CHAPTER XXI--MARKETING THE PHOTOPLAY

SCRIPT 408

APPENDIX A 416

APPENDIX B 417

GENERAL INDEX 418

List of Illustrations

The Lasky Studio of the Famous Players-Lasky

Corporation, Hollywood, California Frontispiece

Page

Producing a Big Scene in the Selig Yard

Film-Drying Room in a Film Factory 8

Essanay Producing Yard; Two Interior Sets

Being Arranged for a Historical Drama

Players Waiting for their Cues in the Glass-Enclosed

Selig Studio 58

Paint Frame on Which Scenery is Painted

Checking "Extras" Used in Rex Beach's Photodrama,

"The Brand" 108

View of Stage, Lubin Studio, Los Angeles, California

Wardrobe Room in a Photoplay Studio 158

The Reception of King Robert of Sicily by His

Brother, the Pope

Same Set, with Players Getting Ready for Action 208

William S. Hart with Part of His Supporting

Company

Harry Beaumont Directing Fight Scene in "A

Man and His Money" 258

Arrangement of Electric Lights in a Photoplay

Studio

An Actor's Dressing Room in the Selig Studio 308

Preparing to Take Three Scenes at Once in a

Daylight Studio 358

CHAPTER I

WHAT IS A PHOTOPLAY?

As its title indicates, this book aims to teach the theory and

practice of photoplay construction. This we shall attempt by first

pointing out its component parts, and then showing how these parts are

both constructed and assembled so as to form a strong, well-built,

attractive and salable manuscript.

_The Photoplay Defined and Differentiated_

_A photoplay is a story told largely in pantomime by players, whose

words are suggested by their actions, assisted by certain descriptive

words thrown on the screen, and the whole produced by a moving-picture

machine._

It should be no more necessary to say that not all moving-picture

productions are photoplays than that not all prose is fiction, yet the

distinction must be emphasized. A photoplay is to the program of a

moving-picture theatre just what a short-story is to the contents of a

popular magazine--it supplies the story-telling or drama element. A

few years ago the managers of certain theatres used so to arrange

their programs that for four or five days out of every week the

pictures they showed would consist entirely of photoplays. On such

days their programs corresponded exactly to the contents-page of an

all-fiction magazine--being made up solely to provide entertainment.

The all-fiction magazine contains no essays, critical papers, or

special articles, for the instruction of the reader, beyond the

information and instruction conveyed to him while interestedly

perusing the stories. Just so, the all-photoplay program in a picture

theatre, at the time of which we speak, was one made up entirely of

either "dramatic"[1] or "comedy" subjects. Films classified as

"scenic," "educational," "vocational," "industrial," "sporting," and

"topical," were not included in such a program.

[Footnote 1: The photoplay has come to have a language of its own,

which we must observe even when, as in this case, we lose somewhat in

finer word-values. In their lists of releases (photoplays released or

made available for public presentation at a specified date),

manufacturers usually classify as "comedy" subjects all photoplays

which are without any serious dramatic moments or situations. Thus, in

the lists of releases published in the various trade journals, what

are obviously "comedy-dramas"--some of them, such as certain of the

Douglas Fairbanks productions, even bordering on farce--are classed as

"dramatic" subjects, and this, apparently, because they are strongly

dramatic in certain scenes. Thus, again, genuine farce (as

distinguished from "slap-stick" comedy), social comedy, burlesque and

extravaganza are all classed under the head of "comedy," just as

comedy-drama, tragedy, melodrama, and historical plays are classed as

"dramatic." These two broad classifications will be used throughout

this work except where finer distinctions are needed in order to treat

varieties of subjects. The regular spoken play naturally invites these

distinctions more than does the photoplay, at least at present. In

preparing your manuscript, however, you will be taught to follow the

accepted form among photoplaywrights and, in writing the synopsis,

after the title, specify the class of subject, as "dramatic

photoplay," "farce," "comedy-drama," "historical drama," "society

drama," etc.]

True, a genuine photoplay may contain scenes and incidents which would

almost seem to justify its being included in one of the foregoing

classes. One might ask, for instance, why Selig's film, "On the Trail

of the Germs," produced about five years ago, was classified as

"educational," while Edison's "The Red Cross Seal" and "The Awakening

of John Bond" (both of which were produced at the instance of the

National Association for the Study and Prevention of Tuberculosis, and

had to do with the fight waged by that society against the disease in

the cities), were listed as "dramatic" films or photoplays. Anyone who

saw all three of the films, however, would recognize that the Selig

picture, while in every respect a subject of great human interest, was

strictly educational, and employed the thread of a story not as a

dramatic entertainment, but merely to furnish a connecting link for

the scenes which illustrated the methods of curing the disease after a

patient is discovered to be infected. The Edison pictures, on the

other hand, were real dramas, with well-constructed plots and abundant

dramatic interest, even while, as the advertising in the trade papers

announced, the principal object of the pictures was "to disseminate

information as to what becomes of the money that is received from the

sale of Red Cross stamps at holiday time." So we see that the

distinction lies in the amount of plot or story-thread which each

carries, and that a mere series of connected pictures without a plot

running through it obviously cannot be called a photoplay any more

than a series of tableaus on the stage could be accurately called a

play.

Therefore, learn to think of a photoplay as being a story prepared for

pantomimic development before the camera; a story told in _action_,

with inserted descriptive matter where the thought might be obscure

without its help; a story told in one or more reels, each reel

containing from twenty-five to fifty scenes.

The spectator at a photoplay entertainment must be able promptly and

easily to discover who your characters are, what kind of people they

are, what they plan to do, how they succeed or fail, and, in fact,

must "get" the whole story entirely from what he sees the actors in

the picture _do_, with the slight assistance of a few explanatory

leaders, or sub-titles, and, perhaps, such inserts as a letter, a

newspaper cutting, a telegram, or some such device, flashed for a

moment on the screen. The more perfect the photoplay, the less the

need for all such explanatory material, as is the case in perfect

pantomime. This, of course, is not to insist upon the utter absence of

all written and printed material thrown on the screen--a question

which will be discussed in a later chapter. It is enough now to

emphasize this important point: Dialogue and description are for the

fiction writer; the photoplaywright depends upon his ability to

_think_ and _write_ in action, for the postures, grouping, gestures,

movements and facial expressions of the characters must be shown in

action, and not described as in prose fiction.

_Action_ is the most important word in the vocabulary of the

photoplaywright. To be able to see in fancy his thoughts transformed

into action is to have gained one goal for which every photoplay

writer strives.

CHAPTER II

WHO CAN WRITE PHOTOPLAYS?

In almost everything that has been written up to the present time

concerning the technique of photoplay writing, considerable stress has

been laid on the statement that, notwithstanding preceding success in

their regular field, many authors of popular fiction have either

failed altogether in the production of acceptable photoplays or have

had almost as many rejections as, if not more than, the average novice

in short-story writing. That there is much truth in this cannot be

denied; but that a trained and inventive fiction writer--particularly

a writer of plot- or action-stories--after having once learned the

_mechanics_ of photoplay construction, should fail of success in

photoplay writing is, obviously, not at all necessary. A discussion of

this point should help to impress on the student just what sort of

preparation will be of the greatest assistance to him in the work he

is taking up.

_1. Experience in Fiction Writing Valuable to the Photoplaywright_

Let us consider the case of a man born with a talent and love for

music. As he grows up, he learns to play upon the violin--learns as

hundreds have done, by first taking up the most simple exercises and

constantly working up until he becomes more proficient. As in all

other occupations, practice eventually brings skill, and he at last

becomes a master of the violin. He may have been born a genius--it has

always been in him to become the exceptional performer upon the

instrument of his choice. Nevertheless, the hard work was necessary,

as that maker of epigrams saw when he said that genius was an infinite

capacity for taking pains.

To carry the simple illustration a step further: geniuses are few, so

it is certain that our artist has become a master of the violin

because he is a man who, loving his work and putting his whole soul

into it, daily improved in technique and quality by intelligent labor.

If he is a concert performer, he feels his art becoming more perfect

with each new recital. He has learned _how_ to play, and now there

remains nothing but the necessity for keeping constantly--note the

expressive phrase--in practice, and improving the quality and style of

his playing.

