lobby each time the director came to that particular scene in

his story, or else use up valuable studio floor space for an idle set

while waiting for the director to reach the point where the scene was

required again. On the other hand, under the method actually followed,

when the hotel lobby is constructed the players can, with little loss

of time, go through the different bits of action taking place in this

setting. Later, when the film is developed, these scenes will be

arranged in their proper place in the story.

Many considerations will be weighed by the director in making up his

mind as to the order in which he will take his scenes. The weather, of

course, is an important factor in coming to a decision as to whether he

will first take his “interiors,” that is, scenes taken in the studio,

or the “exteriors,” the action photographed outdoors. Usually the more

simple scenes will be taken first, and the elaborate and costly ones

last, this to forestall prohibitive expense should minor changes be

made in the story while the picture is being produced. Such changes are

not infrequent, for a director will often see ways to strengthen his

story while the players are enacting it before his eyes.

We are ready to start to work. It is nine A.M., or perhaps even

earlier, for the picture producer does not care to lose any more of the

precious daylight than he has to. This is one of the biggest surprises

of screen work to the player from the stage. He is accustomed to

matinée performances at two in the afternoon, twice a week, but as a

usual thing his work is from eight to eleven in the evening. His life

is run after the sun has set. Then he enters the picture field and

finds it an “early to bed and early to rise” game. Healthful days in

the open of green fields and country roads replace the stuffy stage,

and even the studio is freedom when compared with the theater. It is

the zest and regularity of picture life; yes, even the necessity of

awakening early in the morning, that causes so many players from

the stage to take it up permanently. There is the real home life of

the ordinary professional man, instead of the weary traveling and

“one-night stands,” and there is employment fifty-two weeks in the year

in place of the short season and long lay-off of the theater.

[Illustration:

(_Keystone_)

THE DIRECTOR--HIS CAMERA AND CAMERA-MAN]

The sun is shining clearly and the director plans a long day of work in

the open. Besides, the studio stages are all in use by directors who

have put in their requisitions far in advance. The camera-man and his

apparatus, players, and director jump into autos and speed to the first

“location.” With his assistant the director has mapped the locations

and the order of photographing the scenes there as already explained.

His first location is a suburban home, one that may be labeled in his

catalogue as “home of a fairly wealthy family.” A caretaker is in

charge and the director knows--from experience--that a few cigars, or,

if the house is especially necessary, a greenback, will enable him to

use it for picture-taking purposes. We will say that the scenes are to

show a thief entering the house and later leaving it with his booty.

In the story this is probably to happen at night, but tinting the film

blue will later attend to that.

Perhaps there is a tall fence around the grounds, and one of the

director’s scenes will have to show the thief climbing this obstacle,

both on his entry into the grounds, and later on his escape. Perhaps,

with the latter, there is to be a brief scuffle with the watchman. A

spot for the scene is chosen, the camera set up, and all is ready.

The range of vision of the camera’s eye, the lens, is an angle, and

care is taken to indicate to the players the boundaries of that angle.

Outside those lines the players may group themselves idly, but within

the lines the camera registers everything, once the crank is turning.

The first scene taken is to show the thief scaling the fence. The

player is rehearsed once or twice, perhaps even oftener, until he does

the action in the exact way the director wishes it done. When he is

proficient the director stations himself beside the camera-man, the

scene is cleared, and the thief stands waiting just outside the line.

“One--two--three--Go!” shouts the director, and at his last word the

thief skulks on the scene, the camera-man starts to turn the crank. The

thief peers through the fence, glances furtively about him, and then,

as if making a sudden decision, starts to climb. He drops to the ground

on the other side, then runs diagonally until he is again outside the

camera line. It is over. During the whole the director has been the

busiest man on the spot. Each motion of the player has been accompanied

by a command from him, but it is not for the player to let the camera

know that he is listening for these words. By holding a slate covered

with figures in front of the camera before the scene was photographed

this strip of film now bears its own index figure to aid the factory

later in assembling the complete picture.

Next, the scene showing the return of the thief over the fence, his

scuffle with the watchman, and his escape is to be taken. This will

probably require many more rehearsals than the previous scene, both

that the action be properly vigorous and realistic, and that the

players be drilled so that they will not inadvertently cross the camera

lines in the heat of the action. An audience would naturally not take

very kindly to a scene in which a man was fighting with an adversary

who could not be seen, which would be the case should one of the

players step outside the lines while the other remained in view of the

camera. It is even possible that many strips of film will be wasted

before the scene is taken in a manner to satisfy the director.

Now we pass within the grounds. There is a brief scene to be taken as

the thief starts to climb the wall on making his escape, and also the

short one showing him running across the lawn to the house. He is to

make his entry by way of a window, and the camera is placed so as to

view the one chosen. The same procedure is followed here--numbering of

the scene, rehearsals, including a preliminary timing of the action so

that the director will know how many feet of film it will take, and

then photographing, after which preparations are made for the next

scene. The director and his players may easily put in a busy day about

the house. There will be scenes showing detectives, summoned by the

householder, examining the grounds, the watchman hastening up to the

front door after he has recovered from the blow inflicted by the thief,

and so on. When the sun finally gets too low for the camera’s liking it

will be a tired but contented party that returns to the studio.