Let us suppose, now, that this musical artist is offered an

exceptionally good salary to appear in vaudeville with another

musician, who performs equally well upon two or three, or even more,

very different instruments. He accepts the offer; he and his partner

"open" in the act; and, after a week or two, in order to "build up"

the act as well as to become capable of playing another kind of

instrument, he decides to take up the study of the cornet. The violin

and cornet are, of course, widely different in construction, and they

produce very different effects. Besides, the methods of producing

those effects are totally unlike, since one is drawn from the violin

with the aid of trained hands and fingers, while the other is produced

by the skillful operation of the human lips, tongue and lungs, with

only minor assistance from the fingers. Yet the tones of these two

instruments may be equally harmonious and pleasing when each is

skillfully played. So, in the course of time, the violinist becomes

almost, if not quite, as accomplished a player upon the cornet as he

is upon the instrument whose study first engrossed him.

And now a question--one which certainly should not admit of much

difference of opinions in the answering: Of two men, both possessed of

a natural talent and love for music, which would be likely first to

learn to play upon the cornet correctly and with pleasing

expression--the man who had previously learned the technique of violin

playing, together with the meaning and value of musical terms, or the

one who, without any knowledge of music or of how to perform, should

suddenly determine to learn to play a given instrument?

_2. Photoplay Writing Requires a Separate Training_

Apply the same reasoning to the question of who should _become_ the

most successful photoplaywright--the trained and experienced fiction

writer, or the ordinarily intelligent and imaginative follower of some

other vocation, who is suddenly struck by the idea that he could, and

filled with the determination that he will, write a photoplay. We

accentuate the word _become_ in order to emphasize the fact that even

the professional writer _must_ learn the _technique_ of photoplay

construction before he can hope to produce a script that will not only

be accepted by a film manufacturing company for production, but will

be produced exactly as he has written it, _without the need of drastic

revision or rewriting_. This, however, is very rare today.

This last point is important. While, as we have said, it is improbable

that an experienced fiction writer would fail in the field of

photoplay writing once he had learned to put the plot together in

proper form and had mastered a knowledge of the limitations of the

moving-picture stage, it is also just as unlikely that the most famous

writer living could legitimately sell a photoplay that was essentially

faulty in construction and absolutely lacking in screen quality. If

the idea were a good one and the writer were to submit it to the

producing company under his own name, the chance is that the company

would accept it, and, after using his idea to construct the photoplay

in proper form, produce and even feature it--on account of the big

name won in the field of fiction writing. If, on the other hand, he

should submit it under a pen name it is possible that, provided the

plot, or even the fundamental idea, proved to be exceptionally good,

he might be offered a moderate sum for the plot or for the idea alone,

to be worked up and produced as the director thought best. In making

him the offer, the company would probably explain quite frankly that

the script was not suitably constructed; that it would require

rewriting in the studio; but that the idea was worth the amount

offered. Here, then, is one point upon which the novice may

congratulate himself: he, as an untrained writer of photoplays, is not

alone in having to learn the secret of what will suit the screen, for

until the famous author learns that secret, he, too, is an untrained

writer--of photoplays, and his "prices" will suffer accordingly.

[Illustration: Producing a Big Scene in the Selig Yard. See Cameras on

the Right]

[Illustration: Film-Drying Room in a Film Factory. The Films are

Rolled Around the Racks which are Suspended from the Ceiling and in

the Hands of the Operators. Moist Warm Air is Introduced through the

Large Pipes]

Now, however, after both have acquired this knowledge of screen

requirements, the trained fiction writer and the untrained photoplay

writer cease to be on common ground. The writer of novels and

short-stories has the advantage of years of--training, is the best

word, meaning, in the present instance, both experience and special

education. He has a tutored imagination; he has the plot-habit; he has

an eye trained to picture dramatic situations; he sees the

possibilities for a strong, appealing story in an incident in everyday

life that to ninety-nine other people would be merely an incident seen

for a moment and in a moment forgotten; he has at his command a dozen

different ways of assisting himself to discover plot-germs for his

stories--he is, in short, a workman knowing exactly what to do with

the tools already in his possession, and when he acquires new tools he

can, after some practise, use them with equal proficiency and skill.

Furthermore, there can be no doubt that, once each has mastered the

working rules of photoplay construction, the chances for quick and

continued success are quite evidently in favor of the trained fiction

writer--notwithstanding the fact that one man in a thousand without

any previous knowledge of writing may become extremely successful.

_3. What Chance Has the Novice?_

Should the foregoing fact discourage the novice who has not had this

previous literary training? The answer is, emphatically, YES! It

should, it ought to--_unless_ (and this is the secret of it all),

unless he has ideas, and is the kind of novice who vows with every

grain of determination in his make-up that he will soon cease to be a

mere amateur, and will be recognized as one of the successful ones.

Remember, every writer was once a beginner.

The reader may think, having read this much, that undue stress is laid

upon the question of the previously successful writer and the

ambitious but inexperienced amateur; it is this very insistence on the

comparison, however, that should cause the earnest and determined

aspirant to photoplaywright success to analyze more thoroughly the

difference, and profit by a knowledge of how he may quickly advance

himself to the position where the previously successful author will

have little or no advantage over him.

Almost all who have had anything to say upon the subject of writing

for moving pictures, but especially the writers of the advertising

copy for most of the correspondence "schools" that offer "fake"

courses of instruction upon the subject, have declared that there is

"no experience or literary knowledge necessary" in order to become

successful in the photoplay-writing field. One concern even

advertises that the student "can learn this business in from ten to

thirty days." If by this is meant that the mere correct form of

putting the work on paper with the aid of the typewriter--the

mechanical arrangement of synopsis, cast, and scenario or

continuity--can be picked up in that many days, there is hardly room

to dispute the claim. That, however, is not quite "learning the

business." No previous "literary training" _is_ necessary, if by that

is meant the mastery of English prose writing, or the actual technique

of short-story construction or novel writing. We shall see, however,

that the photoplaywright who wishes to succeed in more than one, two,

or three flash-in-the-pan instances must really submit to a course of

training, whether self-conducted or under competent instruction, and

the more he knows of fictional and dramatic art the easier is his new

work likely to be.

Nevertheless, there is a real sense in which the statement that no

literary training is required by the student of photoplay writing is

true. Provided he is gifted with an imaginative mind and the native

ability to _see_ how an idea or a plot-germ would evolve itself into a

climacteric and coherent story, and provided he has the dramatic

sense, he can actually learn the rules of construction and produce

salable photoplays even if he has by no means the literary ability to

write a salable short-story. But he _must_ be a person of ideas--no

book and no instruction can supply that lack.

We have gone so far as deliberately to try to discourage anyone who is

so foolish and so undeserving as to enter the field of photoplay

writing without the fullest intention of doing his best to win for

himself the very highest position in that field to which his talent

and ability to work can advance him; and we have no apologies to

offer. Few who have not followed the progress of the moving-picture

industry realize the enormous changes that have taken place in the

last four or five years. This is especially true of the branch of the

business having to do with the preparation of the script. To those who

have been in constant touch with the work, it seems only yesterday

that the professional photoplay writer, outside of the producing

plants, was an unknown factor. At last came the time when the

manufacturers started to advertise for ideas on which to build their

plays. "Ten to one-hundred dollars paid for motion picture plays,"

these advertisements read. They were alluring enough even to the man

who already had a steady position in another line of work. They told

him how he could add from "ten to one-hundred dollars" a month to his

regular income. At least, they _seemed_ to promise that, especially

when coupled with the assurance that "no previous literary training"

was required. These advertisements looked attractive, also, to the man

whose income was not regular. Small wonder that within a few months'

time scores, hundreds, rushed blindly into a field where even writers

of established reputation would have failed--and did fail--without

preliminary technical training. Even those who succeeded in getting

their efforts accepted by the producers found that the check was more

likely to be for ten dollars than for any amount in excess of that.

_4. Advance in Requirements_

The real change has come within the past ten or twelve months. A sort

of weeding process has been carried on by the various manufacturers,

and as a result they recognize certain writers as being capable of

supplying them, at more or less regular intervals, with the kind of

scripts they want, quite as certain magazine editors have lists of

story-writers to whom they look for the bulk of their fiction.

Gradually this list of trained and capable, and consequently

successful, writers for the screen is growing larger, for daily some

new writer is demonstrating that the freshness, brightness, and

ingenuity of his ideas warrant the editor's putting him on the list of

those from whom good material may be expected.

_5. The Demand for Photoplays_

Is there not, therefore, it may be asked, a probability of the field's

becoming overcrowded?

Hardly. The best proof of the opportunity that is held out to the

capable outside writer, new or old, is that the staff-writers, whose

duty it _should be_ to make adaptations of plays and novels and write

the scenario, or continuity, for stories bought from free-lance

writers in synopsis form, are kept pretty busy writing so-called

"original stories" for certain stars, or stories that may be "done" in

certain parts of the country at a particular season of the year. If

enough thoroughly good stories could be purchased on the outside,

staff writers would never be called upon to write stories to order;

only what might be called "inspired" stories would be accepted from

them. Furthermore, if plenty of good, original stories, written

directly for screen presentation, could be purchased by the editors,

the practice of making screen adaptations of popular novels and stage

plays would be cut down by more than half.

"Suppose that the staff writer suddenly gets the 'flash'--the

inspiration needed to write a Western story with a plot that is

infinitely bigger and more dramatic than anything that he has done in

a great many months. Thinking it over, he gradually becomes brimful of

the theme and its plot-possibilities. He wants to feed the paper into

his trusty typewriter and start pounding out the scenario before a

single bit of the suddenly inspired plot can get away from him. But he

cannot; his company does not make Western stories; nor does it permit

its staff writers to sell their work to other firms. Even if it did,

he is far too busy to give the time to the writing of a story not

intended for the use of his own particular studio.

"So the inspired story has to be laid aside, possibly to be worked

upon some time in the future, when he has severed his connection with

that company and, by choice or of necessity, become a free-lance

writer again. Instead of writing that story he sits down and writes

another society drama, after cudgeling his brain for some time in an

effort to think up a plot that is, at least, different enough from

the one he wrote last week to insure its 'getting by' the scenario

editor, the director and 'the boss.' And that is just the point:

Although many of these plots do 'get by' the powers that be (or the

staff writer would not be holding his job), the photoplay-loving

public knows only too well that there is a lamentably close

relationship between 'A Wall Street Romance,' shown at the Novelty

Theatre last night, and 'Love and Business,' produced by the same

company and 'featured' at the same theatre three weeks ago. Therefore

the constant demand in nine out of every ten studios for good material

from outside writers. Since the writer of photoplay plots must write

action-stories constantly, and since, as has been said, the staff

writers are just as apt to run dry of new plots as are any other

writers, it follows that there must be a market at all times for the

really original and highly interesting story, no matter by whom

written. If the big photoplay producing companies are to remain in

business, if their various stars are to be kept working, and their

rate of production up to schedule, there must continue to be a fairly

steady flow of good, new stories into the scenario department."[2]

[Footnote 2: "What Chance Has the 'Outside' Writer?" by Arthur Leeds,

_Moving Picture Stories_, October 5, 1917.]

No, the field is not overcrowded--with _capable_ writers; nor is it

likely to be. With incapable amateurs it undoubtedly is. Every walk of

life has contributed its share to the thousands who are _trying_ to

write photoplays. Hundreds fail because they are both illiterate and

totally unfitted for the work. Hundreds more struggle on without a

sufficient knowledge of dramatic values and plot building, not knowing

precisely what can and what can not be presented successfully in the

silent drama. Lacking this knowledge, it is impossible to succeed. But

the great majority of the ones who fail, and who, otherwise, would

almost certainly have succeeded sooner or later, owe their failure to

their inability to hit upon and develop original, ingenious and

dramatic or truly humorous plots and plot-situations. Many a man of

brains and of excellent education who in any other calling might

easily make his mark, finds himself totally unable to win success in

short-story writing and photoplay writing simply because, not having

an imaginative or (in the literary sense) creative mind, he neglects

the thousand-and-one opportunities to stock that unimaginative mind

with ideas furnished wholesale by the life he sees about him every

day, or by available books of reference, magazines and daily papers;

and, last, but far from least in importance, the pictured stories seen

on the screen.

CHAPTER III

PHOTOPLAY TERMS

Since it is the purpose of this volume to place in your hands every

tool of the trade and every bit of information that may possibly be of

assistance in winning the favor of both the manuscript editor and the

director, we must now give the meaning of the technical terms used in

photoplay work. After thoroughly familiarizing yourself with these

expressions and what they mean, you will still have to bear in mind

the limitations of the photoplay stage (see Chapter XIII). A lack of

knowledge of the latter is directly responsible for more rejected

scripts than almost any other one defect. Do not write blindly. Do not

"take a chance" of getting your material into proper shape. Master the

little details of the work, and thus give yourself the chance to

compete on even terms with those who successfully write the pictured

drama.

It is important to note that each term given is defined in its

relation to the photoplay, and not according to its usual or

dictionary meaning. All terms are explained in detail as the book

progresses. (See _Table of Contents_.)

BUST: A very close view of some object necessary to the understanding

of the picture; as, a watch, a miniature, a jewel. A bust picture is

usually taken before some dark background, and does not embody any

specific action, but merely gives a close view of the important

object.

CAMERA: The device with which the pictures are taken. The operator of

the camera is called, in moving-picture work, "the cameraman." He is,

of course, an expert photographer; and, though "camera" as used here

means the moving-picture camera, there is always on hand a regular

plate-camera for ordinary exposures. This is frequently used for

taking "stills," or photographs of certain striking situations in the

scenes, from which are made half-tone cuts for the magazines and

trade-paper illustrations, and used in designing the large and small

lithographed posters used by the exhibitors.

CAMERAMAN: See _Camera_.

CAST: The characters taking individual, and not merely mass, parts in

a photoplay.

CAST OF CHARACTERS: The list of characters prepared as a part of the

photoplay script for the use of the director or producer. It is

customary to make this cast of characters full enough to outline

eccentricities and individualities of character, together with brief

suggestions for costume.

CLOSE UP: The enlarged portion of a scene, introduced at a point in

the action where it is necessary to show some action or facial

expression that would perhaps not be understandable at the regular

range used for the main portion of that scene. It is employed, as is

the bust, to enlarge figures on the screen. Like the bust, it is also

designated by its own number in the continuity of scenes of a

photoplay script.

CONTINUITY: See _Scenario_.

CUT-BACK: A return to a previously shown scene so as to keep the

thread of the action clear.

CUT-IN, OR CUT-IN LEADER: A sub-title which cuts into or breaks the

action of a scene instead of appearing before the scene opens. Cut-ins

are therefore the sub-titles giving the words spoken by one or more of

the characters in a scene. They constitute the "dialogue" of the

photoplay.

CUTTING: It happens not infrequently that from 5,500 to 7,000 feet (or

even more, if the director is inclined to be wasteful) of negative

film is exposed, or used up, in taking the scenes intended for a

five-part (5,000-foot) "feature." In every case, a certain amount of

film in excess of what is actually needed is inevitably exposed in the

photographing of the complete picture. In the "cutting room" of the

studio the director "assembles" his picture--pieces together the

different scenes, sub-titles, and inserts, and "cuts" portions varying

from a few inches to many feet in length when such portions, if

retained, would be regarded as "padding," or superfluous footage.

DIAPHRAGM: A term applying to a portion of the camera apparatus, and

also applied to the process of causing one scene to disappear, or

another to appear. Like the "fade out" and "fade in," the "diaphragm

out" and "diaphragm in" are descriptive terms, but having a different

purpose. While the "fade out" or the "fade in" separate two parts of

a scene, and bring in between them the thing thought of or spoken of,

the "diaphragm out" and the "diaphragm in" (both usually placed in the

script on a separate line) serve the purpose of covering a supposed

lapse of time in the action, where a leader is not needed. (More fully

explained in text.)

DIRECTOR: Sometimes called the Producer. The man who plans and directs

the building and setting of all scenes in the production of the

picture, as well as casting the actors and actresses for the various

parts, pointing out, in a general way, what costuming and make-up are

required, and directing their acting and stage "business" during the

taking of scenes. "Producer" more properly is the term applied to the

manufacturer or manufacturing company.

DOING A PICTURE: To "do" a picture is to produce it in film form. To

say that a picture has been "done" in five reels is simply to state

that the production has required approximately five thousand feet of

film.

DOUBLE EXPOSURE: Same as super-imposure. The practice of exposing the

same negative film twice, used extensively in producing "vision"

effects, "ghosts," etc., as well as in photographing scenes where one

of the players is cast in a "double rôle," as of twin sisters or

brothers, as is more fully explained in the text.