This is but one side of the story. Much has also happened within the

house. Though recently perfected portable lighting systems have made

it possible to take motion pictures within actual houses, the method

is only occasionally used, and our director will probably decide to

take all his interiors in the studio. On his return from the day of

work outdoors he will leave his requisitions with the carpenter and

property-man and be prepared to start early the next morning with his

scenes set and all other things ready. Then the thief’s entry into the

window, as seen from inside the house, his theft of the jewels, we

will say, his departure, the householders aroused from their sleep by

the watchman, and their consternation at the discovery of the theft

will all be photographed. Pieced together and shown on the screen,

the various strips of film will tell a smoothly developed story,

but we have seen how it is really made up of little bits of action,

photographed at different times, and in far from consecutive order. We

have seen what a world of planning the director must do before he sets

out to make even the simplest scene of his story.

[Illustration:

(_Vitagraph_)

STAGING A SPECTACULAR BATTLE SCENE]

But we have been watching the director while he is working on dramatic

scenes that employ only a few players, of whose ability he is certain.

Perhaps he has a ball-room scene to take with his interiors, and then

there is a busy time indeed ahead of him. He must drill and toil with

fifty or a hundred “extras” drafted from the outside and receiving only

a few dollars for the day’s work. Or else one of his exteriors may

call for a player to jump from a bridge. The leading woman will not

perform this feat; she is too careful of her own life. So a “double”

must be employed--a daredevil of about the same build as the leading

woman, and to be dressed in the same clothes. The leading woman will

perform the scene until about the point where she leans over the

railing preparatory to the fatal leap. Then the camera will be moved

to a distant point, and, too far away for the deception to be noted,

the “double” will make the thrilling jump. If there is to be a rescue

the leading lady will now get herself wet, as we are given close views

showing her being pulled from the water, apparently near death from

her feat. For such “stunts” as even a daredevil cannot be employed to

perform, the property-room may make dummies, “rags and bones and hanks

of hair,” weighted with sand. Then there are the more spectacular

scenes that may test a director’s skill, such as battles, fires, and so

on. Here he must fortify himself with numbers of trusted assistants,

who, dressed like those in the scene, will be scattered among the

“extras” where the voice of the director often cannot reach. Hours,

and even days, of rehearsal are sometimes necessary in securing such

effects. For the battle scenes in “The Birth of a Nation” the producer

surrounded himself with a corps of assistants equal to a commanding

general’s staff. In addition telephones were strung along to all the

trenches so that the producer was in touch with every section of the

vast battle-field at all times.

V

THE FACTORY

The average amateur photographer, who has made a practice of developing

and printing his own photographs, will find little of interest in

a description of the stages through which the film passes in a

motion-picture factory. It is essentially the same process that he

follows, though, naturally, on a much larger scale and making use of

all the mechanical appliances possible. The variations in the chemical

formulas used are those which the studious amateur’s own judgment would

dictate to him were he working under conditions similar to those of the

motion-picture photographer.

His day’s work completed, the camera-man takes his negative film,

which is contained in the take-up box of the camera to protect it

from the light, to the factory. The film taken from the camera now

faces the following steps: the development, washing, and, finally,

fixing, thus producing a “negative” from which the “positive” prints

used for exhibition purposes are to be made. The development of the

negative takes place, of course, in a “dark room,” that is, dark in the

photographic sense, the sole illumination being that of lamps providing

a pure red light. The negative strips are wound spirally about pins on

a rectangular rack, thus making it possible to wet the entire surface

of the film simultaneously and equally when the rack is submerged in

the developing solution.

Metal and hydroquinine are the chemical agents most active in the

developing solution most commonly used, soda sulphite, soda carbonate,

potassium, metabisulphite, and water completing the formula. But even

for standard work there are varieties of developing-baths, while to

handle film taken under out-of-the-ordinary conditions still further

changes are made. It is in his ability to meet varying circumstances

that the factory executive shows his mettle. Test developments may

be made on a few inches of film to indicate the exact process to

be followed. The washing of the film, and its submersion in the

“fixing”-bath are the next items, also familiar to the ordinary

photographer. The “fixing”--that is, submersion in a solution of sodium

hyposulphite--renders the negative immune to the light, after which it

is once more washed, this time to remove the “hypo” of the fixing-bath.

The negative may now be treated with a diluted solution of glycerine,

which renders it soft and pliable, for there is much wear in store for

this negative.

We have seen previously how each scene taken during the day was

numbered to aid the producer in assembling the picture in the proper

order. The negative strips are now assembled in a complete strip and

viewed by the executives of the company before the first positive print

is made. This initial inspection will, like as not, show that some of

the scenes must be retaken, either because of poor photography or for

some other reason not noticed by the director at the time the original

scene was taken. “Retakes” are, naturally, not popular with the men who

pay the bills, though they are often due to natural causes beyond the

power of the director or camera-man to forestall. As picture producers

always take a good deal more film than will be used in the subject

shown later in the theaters, this viewing of the negative will also

aid in bringing the picture down to the required size and in deciding

on the printed inserts needed, though it is also probable that a good

deal of cutting, reassembling, titling, and so on, will be done after

the first positive print is made.

The negative approved, we are now ready to print the positives. On the

negative, as the amateur photographer will know, the light conditions

were reversed from the normal. That is, the portions of the film

which we would expect to appear white, such as a snow-covered walk,

were black, while the dark portions, a railroad train, for example,

appeared white. This is the principle explaining the method of printing

positives. The negative is superimposed on the positive film stock

and light allowed to stream through. Naturally the image on the

negative obstructs light in proportion to its density. Our snow-bank,

let us say, being black on the negative, will allow no light to pass

through and that portion of the positive stock under it will not be

exposed. The near-by train, appearing white on the negative, offers no

obstruction to the light, and here the positive is strongly exposed.