EDITOR: The person who receives, examines, and passes on your

photoplay. He decides as to the merits of your story, after which, if

he accepts it, it is turned over by him to the director.

EPISODE: See _Serial_.

EXTRAS, OR EXTRA PEOPLE: Supernumeraries, either male or female, who

"dress" or "fill in" certain scenes, or who may even be given small

parts, or "bits." "Extras" are frequently used as soldiers, cowboys,

pedestrians, saloon loungers, guests at a ball, or in other similar

capacities.

FADE IN: When the screen is dark, and a picture comes up gradually

until it is clear, this is called a fade in.

FADE OUT: When the opposite from the fade in occurs, the scene dying

away until the screen is blank, this opposite term is used. These two

terms are employed in the photoplay manuscript for the purpose of

indicating that some character is thinking of, or telling another

about, something that has already happened, or that is prophetically

expected to happen. The character is seen thinking, or talking, then

there comes a fade out, and then a fade in, and the scene that comes

up is what he tells of or is thinking about. This again fades out, and

the fade in brings back the original scene with the character thinking

or talking; but each of the three scenes used has its own consecutive

scene-number in the manuscript. The fade out may also be used to end a

scene, or be used at the close of the photoplay.

FEATURE: See _Reel_.

FILM: The strip of translucent material, resembling celluloid, upon

which the scene is recorded; a series of pictures one inch wide and

three-fourths of an inch in height, taken at the rate of

approximately sixteen a second, and sixteen pictures to one foot of

film. These small pictures are technically termed "frames."

FOOTAGE: The amount of film consumed in the making of an individual

scene, insert, or the entire picture.

FRAME: See _Film_.

IDEA: An incident, or a situation, that suggests a plot; in other

words, the plot "germ."

INSERT: Anything introduced into the film to aid in telling the story

or to explain a point of the plot. "Leaders" are also inserts; but, as

generally used, inserts refers to letters, telegrams, newspaper

paragraphs or personals, or any matter other than cut-ins, or

dialogue, inserted into the film during the progress of a scene, thus

becoming practically a part of that scene.

INTERPOSE: A term used to indicate the process by which a scene merges

into the next, one dying as the other comes up, so that there is no

blank screen between them, as in the case of the fade out and fade in.

As in the dissolving views of a stereopticon, the scenes merge one

into the other. This device is used for the same purpose as the fade

out and fade in, but, being more difficult to accomplish, from the

camera standpoint, is used only rarely.

LEADER: A sub-title used before a scene to assist the spectator in

getting a clear idea of what the picture is to portray.

LOCATION: When the setting for an action is out of doors, and takes

advantage of some natural environment, such as the front of a house, a

barn, or a lane, or a lake, it is called a "location." So, while any

environment for action is broadly a "setting," one usually refers to

an interior setting as a "set" and an exterior setting as a

"location."

MULTIPLE REEL: See _Reel_.

NEGATIVE: The original emulsated film used in the camera when the

actions of the participants in the photoplay are recorded.

PLOT: The original idea worked into a compact number of scenes and

individual situations, all of which in a series carry out the general

idea. Sometimes this "plot" is referred to as the "skeleton" of the

photoplay. "In its simplest, broadest aspect, plot is the scheme,

plan, argument or action of the story."[3] Henry Albert Phillips calls

it "the 'working plan' used by the building author."[4]

[Footnote 3: J. Berg Esenwein, _Writing the Short-Story_.]

[Footnote 4: _The Plot of the Short-Story_. See also our later

discussion of the nature of Plot.]

POSITIVES: The copies printed from the negative. These positives bear

the same relation to the negative as "prints" do to a photographic

plate.

PRINTS: The "copies" or "positives." The profit to the manufacturer

lies, of course, in selling as many prints as possible to the exchange

managers of the world.

PRODUCER: See _Director_.

REEL: A full reel of film contains, approximately, one thousand feet.

Sometimes two pictures of five hundred feet each, or of different

lengths, may constitute a full reel, and it is then termed a "split

reel." If a photoplay is produced in two or more reels, it is put on

the market as a "two-reel" or a "---- -reel" subject and becomes a

"multiple-reel" subject. The term "feature" is usually applied to a

picture of five parts and upward. When referring to a multiple-reel

play, photoplaywrights now favor the use of the word "part" instead of

"reel" and say "two-part," or "three-part" story or play.

Incidentally, it is well to use "picture" in place of "film" as much

as convenient. Earnest workers in the photoplay-writing profession are

anxious to eliminate the old atmosphere of cheapness.

REGISTER: To register an effect is to "show" it to the spectators in a

way which cannot be mistaken. It is sometimes said that an effect, a

bit of "business," or an emotion which an actor is endeavoring to

portray, "will not register," meaning that it will not be understood

by the audience in the way intended by the director. Very often a

lighting effect does not "register" as it was thought it would. Again,

an actor may wish to "register" disgust or hatred, and yet he may

convey the idea that he is portraying only fear. The word covers

various meanings. In writing your story in action (in the scenario or

continuity), if a character is hiding behind a curtain, watching an

exhibition of cowardice in another character, instead of saying "Tom

shows by his actions that he considers Jack an arrant coward,"

thereby using twelve words, you may write, "Tom registers disgust at

Jack's cowardice," which uses only six words; but do not use this

technical term too frequently in this manner.

RELEASE: Each producing company "releases" or places on the market a

certain number of films every month. Each of these films, therefore,

is termed "a release." The "release date" is the day upon which copies

of the film are given out to different exhibitors, to be shown to the

public for the first time.

SCENARIO: Correctly applied only to that part of the photoplay

manuscript which describes the development of the plot, scene by scene

and situation by situation; the complete story is swiftly _outlined_

in the synopsis, but in the scenario it is told--that is, worked

out--in action. The continuity of action; often called "the

continuity."

SCENE: A scene is so much of the action of a photoplay as is taken in

one place at one time without stopping the camera. The instant that

there is need to stop the camera, to change grouping, break the

progress of the action, introduce or take away characters, or change

costumes, that scene is terminated, and with the new start a new scene

is begun.

SCENE-PLOT: That part of the photoplay script which lists the scenes

and shows the producer at a glance exactly what different sets are

required to stage the picture, and how many different scenes may be

done in each separate set.

SCRIPT: The typewritten copy of the completed photoplay. A complete

script is composed of three parts: Synopsis, Cast of Characters, and

Scenario, or Continuity--and sometimes a fourth part, called the

Scene-Plot.

SERIAL: A photoplay serial, as the name implies, is a film totaling,

say, 30,000 feet in length, and divided into fifteen "episodes," each

episode being made up of two reels, or parts--2,000 feet of film. The

production covers one long, continued story, each episode planned to

end with a thrilling climax, with a "To be continued in our next," so

to speak, tail-piece. The climax comes only at the end of each episode

(as the two parts released each week, taken in conjunction, are

termed). Incidentally, it should be borne in mind that, in all

up-to-date picture theatres, two projecting machines are employed, so

that no "break" occurs in the showing of any picture. For this reason,

"feature" subjects do not necessarily have any special climax at the

end of each reel, and, to repeat, serial photoplays have the grand,

forward-looking climax only at the end of each episode.

SET: When a room, hotel lobby, or other interior setting is required,

it is usually built in the studio, or in the open air near by, and is

called a "set."

SETTING: The setting is the scenic environment of the action. Whether

indoors or out, the surroundings, properties, furniture, buildings,

and, in short, all that comes within the view of the camera, is the

"setting" for that particular scene.

SITUATION: A state of affairs in which certain characters sustain

such relations to each other that an important change might and almost

must grow out of the relationship. In other words, a "situation" is a

state of affairs full of dramatic possibilities. When a single

character is confronted by the necessity for an important decision,

whether of morals or of physical action, we also have a "situation."

SPLIT REEL: See _Reel_.

STAGE: The actual photoplay stage is that space within the range of

the camera in which the action of that given scene will be apparent.

In an interior setting it may be the space between the camera and the

walls of the set, to the full extent of the camera-range, in which

radius a host of people may be used; or, in the case of action where

intense emotion must be made clearly apparent, the stage may be only a

space beginning at a point from six to eleven feet from the camera

lens, and only as wide as the radius of the camera-angle at that

distance. Actually, the stage is a variable area, within the

camera-range, in the scope of which the required action will be

comprehended.

STOCK PEOPLE: The regular members of the stock company employed by the

manufacturer, who draw a stipulated weekly salary, even though not

acting in a picture every working day.

STUDIO: That part of the producing plant where the pictures are taken.

In its broadest sense, "studio" is often used as meaning the entire

manufacturing plant; but such a plant contains, besides the "studio,"

the lighting plant, carpenter shop, scene dock, property room,

developing room, drying room, joining or assembling room, wardrobe

room, paint bridge and scene-painting department, dressing rooms,

offices, etc.

SUBJECT: Another term for the play. According to its nature, a picture

is known as a "comedy subject," "dramatic subject," and so on.

SUB-TITLE: See _Leader_.

SUPER-IMPOSURE: See _Double Exposure_.

TINTING: Such effects as moonlight, artificial light in a room,

firelight, etc., are gained largely by dyeing, or tinting, the

positive film in various colors. Tinting is also frequently resorted

to for no other reason than to enhance the beauty of the scene, as

when sunset scenes are tinted in one of half a dozen suitable tones,

or when exteriors are dyed in some shade of brown or green.

TITLE: The name of the story. A very important element, since it is

really an advertisement to draw attention to the photoplay, as well as

an announcement telling what it is about. "A good title is apt,

specific, attractive, new and short."[5]

[Footnote 5: Charles Raymond Barrett, _Short Story Writing_.]

VISION: The showing of a small scene within a larger scene, as in the

case of a lover seated, thinking of his sweetheart, and a vision of

the object of his thought appearing in a corner of the scene, and

disappearing as he smiles. Visions are resorted to usually to indicate

the thought of a character, and should be used only sparingly, if at

all.

CHAPTER IV

THE PHOTOPLAY SCRIPT: ITS COMPONENT PARTS

We know what a photoplay is; now what are the component parts of a

photoplay script?

Simply because the word "scenario" has been so long used loosely as a

name for the full written outline or story of the photoplay, it has

come to mean the entire manuscript--or photoplay script, as we prefer

to call it--completed and ready to be submitted to the editor.

Accurately, however (see the preceding chapter, Photoplay Terms), the

"scenario" is only one of the three or four distinct parts of a

photoplay script, as will be developed in full presently. "The

Photoplaywright," a department conducted by Mr. Epes Winthrop Sargent

in _The Moving Picture World_, was at first called "The Scenario

Writer;" however, Mr. Sargent, like most writers and editors, has

abandoned the use of the word "scenario" as applied to the complete

script. "Scenario" is the name now properly given to the continuity of

scenes, or "the continuity," as many are calling it in these days of

more precise nomenclature. Furthermore, various trade publications are

now urging writers and all others interested in the work to substitute

the word "photoplay" for "scenario," as being more comprehensive and

exact when applied to the complete manuscript. In strict accuracy,

however, even "photoplay" is not a sufficiently explicit term when

applied to the manuscript only, while either "photoplay manuscript" or

"photoplay script" is; for, as all writers may learn to their cost,

the "script" is not always destined to become a "play." To some,

however, this distinction may seem like splitting a hair nicely

between its north and northwest corners. At all events, the "photoplay

script" is an exact and descriptive term and may well be used by all

interested.

What is of fundamental technical importance in a novel, a short-story,

or a play? The story itself--the plot. And so also it is in the

photoplay; only, and the reasons must be obvious, its importance in

the photoplay is even greater. Without the plot, the writer's script

will remain forever a script, a mere piece of hand- or typewriting; it

will never be transformed by the magic wand of the director into a

film picture. Remember always that the photoplay is nothing but a

series of scenes _in action_ which make up a story. How can you expect

to have action without a sufficient cause for every effect shown and

the scenes arranged in such order as to produce a complete illusion of

a connected, progressive, climax-reaching story? (And it is just this

connected, progressive, climax-reaching arrangement of the events of a

story which we call the "plot.") A novel may be largely a study of

character; a short-story may deal with action which takes place wholly

unseen in the soul of man; a play or a musical comedy may be chiefly a

series of scenic pictures or tuneful caperings; but a true photoplay

must act out a story--a story with a big central point, supported by

contributing points, or situations.

The story, then, comes first--in more than one sense. It is the bait

you hold out to the editor of the photoplay company. If he can be

interested in your _story_, the script is half sold. This being true,

it follows that your synopsis must be clear, interesting, and as brief

as you can possibly make it, while still giving all the important

points of the story. He must grasp your plot, if not in a nutshell, at

least in just as few words as it can be compressed into in order to

make its development perfectly clear. You must therefore outline it,

so that he may be able to see plainly the possibilities of the story

as it would work itself out in picture form.

_1. The Synopsis_

The story must be briefly put, therefore it is necessarily only an

outline, a _synopsis_--and that is the accepted technical

term--forming the first subdivision of your script. Each of these

subdivisions is merely touched upon here, and reserved for separate

chapter-treatment later on.

In the synopsis, of course, your various characters are mentioned by

name, but it is also necessary to add a separate section to your

script, containing

_2. The Cast of Characters_

Almost all motion picture producers are now showing the cast of

characters on their films, and it is only a matter of time when every

manufacturer will follow their lead, for this is a natural step toward

the effect of reality. For this reason, as well as because it has been

accepted as following the proper form of photoplay script preparation,

your cast of characters should immediately follow the synopsis, and be

distinct therefrom.

_3. The Scenario or Continuity of Scenes_

Then comes the scenario--the third and last essential part of the

complete photoplay script. In this your story is not told in words but

is worked out in action. That is, instead of being told by

description, dialogue, and all the devices of fiction writing, the

_story_ is described as a series of actions, divided into the required

number of interior and exterior scenes, together with the necessary

inserts in the way of leaders or sub-titles, letters, telegrams,

newspaper items, advertisements, and the like.

_4. The Scene-Plot_

In this preliminary consideration of the several parts of the complete

script, it must be remembered that the various producing companies

differ as to what they expect a manuscript to contain. One thing,

however, is certain: it is far better to include more detail than is

required, than too little. Therefore, on the whole, it is advisable to

send a scene-plot (discussed fully in Chapter XI), as this part of the

script will show the producer at a glance exactly what different sets

are required to stage the picture, and how many scenes are "done" in

each set. It is simply a little help extended to a busy man; for in

particular it enables the editor to understand on first looking over

your script how the scenes follow up and fit in with the action as

described in the synopsis. At the same time, it is really a supplement

to the manuscript, and our experience has been that it is more

appreciated if written upon a separate sheet, and included with the

manuscript proper. Naturally, the scene-plot is not to be included in

scripts sent to companies that ask for "synopsis only."

Strictly speaking, as one writer on the subject has pointed out, the

photoplay manuscript consists of two _essential_ parts--the synopsis

and the scenario.[6] Manufacturers, however, have shown their approval

of having the list of characters, giving the names of characters and a

word or two describing their relations to each other, etc., much as is

done in some theatre programs. Let us, then, look upon the complete

photoplay script as being composed of

I The Synopsis.

II The Cast of Characters.

III The Scenario, or Continuity of Scenes.

IV The Scene-plot (as a supplement).

[Footnote 6: A discussion of the present-day requirement of "synopsis

only," as announced by some companies, will be found in Chapter

VIII.]

CHAPTER V

A SAMPLE PHOTOPLAY FORM

While the one-reel photoplay is virtually obsolete today, having given

place to plays of two or more reels, the form for the complete script

is quite the same for the multiple-reel as for the single-reel

photoplay, hence the following specimen will serve just as well to

show how the several parts of the full photoplay manuscript are set

forth as if two or even five reels were given. The same thing applies

to the number of scenes commonly found in any one reel--nowadays more

scenes per reel are customary than was the case when the specimen here

given was written, yet the old form for each scene and for each insert

is as correct today as ever, so that the present model is a

trustworthy one for those who would prepare the complete script,

continuity and all, and not "synopsis only."

WITHOUT REWARD[7]

BY ARTHUR LEEDS

Western drama in 32 scenes; 4 interior and 13 exterior settings

[Footnote 7: This story was originally entitled "The Love That Leads

Upward." After being accepted by the Universal, for production by the

Nestor Company, the title was changed to meet with some necessary

changes in the scenario. The scene-plot for this story is reproduced

in Chapter XI.]

SYNOPSIS

A reward is offered for the capture of Stephen Hammond, better known

to the people of Navajo County, Arizona, as "Aravaipa Steve."