When the positive is later developed it takes on a deposit of silver

in equal proportion to the strength of the exposure, the snow-bank

taking little, while a heavy deposit of silver clings to that part of

the film showing the railroad train, which received so much exposure

to the light. Thus the positive print brings the light conditions

back to normal again, the train appears dark, the snow white, and the

other objects in the scene shaded in ratio to the amount of light they

allowed to penetrate through the negative to the positive stock.

In practice positive printing is done by a machine using for its

essential principles the shutter and feeding devices that we have

seen in the motion-picture camera. Negative and positive stock are

perforated alike, and when superimposed the perforations fall in

alignment. The film-feeding device of the printer engages in these

perforations just as we saw it do in the camera, only in this case it

is moving the negative and positive film along simultaneously. What

would be the lens in the camera is here the place where the light is

allowed to pass through. Once more the shutter serves its purpose of

shutting off the light while the required length of film for one small

picture is shifted into place. As in the camera, care is taken that

the light strikes no portion of the film but the three-quarter-inch

strip that is being exposed. The action of a printer is practically

automatic, but the human touch is evident in determining the brilliancy

of the light, its distance from the film, and the speed at which the

printer will be run, all points determined by the condition of the

negative.

[Illustration:

(_Selig_)

DRYING-ROOM IN THE FACTORY--THE FILM IS WOUND ON THE LARGE DRUMS]

The developing of positive film is a process much similar to that we

have just described for the negative film. The chemicals used in the

formulas are much the same, though the proportions vary. As positive

film is less sensitive to light than negative, the developing need not

be done in a dark room, though even here daylight, or the “yellow”

light of the common electric bulb, is not permissible. To the eye

positive and negative film appear much alike, and, in truth, they

differ only slightly to render them more adaptable to their different

uses. The drying of both positive and negative film, following the

various operations, is accomplished by means of large drums, on which

hundreds of feet may be wound.

The picture producer may now decide to tint some portions of his film

and to tone others. Tinting is nothing more than giving the film a

bath of dye; toning is a chemical process by which the dark portions of

a picture are intensified and given certain color tones, while the high

lights are not affected. Though photography at night is now attempted

very frequently, tinting is the means more commonly employed to give

the impression of action taking place at night. Toning does not appear

so artificial as tinting, since it does not affect the high lights, and

an artistic director may easily arrange his scene so that the coloring

appears natural on those parts that are affected. The toning of film

is accomplished by placing it in chemicals which affect the silver

deposits on the surface, permanently changing its color. Where there is

no silver deposit, as, for instance, in the snow-bank we have so often

mentioned, there would be no change. The process of fixing follows.

It might be well to explain here the usual method of photographing

subtitles and other explanatory reading-matter in a picture. This

is done by means of an ordinary camera using glass plates, which

points downward at the subtitle, which is in white letters on a black

background. What is known as a “plate-printer” is then used to put

this impression on the positive motion-picture film. In this process

the transparent negative of the subtitle secured on the glass plate is

placed in a cabinet between a condenser lens and a smaller projecting

lens. Before this small lens there is a film-gate, the positive film

being fed into it in the same manner that we have seen employed in the

camera and the positive-printer for ordinary work. Thus when the light

passes through the condenser and the negative of the subtitle, the

small lens casts a reduced image of it on the small bit of positive

film passing before the gate. In ordinary printing of motion-picture

film negative and positive are superimposed and passed before a light;

in this case the image cast by the small lens takes the place of the

negative film, but the principle is the same.

The factories of motion-picture plants must be as delicately handled

as any piece of intricate machinery. The temperatures of the various

rooms, and also of the chemical baths used in the different processes,

must be kept constant at certain points. Dust must be conspicuous by

its absence, for the slightest particle of foreign matter may scratch

and otherwise harm valuable film. The water used in the factory is an

important item, and in cases where the regular supply has been shown

to be inferior by chemical analysis, picture companies have often gone

to the expense of drilling artesian wells to secure a pure supply. This

was one of the moves made at a factory near Philadelphia, which boasts

of its ability to turn out six million feet of positive film each week.

Though most motion pictures made in the United States are produced in

California, practically all of the factory work is done in the East.

This is largely due to the fact that New York is the distributing point

and business center. Not all of the companies known for their film

productions have developing and printing plants. Many of the factories

do the mechanical work for numerous other firms. In addition there are

scores of companies doing only factory work and staging no pictures of

their own.

The picture is now all but ready for the market. Most of the directors

take part in the assembling stage when the film is cut to its proper

length, the subtitles inserted, and the finishing touches applied that

make the picture ready to meet the eyes of the outside world. This is

indeed one of the most important stages in the making of a picture,

for here the work of the best of directors may easily be unalterably

ruined, or, perhaps, a poorly staged picture made into a passable or

even good one.

It is an impossibility for a director in staging a picture to

photograph just the amount of film that will be required for the

production that is offered to the public. In the first place, even the

most experienced of picture-men cannot hope to accurately estimate the

amount of film that will be needed to portray certain actions; and

secondly, a director will often find, when he has his players working

before the camera, that a certain scene is worthy of more space than

originally planned for in the script. So that, even after throwing out

the scenes that were spoiled for one reason or other, there is still

some paring to be done before the picture is cut to the length that

the film editor thinks the subject worth and the business office says

is most likely to be profitable. Commercial reasons still demand, for

instance, that pictures consist of a certain number of full reels,

each containing approximately one thousand feet. If the film editor

finds that his picture is at its best at five thousand three hundred

feet he faces the unwelcome task of cutting three hundred more feet,

though each scene now in the picture may appear to him essential.