James Freeman, a rancher, brings Dr. Turner to the ranch to attend the

younger of his two daughters, Norma, a little girl of about ten years,

the child being ill with fever. The doctor realizes the necessity of

having ice on hand to prepare ice-caps to help reduce the child's

fever. Since it is not so far to Pinedale as it is to the town where

the doctor lives, the physician advises the father to ride there at

once, and get back with the ice as soon as possible. He leaves a

bottle of medicine with Jess, the elder girl, and gives her directions

for the general care of Norma. It is while Freeman is away and Jess is

alone with the child that Steve Hammond comes to the ranch, exhausted

and hungry. He calls Jess out and she gives him a drink of water.

Then, seeing his evident weariness and realizing that he must be

hungry, she invites him to have something to eat before going on. Jess

has never seen Steve before, nor does she guess who he is, although

she has heard of "Aravaipa Steve."

Since her visitor appears to be an honest man, Jess tells him that her

father has gone to town--all the other men being away--to get ice for

her sick sister. Steve is greatly touched by the sight of the sick

child, and he suddenly remembers a cave in the foothills where there

is ice buried beneath the rock and gravel. He gets a spare horse from

the stable, and taking a couple of large saddle-bags goes to the cave,

procures the ice, and returns to the ranch house. After Steve has

placed ice-caps on Norma's head, Jess accidentally knocks the medicine

bottle to the floor, breaking it and spilling the contents. Realizing

the absolute necessity of having the medicine, Steve determines to

ride to the doctor and tell him to take or send some more; but

realizing also that he will be arrested the moment he is seen in town,

he tells Jess who he is. She is astounded, but, unable to forget what

he has already done for her, she tells him not to go--she will risk

waiting until the return of her father, who can then go. But Steve

declares that he will go, as delay may endanger the child's life. Upon

his arrival at the doctor's, he is seized and dragged to the sheriff's

office, but not before he has delivered his message to the physician.

Dr. Turner rides to the ranch with the medicine, and Jess, feeling

intuitively that harm will come to the man who has done so much for

them, begs the doctor to ride back to protect him from the mob which,

the doctor tells her, has more than once threatened to take the law

into its own hands if Steve should be captured. Seeing her distress,

both Freeman and the doctor ride to town, and through their efforts

the sheriff is persuaded to allow Steve to make his escape from a back

door of the office. He rides back to the ranch, says farewell to Jess,

and is given her photograph, on the back of which she writes her name

and a few words to the effect that she will be glad to hear how he

gets along. He then rides away.

At the end of a year, Jess receives a letter from Steve, saying that

he is staying at Winslow, and that he is now living an honest life,

and fills a good position in San Francisco. He asks her to try to

persuade her father to bring her on a visit, so that he may see her

again. When Jess shows her father Steve's letter, Freeman, knowing

that Hammond has at least never been guilty of bloodshed, and

believing that the preserver of his little Norma has completely

reformed, agrees to take Jess there to see him. He knows that, great

as has been his daughter's impression upon the former outlaw, his has

been no less great and lasting upon her.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

James Freeman An Arizona rancher

Jess His daughter

Norma Her little sister

Steve Hammond, An outlaw, known as "Aravaipa Steve"

Dr. Turner The physician

The sheriff

The sheriff's deputy

Cowboys, citizens, etc., in 1, 19, 21, and 23.

SCENARIO, OR CONTINUITY OF SCENES

1--Outside sheriff's office, main street of town--

One or two cowboys and several other citizens standing

around talking earnestly. Sheriff comes out of open door

with hand-lettered placard. He tacks it up beside a notice

of an auction sale of stock, close to door. Draws attention

of bystanders, who crowd around to read.

On screen. Notice--

$5,000 REWARD!

FOR THE CAPTURE OF STEPHEN HAMMOND, BETTER KNOWN AS

"ARAVAIPA STEVE." WE _PREFER_ TO GET HIM ALIVE, AS HE

MAY TELL WHAT HE DONE WITH THE PROSEEDS OF HIS LAST HOLD-UP.

Back to scene.

The bystanders are obviously dissatisfied. They protest to

sheriff, who shakes head emphatically.

_Leader--_

"THE ONLY GOOD I KIN SAY O' HIM IS THAT HE AIN'T NO

MURDERER. WE'LL HAVE NO LYNCHIN' WHILE I'M SHERIFF"

Back to scene.

One of the cowboys gives the sheriff a strong argument, but

he holds his ground and taps his badge significantly. They

are still voicing their several opinions when scene ends.

2--Dr. Turner's office--

Doctor lying on lounge, coat off, smoking. Turns eyes toward

door and then springs up as James Freeman enters, showing

great excitement and distress. Doctor asks what is wrong.

Freeman makes excited reply, urging doctor to get ready and

"come quick." Doctor compels him to speak more calmly and,

when he knows just what is wrong and hears Norma's symptoms,

he nods head and holds up hand, telling Freeman to sit down

and be quiet while he prepares some medicine. He measures

some drug from bottle in graduate and pours it into

eight-ounce bottle. With this in hand he steps out of room.

Freeman greatly agitated and anxious to start. Turner comes

back almost immediately, just corking bottle. He slips it

into pocket, picks up hat and medical case, then follows

Freeman out of room.

3--Short exterior scene showing Freeman and Dr. Turner riding to

ranch.

4--Bedroom in Freeman's ranch house. Shelf on wall on which are

several photographs in frames.

(Must be same as in scene 28.)

Norma lying in bed, ill with fever. Dr. Turner bending over

her. Freeman leaning over foot of bed watching anxiously.

Jess stands beside little table in centre of room, on which

are glasses, the medicine bottle, and the doctor's little

case. Her grief very evident. Dr. Turner's face very grave

as he turns away from bed. Freeman goes to him as he crosses

to table beside Jess. Doctor addresses Freeman, speaking

earnestly.

_Leader--_

"WE MUST HAVE ICE FOR HER. IT'S TWENTY MILES TO MY TOWN AND

FOURTEEN TO PINEDALE. START THERE AT ONCE, GET THE ICE, AND

WE'LL SAVE HER YET"

Back to scene.

Freeman realizes the importance of being able to procure ice

as soon as possible. Starts to get ready, presently hurrying

out of room. Doctor turns to Jess and gives her instructions

as to administering the medicine, pointing to watch. She

nods. Doctor takes last look at child, then walks out of

room, Jess following.

5--Corner of ranch house, looking toward stables--

Doctor comes out, followed by Jess. With a parting word, he

rides away. A moment later Freeman comes from direction of

stables driving buckboard. He says a few words to Jess, who

assures him that she will be all right, and then he drives

off rapidly. Jess re-enters house.

6--Exterior, supposedly at distance from but within sight of ranch--

Steve Hammond rides slowly into picture, dismounts wearily,

leans against horse as if much fatigued, looks about in all

directions. Sees ranch house short distance away. Shows

hesitation, then sudden resolution. Swings into saddle and

rides out of picture.

7--Corner of ranch house, same as 5--

Steve rides into picture in background, approaching

cautiously. Leaves horse standing at short distance from

house, ready for quick get-away. Creeps forward stealthily,

gun in hand, ready. (If window between corner of house and

door, passes beneath it stooping.) Reaches door and knocks.

Hearing someone approaching, he holds gun out of sight

behind back. Jess appears in doorway. Steve registers that

he is impressed by girl's appearance. She, that he is a

stranger. He asks for a drink of water. She goes in to get

it. He quickly replaces gun in holster. Jess comes out with

dipper of water; he drinks greedily, then sways weakly and

drops to steps. Jess, seeing his exhaustion, shows sympathy.

Asks if he is hungry. He looks up and nods. She looks at him

a moment as if estimating his character and then asks him

into the house. He holds back, hesitating a moment, then

weakly follows her in.

8--Kitchen of ranch house--

Jess places chair beside table and asks Steve to sit down.

He watches her with evident but respectful admiration as she

brings food and pours cup of coffee. She watches him

sympathetically as he eats. Presently he looks up at her,

then around, and points toward door. He questions her. She

shakes head negatively, looking at him steadily.

_Leader--_

"THE MEN ARE ALL AWAY. FATHER'S GONE TO GET ICE FOR MY SICK

SISTER"

Back to scene.

Jess watches him closely as she speaks. He shows only look

of relief. He questions her again. She points to door

leading to bedroom. He looks toward door and she crosses to

it, pushing it softly open. She turns and signs for him to

look inside. She herself stands in doorway as he passes her

and goes into room.