Natural-length pictures, which would run the exact length demanded

by the story, with the remainder of the reel, if necessary, filled

out with an appropriate short picture, are frequently seen, and their

advocates are many. But they are not in strong favor commercially.

VI

THE BUSINESS SIDE

The business organization of the motion-picture field can find no

counterpart in any other line of commercial activity. In some of its

aspects it is akin to the theatrical world, in others it resembles

publishing, but there are many points distinctly unique. The commercial

organization is an evolution peculiarly adapted to picture conditions,

and it is still in a state of transition, continuous and even more

radical than that evident in the producing methods.

In its most interesting feature the system used in the United States

resembles the newspaper syndicate, through which an article is

published simultaneously all over the country in dozens of newspapers.

In this case the article is supplied to the different newspapers in

advance, with the statement that it is “released” on a certain date;

that is, the newspaper may publish it on and after that particular

date, but not before. This explains the surprise of the young man

who travels away from home for the first time when he finds that

the newspapers of the city he is visiting carry many of the special

features he reads in the papers at his home city, and that they publish

the articles simultaneously. In a similar manner motion pictures are

shipped far in advance to the exchanges, the local distributing agents.

A certain “release” date has been chosen, and on that day the picture

is shown for the first time in theaters throughout the country. New

York, in the heart of the film world, thus boasts of no advantage over

the city a thousand miles away. The use of the word “release” in this

connection is similar to that in the newspaper syndicate field, which

explains a point that invariably proves confusing to the layman seeking

information in filmland.

We are told in the chapter dealing with the history of the motion

picture of the formation of the first large distributing organization.

The system followed by this combination will give an idea of the method

employed by the older organizations in handling the short pictures

that make up the bulk of the film output. In forming the combination

a group of pioneer picture manufacturers bound themselves together to

release their product to the theater-owners through the one channel.

Exchanges are located in the principal cities of the country and the

distributing organization purchases from the manufacturer the number

of positive prints of each picture needed to supply these exchanges. A

manufacturer’s popularity with the exhibitors and the public is shown,

of course, by the number of positive prints that the distributor must

purchase from him to meet the demand. These manufacturers profited

both by the sale of their prints and, through their direct interest in

the distributor, from the earnings of the latter. There are two other

large distributing agents organized along the lines of the pioneer to

handle the output of other manufacturers. In the one the union between

producer and distributor is not as close as that of the pioneer, while

in the other producer and distributor are practically identical.

From these distributing agents the theater-owner secures his program,

the usual practice being to pay a stated weekly rental price, dependent

on the number of reels he secures and their freshness. The exhibitor

who shows the pictures on the day they are released naturally pays a

proportionately larger rental for this “first-run” privilege than the

theater-owner who is satisfied with pictures that may be days or weeks

old. The latter runs the risk of showing pictures that his patrons have

already seen in other theaters, and, naturally, he must expect film

that has received the wear and tear of many performances since the day

it was released.

This method sufficed for the short picture, but the coming of the

feature, a production of three or more reels, changed matters

considerably. It brought a score of independent producers into the

field, and these men set about seeking their own methods of marketing.

The first step was the development of “state rights” buyers, usually

independent exchange owners who bid for the exclusive rights to handle

the feature productions in their territories. The producer sold the

rights and the necessary positive prints for the different territories

to the highest bidders, and after that he washed his hands of the

production, though, of course, he still had the negative, should

additional positive prints be needed. The purchaser of the “state

rights” was now in absolute control of the picture in his territory.

His income was secured by renting the picture to the theater-owners.

“State rights” are at present heard of only seldom; they have been

succeeded by the “feature program,” a combination of manufacturers of

long pictures similar in many ways to the older combinations of the

producers of short pictures. The chief advantage of the feature program

lies in its certainty. To the theater-owner it offers an assurance of

a steady supply of pictures of a certain quality, and in addition he

knows the pictures that he will show far enough in advance to properly

advertise them. To the picture producer the feature program offers a

steady market, with an income that he can estimate, and thus he is

enabled to make greater expenditures on each picture and to plan more

extensively for the future than would be the case were each production

to be sold separately.

Each of the feature programs has its own type of organization. Some

are practically closed corporations handling only the productions of

a certain group of manufacturers. Others are comparatively elastic

in their organization, and, while releasing all the productions of

certain manufacturers, will also contract to handle the pictures made

by independent workers. The manufacturer usually receives his income

from the feature program through a percentage of the rental earnings

of his pictures. In the case of distributors who sign monthly or

yearly contracts with exhibitors to supply them with a stated number

of pictures each week it can be seen that the manufacturer’s return

will be almost a constant figure, affected only slightly by the

merits of the individual picture. This is, in fact, one of the most

important defects of the closely bound program, it tends to place all

the pictures on a common level. While this may work to the producer’s

advantage in the case of a poor picture, he also finds it irksome when

he attempts to secure the proper return from a picture that cost him

an unusually large amount to produce. The feature program that secures

its income from the per diem rentals of each picture, with no long-term

contracts to fall back upon, is a trifle more elastic.

We now come to the latest step in the evolution of the business side

of the motion picture. This is, in many ways, a return to the methods

of the theatrical producer. The manufacturers found that they could

not expect to secure a reasonable profit from pictures that cost

extra-large sums of money and many months of preparation if they were

marketed through the ordinary channels. So they resolved to take a leaf

from the stage producer’s book and turn exhibitors themselves. With

such productions as “The Birth of a Nation” the manufacturer handles

the presentation himself in the large cities, and the picture, like

the spoken play, is presented as long as it attracts patrons. If the

picture succeeds, an engagement to packed houses of many weeks, or even

months, is assured, so that it can be seen that the manufacturer’s

profits are tremendous. Different methods are used following the

metropolitan engagements. Sometimes the manufacturer will sell the

rights to the territory he has not touched, just as in the old days he

sold “state rights.” Or perhaps he will send out many different prints

of the picture to tour the country under his own management in the same

manner that the theatrical manager sends out a number of companies

to present the piece that has succeeded in New York. The original

company will be seen only in New York, and possibly Chicago and a few

other large cities, while the other companies will tour the “one-night

stands,” up and down the map. Just as the prestige of success in New

York aids a play, so it also proves valuable to a picture.

The earnings of a motion-picture production are as fluctuating as

the rise and fall of stock prices in Wall Street. The cost of a

thousand-foot picture is usually placed at the average of a thousand

dollars, and the manufacturer selling his positive prints at ten cents

a foot and releasing through established channels markets twenty-five

prints, though the number may run many more or less, according to

the efficiency of the selling organization and the popularity of the

particular type of picture. He may thus be seen to have more than

doubled his investment. His foreign sales may double this figure

again. But this instance treats of the manufacturer who has been years

in business, and who is releasing through one of the combinations

strong enough to practically guarantee a market. Even in these cases

inferior-quality pictures or a change in the tastes of the public may

quickly force a drop in the number of prints sold. Likewise it does not

require a very great increase in the cost of production to eat up the

profit.

The manufacturer of long pictures faces even greater uncertainty. His

investment in each picture will average between ten and twenty-five

thousand dollars, and it does not require many high-salaried stars or

spectacular scenes to reach the higher figure. Nor have we considered

the overhead expense of maintaining a studio and offices and the heavy

outlay to market the picture. A poor picture can lose all of the

original investment and even more, the latter if a strenuous effort

is made by means of advertising and so on to sell it. A good picture

can double the investment, and the outlook for a picture of unusual

strength is rosy indeed. Many very costly productions have been

forgotten a month after they were released; many very good pictures are

still earning money for their producers two and three years after they

first came on the market. The life of the negative is without limit,

and after the original investment has been recovered, the cost of

supplying new positive prints for those that have worn out is a small

item.

Theater-owners who show the long-feature productions pay an average

of fifty dollars per day for the rental. If competition is strong

between the producers the price may go lower, and long-term contracts

to use the output of certain organizations may also make the cost of

his pictures less to the theater-owner. But frequently he will pay

more than this sum for the picture that has proven its popularity.

The theater using short pictures--showing three or more subjects at

a performance--contracts for its service at a stated weekly rental

price, ranging from fifty dollars to two hundred and fifty dollars or

more. For the top-notch price he will receive “first-run” pictures,

that is, pictures he is allowed to show on the day of release. For the

intermediate price his program will be varied; it is apt to include one

“first-run” picture, one week-old subject, and others that have been

released a greater length of time.

VII

PRACTICAL HINTS ON PHOTOPLAY-WRITING

In a preceding chapter we have endeavored to drive home what we

conceive to be the first and most important lesson in the art of

photoplay-writing; that is, a respect for the work and willingness

to devote serious attention and study it. Regardless of what the

correspondence-school advertisements say, writing photoplays is no

easy task, and selling them a still more difficult one. The screen is

not a retreat for hackneyed, broken-down plots that failed of a sale

everywhere else, nor is it likely to pay you for the idea that you

dash off in a few idle moments. True enough, you can see many mediocre

stories, many trashy ones, when you attend the picture theater, but

the aspirant for success should not take the worst specimens for his

ideal. It is bad enough for the staff writer to be forced to turn out

such material to keep step with the swift pace of production, but the

fact that he can do it so much easier than the outsider means that the

latter’s efforts must be top-notch to bring forth the welcome check

that comes with acceptance.

The would-be photoplaywright must first undergo a process of

self-examination. He must be certain that he possesses the power of

observation that enables him to see the germs of stories in the little

incidents that would ordinarily be passed by with scarce a moment’s

thought. He must be gifted with the imagination that will enable

him to create a full-bodied story--a plot--from this germ. Lastly,

he must possess the story-telling ability, or, more properly for

photoplay-writing, the knowledge of dramatic principles necessary to

relate his story in such a manner that the interest of his audience

mounts steadily and is held to the end. These qualities the beginner

must have at the outset. He can learn later the possibilities and

limitations of the silent drama by studying the pictures in the

theaters. Likewise, by imitation of a sample form he can learn how to

prepare his manuscript in the correct technical form.

Let us take up in greater detail the necessary qualities that we have

enumerated. We will imagine that you have pencil and paper before you

and have set out to write a photoplay. Your brain is barren of ideas,

but you can’t afford to wait for an inspiration; you might sit there

all day, chewing the end of your pencil, before a plot-germ would come

to you out of the empty air. But there is your note-book--first aid

to the power of observation--let’s see if there is anything there to

jog the imagination. Turning the pages of the note-book, you see brief

jottings that represent weeks of observation. Here is a note prompted

by a newspaper account of a train hold up in which the lone bandit

blunderingly made away with the mail-bag, leaving thousands of dollars

in currency untouched. The newspapers said the laugh was on the robber,

but as you read the thought flashed through your mind, “Supposing

a fugitive from justice, wrongfully accused, knew that in the mail

carried by this train there was a letter concerning the condition of

his wife who was critically ill back East, and that he braved arrest

and possible death, not for money, but because of the strength of his

love?”