9--Bedroom, same as 4--

Steve moves past Jess into room, crossing to bedside.

Genuine sympathy in his expression as he looks at child and

notes her fevered condition. He places hand on child's

forehead and shakes his head. Looks toward Jess, standing in

doorway, then goes out following her back into--

10--Kitchen, same as 8--

He sits down on chair; evidently he is greatly touched by

the child's condition and Jess's helplessness. Suddenly he

springs up excitedly and turns to Jess, speaking rapidly.

_Leader--_

"THERE'S ICE NEARER THAN PINEDALE. WITH A SPARE HORSE, I'LL

GET YOU PLENTY INSIDE OF AN HOUR"

Back to scene.

Jess looks at him in astonishment and questions him. He

emphatic in repeating what he has said. He asks about horse,

pointing to outer door. As Jess leads way, Steve picks up

hat and follows her out.

11--Exterior, at door of stable--

Jess standing holding Steve's horse. Steve comes from stable

leading another horse, with couple of large saddle-bags,

pick, and short-handled shovel, on its back. He points to

these and mounts his horse. Jess smiles gratefully, then

looks grave again. He reaches down and just touches her

reassuringly on the shoulder. Then he rides quickly away,

leading the second horse, while Jess watches him for a

moment, and then starts toward house.

12--Foothill trail--

Steve riding up trail, disappearing round bend of hill.

13--Rocky portion of hillside showing entrance to sort of cave in side

of cliff--

Steve dismounts, ties both horses, takes pick and shovel

from second horse, then goes forward and enters cave.

14--Interior of cave--

Steve kneeling and removing large rocks from floor of cave.

Rises, takes pick and makes good-sized hole in rocky

ground, using both pick and shovel. Suddenly stops, kneels,

works with hands a moment, rises, takes up pick and drives

it into bottom of hole he has made. Throws pick down,

kneels, holds up fair-sized piece of ice. Rises, runs out of

cave. Back almost immediately with saddle-bags. Throws them

down, takes up pick and starts to get out the ice.

15--Entrance to cave, same as 13--

Steve just finishing loading horse with saddle-bags filled

with ice. Secures pick and shovel across bags, mounts own

horse and starts to ride away, leading second horse as

before.

16--Ranch house, same as 5--

Jess standing in doorway, great anxiety in face. Expression

changes as she sees Steve ride up in background. He

dismounts in front of door, takes saddle-bags from horse

and, with Jess leading, goes into house.

17--Bedroom, same as 4--

Steve is just making an ice-pack with a piece of flannel.

Places it on child's head. He stands watching the child

intently for a moment, then looks at the girl. Jess shows

her gratitude very plainly. She holds out her hand. Steve

starts to take it, then draws back sharply. Jess astonished,

not understanding his reluctance. He hangs his head, but

remains silent. Jess watches him for a moment and then turns

away. She is standing by table which is close to the bed.

As she turns she knocks over the bottle of medicine with one

hand. It falls to floor and breaks, spilling on carpet. Jess

shows utter consternation. Steve also distressed. Jess

points to alarm clock standing on table, speaking to Steve

excitedly. He greatly impressed by the gravity of the

situation. She indicates that the doctor lives in the

distant town. He nods, evidently trying to make up his mind

what to do. Suddenly turns to Jess, looks straight into her

eyes, then extends hand. She is puzzled, but takes proffered

hand. Steve holds hers a moment and then drops it. He looks

at her again and then hangs head, speaking with face

averted.

_Leader--_

"I'LL SEE THAT YOU GET MORE MEDICINE ALL RIGHT; BUT _I_

WON'T BRING IT. OVER IN TOWN THEY CALL ME 'ARAVAIPA STEVE'"

Back to scene.

As Steve speaks, Jess looks at him horror-stricken, and

shrinks, hiding face in hands. Steve watches her with

expression of mingled anguish and remorse. Suddenly Jess

draws herself erect, indicating that, no matter who or what

he may be, she thanks him for what he has done for her and

appreciates it. Extends her hand, looking him full in the

face. He hesitates, then seizes her hand in both of his and

grips it. She does not move--simply continues to gaze

straight into his eyes. Steve drops her hand and reaches

for his hat. She watches him as he prepares to leave. Then,

suddenly, she shows that she fully realizes what it means to

him to go for the medicine. She springs to his side and

seizes his arm. Pointing--as if toward town--she indicates

that he will be arrested the moment he appears there. He

nods head resignedly. She points to the sick child. Then she

reaches out to take his hat, shaking her head. "You must not

go; I can't forget what you have already done for her." He

looks at her a moment, shows that he realizes the

consequences, then takes his hat from her, his face showing

strong determination. He picks up the upper portion of the

broken medicine bottle from the floor; then points to the

child on the bed.

_Leader--_

"THE CHILD'S SAFETY IS WHAT I'M THINKIN' OF. THEY'LL GET ME

SOONER OR LATER ANYHOW. I'M GOIN'!"

Back to scene.

Steve turns quickly toward door. Jess speaks and he turns to

face her. She approaches slowly and stops in front of him,

looks steadily into his eyes for a moment, then impulsively

holds out both her hands. He seizes them, holds them a

moment, then, as she drops her eyes, he lowers her hands

slowly, steps backward, turns, and exit quickly. She looks

up as he passes out of door, then drops on her knees beside

bed and, with one hand reaching out to the child, looks

upward as if in prayer.

18--Exterior--

Steve riding hard into town.

19--On the outskirts of the town--

Steve rides into picture, going at same speed as before. Man

(not cowboy, but carrying gun in holster) recognizes him as

he approaches. Draws gun, stands at side of road, and, as

Steve comes close raises gun and calls on him to halt. Steve

only bends low and gives the horse the spurs, dashing past

at full gallop. Man raises his gun and fires after him, then

shows by his look of chagrin that he has not stopped him.

20--Looking back over same road, but at point farther on toward town--

Steve rides into picture, his left arm hanging limp, holding

gun in right hand, prepared to use it rather than stop;

reins hanging on horse's neck. He takes reins in right

hand--after restoring gun to holster--and rides on.

21--Exterior of doctor's house, with sign, "Dr. Turner"--

Steve rides into picture, pulls up, dismounts, and with an

expression of pain takes hold of wounded left arm with right

hand, gripping it as if to ease pain. Runs up steps and

knocks at door. As he is facing door, another man sees and

recognizes him. This man is not armed, and he merely shakes

fist at Steve behind the outlaw's back, then passes out of

picture. Dr. Turner comes to door, and falls back astounded

as he recognizes "Aravaipa Steve." "You! What do _you_ want

here?" Then he sees the wounded arm, and points to it. Steve

shakes head emphatically and proceeds to tell what has

happened at the ranch. As he finishes, the doctor looks him

over from head to foot, then holds out his hand, which the

outlaw grasps silently. Dr. Turner beckons him into the

house; but just as Steve is about to follow the doctor in,

the man who saw him knock on the door returns with a party

of ten or a dozen citizens and cowboys. Half a dozen point

guns at Steve and he throws up his right hand in obedience

to their command, indicating that his left is injured. The

doctor tries to explain, but they wave him back. Steve turns

to doctor and tells him to hurry and get the medicine off to

the sick child. Doctor nods. Believing that the outlaw will

be taken to the sheriff, he goes in to prepare the medicine.

Steve is led away by the crowd.

22--Corner of ranch house, same as 5--

Doctor rides into picture, pulling up in front of door. As

he calls out, Jess comes to door followed by her father. Dr.

Turner takes bottle of medicine from pocket of his coat and

hands it to Jess. Jess hands it to father and turns to

doctor again. She is excited and obviously much distressed

at the thought of what may have happened to Steve. Questions

the doctor anxiously. At his reply she shows signs of

breaking into tears. Then turns to her father.

_Leader--_

"I FEAR THAT THE MOB WILL TAKE HIM FROM THE SHERIFF. FOR THE

SAKE OF ALL HE HAS DONE FOR US, RIDE BACK TO PROTECT HIM"

Back to scene.

Freeman, knowing what Steve has done, looks very grave. He

speaks to doctor, who nods head. Then he turns to Jess,

signifies his intention of riding to town at once, and tells

her to attend to Norma, giving her the medicine. The doctor

dismounts, dashes into house, and returns almost

immediately. He indicates that the child is already somewhat

improved. He mounts, and with a parting word to the girl,

both men ride rapidly out of picture.