There are possibilities in that idea, but somehow or other, as you

revolve it in your mind now, your enthusiasm does not increase. For

one thing, you know that newspaper accounts are dangerous bits of

inspiration. Possibly fifty or a hundred other photoplay writers in all

parts of the country have read the same story, followed similar lines

of thought, and are about to write stories with this as the central

idea. The staff writers have also seized upon it. Then, again, the

only plots your imagination gives you to build around the idea are

trite and ordinary. So you decide to let this plot-germ rest in the

note-book until some future moment, when another jotting, or perhaps a

bit of happy inspiration, will give you the material to make a strong,

original story out of it.

Over the pages of the note-book you go again. There are accounts of

humorous little incidents that you witnessed or heard about, and

which will one day furnish inspiration for comedies. There are notes

concerning unusual faces, features that, to an observant eye, seem to

be pregnant with stories. A two-line note may describe the odd-looking

house you saw on your walk last Sunday that brought to mind visions of

ghosts and goblins. This is what we mean by the power of observation.

Without it you cannot hope to succeed as an author, for there is

no such thing as inspiration _per se_; observation is the seed of

inspiration. Cultivate this power, use your note-book, never lose a

moment in search of an idea, spend your time developing the plot-germs

that you have found at the best of sources--real life.

“The ability to create a plot from this idea,” we have stated as the

second important quality. “Plot”--there is the stumbling-block that

halts the majority of beginners. “The biggest defect of the plays

submitted by outsiders,” says Lawrence McCloskey, a photoplay editor

who has handled thousands of such manuscripts, “is that they do not

contain real plots. They are usually abstract incidents, more or less

interesting, but without complications sufficient to hold the attention

of an audience. Or else they are in the nature of long histories,

telling the life stories of their characters, without definite

beginning, climax, or ending.”

What is plot? In Editor McCloskey’s sentence you have the outlines of

a definition. It is not an abstract incident, or even a series of such

incidents. It is a story woven around a central theme, which is usually

a crisis in the lives of the characters. It has a definite beginning,

which is at the time when the causes are born which gradually increase

in strength and at the last give rise to the events which produce the

climax, the height of the suspense and interest. It has a definite

ending, which should come as soon as it has been determined whether

the crisis overwhelms the characters or whether they pass through it

successfully. The ideal plot is the plot of struggle, whether physical

or mental. The struggle may be that of two men for the favor of a girl,

a poor man against starvation, an avaricious one for wealth, or it may

be the struggle of a woman to keep steadfast her faith in a worthless

husband. The climax is the point at which the struggle becomes most

bitter, the outcome of which is to decide whether the characters win

or lose in their fight against odds. The climax may be in sight to the

audience soon after the beginning; in fact, a grouping of the early

incidents so that the audience fears the climax produces suspense, but

the outcome, the author’s solution of his climax, must be in doubt. Or,

if it be sensed by the audience, the means by which he is to bring it

about must be the author’s secret until he is ready to say the word.

There are students who go further in the analysis of the subdivisions

of a plot, and in dividing the different types, but the beginner who

uses this definition as a test of his stories will not go wrong.

We will go back to the note-book and seek an idea that may be developed

into a plot. Here is a hastily made note written to remind you of a

pathetic face: “The wrinkled old woman and the worried-looking daughter

who come to the post-office every day.” “Aha,” you say. “Here is a

ready-made plot. I’ll have them coming to the post-office in search

of a letter from a wandering son. They are in poverty, and just as

they are about to be turned out of their home I’ll have the son return

laden with wealth.” Beware of the ready-made plot! The studio mails are

full of them, but no checks are drawn to pay the authors. The judge

who condemns his own son, the little child who reforms the burglar,

the upright district attorney who defies his sweetheart’s father, the

political boss, all these are old friends of the photoplay editors.

“But,” you say, “I saw one of these same stories on the screen only

a few days ago.” Perhaps you did, but think it over. Wasn’t there

something else besides this bare idea, wasn’t there some new twist,

some original turn that lent it freshness and almost made you forget

how old the plot-basis was? Let’s see if we can’t take the idea about

the old woman and daughter at the post-office and give it a new guise.

And before we start to mold our plot remember that we can’t compel the

characters to do what we want them to do; we must give them a reason

for every action. In real life people do not do things without a

motive or an impelling cause, but many photoplay authors would seem to

think that the fact that the author wanted his characters to perform a

certain action is sufficient excuse for it. To check up: Originality

and consistency are all-important. Seek a fresh viewpoint, but when you

get something new remember that it must be logical, let it not insult

the intelligence of the audience.

Starting out, then, we need a reason for the son going away from

home. Suppose we change the young woman’s status and make her, not

the daughter, but the girl who was to have married the son. They

quarreled, she broke the engagement, and in a state of mingled temper

and despair he ran away. Soon after his departure the mother is injured

in an accident and her sight destroyed. Blaming her pride for the

son’s leaving home, the young woman takes upon her shoulders the care

of the mother. The son takes to drink and roistering companions; he

descends lower and lower in the scale until finally he is a besotted

tramp. We now have our characters drawn; we have a reason for the son’s

action in leaving home, an “excuse” for his long absence and apparent

indifference to what is happening there, and a motive for the girl in

seeking to make the mother happy.

All well enough. We have our characters, but we are still far from

having a story. An audience might be mildly interested in such people,

but there would be no gripping suspense, no desire to know more

concerning them. There would be no “doubt as to outcome” because from

all appearances the lives of the characters are to continue in the

same channel. We want “complications,” but don’t go after them like

the average beginner and throw in action and befuddling incidents just

for the sake of mixing things up until you are ready to have the son

return home. And don’t fall back on the trite story we have already

discarded--the mother in poverty and the son returning in time to save

her. Let’s see: Mother and sweetheart are hoping for the son’s return,

the audience expects to see him back. Can’t we introduce some element

that would make his return also a cause for fear? Steer clear of that

thought that tells you, “He went away charged with a crime, and he

will brave arrest to come back to his dying mother’s bedside.” The

audience knows that story too well. We have it! When the mother met

with the accident the doctors despaired of her life. To make her last

few weeks of life more happy the girl concocted imaginary letters from

the son saying that he was prospering in a distant country. Later, when

death seemed near, to cheer the mother and strengthen her faith in her

boy the girl’s letters told of his efforts to return home, though the

means of travel were difficult. But finicky fate ruled that the mother,

though still blind, should recover her health, and the girl has been

forced to continue the deception. Now the surgeon holds out hope that

within a few months the mother’s eyesight may be restored. Here we have

complications and suspense galore. Any way out seems to lead to trouble

worse than any which our characters have yet encountered.

We are nearing the climax, and you will find that long ago the plot has

taken the reins into its own hands; it needs no more spurring. Through

the rooms of the darkened house there one day sounds the mother’s cry,

“I see! I see!” After the first glad embrace of the girl her cry is

for her son’s letters. Desperate, the girl urges her to wait until

the morrow, after the surgeon has said that she may read. While the

mother is protesting the girl suddenly tears herself away and flees

hysterically from the house. She walks blindly down the hillside to the

railroad tracks, then throws herself down on the grass to weep. She

hears voices. Peering through a near-by bush, she sees a gathering of

tramps hovering over a fire, a whisky-bottle passing around the circle.

Frightened, she turns to run, but a slight noise betrays her, and the

tramps, drink-crazed, start after her. All but one run only a few

steps, but this one, more daring than the rest, continues the pursuit.

She stumbles and he comes upon her. With a despairing scream she turns

to look into his leering face, and--it is the son and sweetheart.

There is your climax. End your story in any one of the many ways that

are possible, but, above all, end it quickly. It is a wise author who

knows when his story is done. Withstand the temptation to start another

story at the point where this one ends. You do not have to follow your

characters to the grave; the interest of the audience is over when the

crisis is past. You may spoil the effect of a good story by trifling

with its interest after that. That is part of the story-teller’s art

that we spoke of as the third essential--the ability to know where

to begin the story, so that no time is lost in useless detail, while

at the same time making the necessary points clear, a knowledge of

what incidents to introduce and how to group them so that they merge

smoothly into the climax and the gift of stopping when the story is

done.

Thus far our talk has been on points that might apply with almost equal

force to any line of literary endeavor. Let us now take up some points

more closely identified with the photoplay. We have learned how to

look for ideas, we have seen how a plot is built; now we must find out

how to tell our story on the screen. It should be unnecessary to tell

aspirants that since all photoplays are told by means of pantomime,

“action” is a prime necessity. The audience wants to see the characters

do everything worth while in the story. It feels cheated if you insert

a subtitle saying, “Helen loves John because he saved her from death

in a factory fire.” The screen’s purpose is to show the fire, to show

John performing his heroic deed. No matter how good your story is, if

it is of such a type that it cannot be “acted out,” then it does not

belong on the screen. Printed inserts are unwelcome necessities--they

are not the substance of which the motion picture’s popularity is made.

Cultivate the “picture eye,” the faculty of visualizing each incident

in your story, to discover if it is possible of being explained to an

audience by means of action without the aid of words.

Make each scene tell its own story, either by carrying the action of

the whole a step further, or by giving an insight into the character

of a person important in the story. For instance, instead of the bald

statement, “John Jenks is a crusty old bachelor,” why not a scene

showing Jenks in his home irascibly ordering his servants about?--let

the audience see for itself the type of man he is. Have your scenes

follow one another logically, but--here the printed insert shows its

usefulness--don’t show uninteresting action that can be covered by a

brief subtitle. For example, if your characters are at the seashore

for one scene, and the next important bit of action occurs at the

city home, instead of the uninteresting scenes showing the characters

boarding a train, arriving in the city and so on, use a brief insert,

“Back in the City,” and take up your action there. The insert saves a

lot of uninteresting action that would only bore the audience, while on

the other hand, if you were to switch your characters suddenly from the

seashore to the city without a word of explanation the spectator would

be mystified and in doubt as to just what was happening.

Remember that the more principal characters you introduce in your story

the more difficult you make it for the audience to follow the thread

of the plot. Of course, you can have all the minor characters, such as

servants, that you like, but have your story told by the actions of a

few principals. This regard for simplicity should be followed in the

manner of telling your story.

“What subjects are in demand?” For the outside writer the market is

always best for the shorter pictures, comedies or dramas running one,

two, or three reels in length. Comedies of merit are in greatest

demand, not because more comedies are produced--the reverse is actually

the case--but because less good comedy is written. Follow the pictures

that are being shown in the theaters if you would keep in definite

touch with the studio demands, or else read one of the trade journals

that give theater-owners advance information of the pictures that are

to be produced.

The trade journals will also be your guide when it comes to selling

your photoplay. By reading the manufacturers’ advertisements there you

will learn the type of picture each company is producing, and this is

the first and most important lesson in the marketing of photoplays.

Follow the players, and if you have a story especially suited to a

certain player send it to his company first. The trade papers must also

supply you with your list of addresses, for any roster printed in a

book is certain to be out of date within a few months after the book is

off the press.

Typewrite your manuscript. Here are other rules of the game which the

beginner often disregards: Write on only one side of the paper; use

white paper about eight and a half by eleven; put your name and address

on the first page of the manuscript; and, most important of all,

inclose a stamped and addressed envelope for the return of the story

should it be unavailable. Make carbon copies of all your stories.

Make certain that your story is good by all the tests you can devise,

and then pin your faith to it and keep it in the mails until it sells.

Don’t hesitate to rewrite it, however, if after a few months you feel

that it can be improved.

Were we asked to confine our advice to would-be photoplaywrights to

one sentence, we could give no better hint than, “Study the screen.”

There, in three words, is contained the one big secret of success in

the picture field. See all the pictures you can, occasionally see them

more than once, and _study_ them.

VIII

TECHNIQUE OF THE PHOTOPLAY

For the purpose of making clear the strictly technical aspects

of photoplay-writing it has been decided best to provide a model

“scenario,” as the manuscript form of the photoplay is called.

Explanatory notations are made on the different points in construction

developed. From the model given here the beginner will understand the

manner in which he must develop his story, scene by scene, telling of

each move made by the characters.

“How many scenes are there in one reel?” is a question often asked by

beginners, when a little thought should show them that the number will

vary, depending on the length of the individual scenes. The average is

between thirty-five and forty. It will be seen that the model runs over

forty, but many of the scenes are the briefest of flashes. Remember,

“a scene is the action that can be photographed without stopping the

camera.” No matter how short your scene seems, if you feel that the

camera-man would have to stop grinding, and move his camera to take in

the next action, then you know that the next action must be numbered as

another scene. The form for photoplays of more than one reel is similar

to that given here. The author may suit his own convenience in deciding

whether to number his scenes from beginning to end of the story or to

number each reel separately.

The author is indebted to the Edison Company for the privilege of using

the scenario of the one-reel photoplay, “Across the Great Divide,” by

Edward C. Taylor. The notes in brackets are solely explanatory and are

not part of the scenario.

If you desire, an outer sheet may carry the name of the photoplay, the

number of reels, whether it is comedy or drama, your name and address,

and a line, “Submitted at usual rates.” The first page proper of your

scenario will read:

(In upper corner author’s name and address)

“ACROSS THE GREAT DIVIDE”

SYNOPSIS

Bob Carson, a young man from the country, leaves for the city in order

that he may earn enough money to marry Mary Carter. After several

years of plodding effort he is shown as a telegraph operator in a Rocky

Mountain station. Black Jack and his band plan to hold up a train

carrying a large shipment of gold, and, in order that their crime may

be covered up, decide to cause a head-on collision. They force Carson

to send the message that will cause the accident, under the cover of

their guns, with the certainty that if he refuses he will be killed

and Black Jack, an ex-telegrapher, will send the message himself.

Immediately afterward he receives a message apprising him that his

sweetheart is dead. With nothing left in life to live for he jumps to

the telegraph instrument and, before the bandit realizes what he is

doing, countermands his orders, saying as he does so: “There will be no

wreck now. We will meet across the Great Divide.” As the last click of

the instrument ceases, the bandit, realizing what he has done, shoots

him dead.

[From three hundred to five hundred words should suffice for your

synopsis. Have it tell all the important points of your story, but

don’t go into unnecessary detail that the action scenario can explain.

The synopsis is the most important part of your manuscript; it is

the first thing the editor reads--and often the last. Make it clear,

convincing, and brief--your sale depends largely on it.]

The second page:

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Bob Carson--Young country lad, later a telegrapher.

Mary Carter--His sweetheart, country dress, sunbonnet, etc.

Black Jack--Heavy-set desperado.

Bird Stevens--Outlaw, lieutenant of Black Jack.

Red--Shifty-eyed, suspicious-looking character.

Another telegrapher.

Superintendent.

Call-boy.

Four other desperados.

Boy to represent Carson at age of twelve.

Carson’s mother.

[Some of these players will appear for but a few seconds, but you must

list every character to appear on the screen. Brief descriptions will

suffice unless you want some particular type.]

SCENES

_Interior_:

Attic room--5.

Rocky Mountain despatch-office--8, 11, 16, 20, 29, 31, 32, 33, 34, 36,

37, 38, 39, 41, 43, 44, 45, 46.

Section of day-coach--10.

Section-house, sleeping-bunks, 40.

* * * * *

_Exterior_:

Farm-yard--1, 3, 9.

River-wharf--2, 4, 6.

Western Union city office--6.

Cut through rocky gorge--12, 14.

Woods near railroad track--13.

Clearing in woods--15.

Mountain road--17.

Small station--18, 28, 30, 42.

Clearing on ridge--22.

Railroad tracks near station--23.

Another section of mountain road--19.

Cross-roads--24.

Tree with swing--21.

Woods, with despatch-office in sight--25.

Bushes at side of railroad track--26.

Down railroad track as seen from 26--27, 35.

[The figures denote the number of the scenes in which the different

locations are used. List every location or setting used in this

scene plot. Be sparing in your use of interior scenes where exteriors

will serve the purpose equally well. Interiors increase the cost of a

production in time and expenditure for scenes.]

Start a new page:

“ACROSS THE GREAT DIVIDE”

Scene 1. _New England farm-yard._

Carson with old-fashioned portmanteau on scene. Calls Mary, she

appears, they embrace. He bids her good-by, telling her he is going

West to make a home for her. She breaks down as he exits.