23--Outside sheriff's office, same as 1--

Mob of cowboys and citizens talking excitedly and crowding

in front of closed door. Evidently all are of the opinion

that Steve should be "strung up." They cease talking and

turn, looking up street. Dr. Turner and Freeman ride up and

dismount. They force their way through crowd and approach

door of the sheriff's office. They knock twice, but door

does not open. Freeman calls loudly to those inside, while

Dr. Turner faces the mob and warns them to keep their

distance when the door is opened. Presently door opens,

sheriff and his deputy appearing, with guns drawn. Freeman

quickly tells them what they want and he and doctor pass

inside. Mob becomes very demonstrative now.

24--Interior of sheriff's office. Door at left, closest to

working-line, leads to street. Door at back of room, when opened,

shows exterior backing--

Enter Dr. Turner and Freeman. Sheriff and deputy step back

as they enter and bar door the moment they have come in.

Steve sits on chair beside table, handcuffed. His face shows

only a complete resignation to his fate. He is neither

excited nor indifferent. Doctor speaks to sheriff, who nods.

Doctor goes to Steve with deputy, who unlocks handcuffs.

Doctor quickly examines Steve's wounded arm, then binds it

up. _Meantime_ the sheriff is listening to Freeman, who

tells him of all Steve has done for him, in helping to save

the life of his child. Sheriff plainly much impressed. Looks

across at Steve and shakes head, realizing his duty and yet

filled with sympathy for the outlaw. Freeman continues to

plead with him. Doctor finishes working with Steve and looks

across at them. Sheriff and deputy whirl round and draw guns

again as all hear sound of heavy blows on street door. (If

position of door in set permits, show door shaken as if by

blows upon it.) All realize that the mob means business. On

back wall is reward placard similar to one posted outside

(same card). Sheriff, turning to Steve, points to this.

Steve nods. Sheriff calls attention of all to back door.

Then, facing Steve again, he indicates, "If I let you go

that way, will you live honestly hereafter?" Steve looks at

him a moment, then crosses to placard and pointing to words

proclaiming reward for "Aravaipa Steve," passes other hand

in front of eyes, as if in disgust at what he has been, then

hangs head. Sheriff watches him a moment, then holds out his

hand. Steve grasps it and turns to Freeman and Dr. Turner.

As deputy turns toward street door, hearing more knocking

upon it, Freeman and doctor both shake hands with Steve,

sheriff quietly opens back door, and Steve, after hesitating

a moment, slips out. Sheriff bars back door and, turning

around, runs across to street door and shouts to crowd on

outside, haranguing them to gain time.

25--Rear of sheriff's office, showing corner of building and side

wall, looking toward street. Several horses are tied all along side of

wall, out of sight of the mob in front of building--

Steve, leaving door, which is just closing, creeps up to

nearest horse, unties it, and leads it away from building

(toward camera). Then he mounts and dashes away, out of

picture.

26--Interior of sheriff's office, same as 24--

Sheriff, smiling at others in room, still arguing with crowd

outside. Deputy, Freeman and Dr. Turner, also smiling, stand

in center of room.

27--Front of ranch house, same as 5--

Steve rides up and dismounts, calling out to Jess. She

presently appears in doorway. On seeing him safe, her face

shows intense relief and thankfulness. Then she realizes

that he is not yet out of danger. She points toward town. He

indicates that the horse he has ridden belongs to someone in

town. He takes money from pocket and hands it to her,

indicating that he wishes her to give it to the owner of the

horse. She assents. Steve then points inside. Jess invites

him to follow her in. He goes up steps after her.

28--Bedroom, same as 4--

Jess enters, followed by Steve. He goes across to bed and

bends over Norma, who is sleeping quietly. Turning around,

he sees the photographs on the shelf on wall, Jess's picture

among them. He looks at her as if hesitating to speak, then,

pointing to her picture, asks if he may take it with him.

She is a trifle confused at first; then, realizing the

change that has taken place in the man, she takes it down

and is about to hand it to him, when he takes piece of

pencil from pocket of vest and hands it to her, asking her

to write her name on it. Jess looks at him, then takes

pencil and writes on back of photo.

29--Bust of Jess's right hand holding photograph, showing back, on

which is written:

WITH THE SYMPATHY AND BEST WISHES OF JESS FREEMAN. I SHOULD

LIKE TO KNOW, A YEAR FROM NOW, HOW YOU ARE GETTING ON.

30--Back to 28--

Jess hands the photograph to Steve. He glances at what is

written and looks at her as if longing to speak, but merely

takes her hand and looks his great gratitude, and

determination to atone for the past, urged on by her

encouragement. Then he turns to door and she follows him out

of room.

31--Front of ranch, same as 5--

Steve mounted ready to ride away. He holds photograph in

left hand, still bandaged. He puts out right hand again and

takes Jess's, in a parting handshake. Then he puts photo in

inner pocket of vest, and with a last word and a smile of

gratitude, rides quickly away. Jess watches him ride out of

sight, then sits on steps and looks in direction he has

gone, starting to weep softly.

_Leader--_

A YEAR LATER.

32--Kitchen, same as 8--

Jess laying table for meal. Norma assisting her (or, if a

young child is used, playing). Freeman enters from outer

door, as if just returning from town. He carries bundles,

etc. Puts these down, takes letters from pocket, hands two

to Jess. She looks at one and lays it carelessly on table.

After a glance at the other she signifies, "It must be from

him!" Freeman and child do not observe her expression. She

opens letter and reads:

On screen. Letter--

Dear Miss Freeman,

I am writing this from Winslow--it's as near to your home as

I care to go. But I've got a good position in San Francisco,

and thank God I'm living honestly where nobody knows my past

record. I'd give anything to see you again. Do you think

your father would bring you on a visit?

Gratefully yours,

Stephen Hammond.

Back to scene.

Jess's face lights up gladly. She goes to her father and

gives him letter, which he reads. He looks at her narrowly.

She hangs her head in some confusion. He stands for a moment

in deep thought. Then he takes Jess's hands and, as she

looks straight into his eyes, he nods his head, draws her to

him and kisses her. Norma comes up and puts her arms round

her father as he and Jess stand there. Jess kneels and takes

Norma in her arms.

CHAPTER VI

THE MECHANICAL PREPARATION OF THE SCRIPT

Any successful photoplaywright will testify that the proper

preparation of the photoplay script has much to do with its being

accepted, especially if more than the mere synopsis is offered.

At first this may seem to be an extreme statement, but its truth will

become more and more evident as we proceed. Furthermore, its

importance should be accepted by writers early in the work because

every stage of photoplay writing has its direct bearing upon, and

looks toward, the preparation of the script. For this reason the

present chapter is introduced at this point, though in actual

time-sequence the preparation of the manuscript in its final form will

usually come after all its several parts have been considered, blocked

out, and arranged. It will be highly important, therefore, to review

this chapter after finishing the sections of this volume which deal in

particular with the several parts of the photoplay.

It is to be regretted, let us reiterate, that so much has been said,

by manufacturers and others, to the effect that no literary training

is necessary in order to write salable photoplays, for, as a result,

countless absolutely "impossible" scripts are constantly pouring into

the editors' offices--impossible, in a great many cases, not because

of the lack of idea, for very often the illiterate writer has both a

vivid imagination and the power to use it, but because frequently the

good idea is expressed in such unintelligible language, and with such

execrable spelling and hopelessly incorrect punctuation, that the

thread of the plot, its meaning, and values, cannot be grasped by the

editor. Even when the story itself is not utterly lost to the script

reader, he is too busy a man to wade through it bit by bit, struggling

to make something out of a jumble of confusing words. The demand for

good scripts is greater than the supply--but the supply is increasing,

and the standard is rising. This means that although there are

dozens--to put it mildly--of men and women entering the field each

week, easily three-fourths of these brand themselves as hopelessly

unqualified when they drop their first script into the mail-box.

The repeated failures of the unprepared have given rise to the rumor

that only the scripts of favored writers are read in editorial

offices. The old trick of placing small pieces of paper between the

sheets, in order to prove whether or not the script was read through,

is as popular today as it was twenty years ago with story writers. The

gentleman who has the first reading of all the scripts received by a

certain company called the attention of one of the present authors to

just such a script only recently. What was the result? Some of the

minute pieces of paper fell out the moment the script was taken from

the envelope for examination. That was enough. The script was almost

immediately placed in another envelope and returned to the

writer--with a rejection slip. Unfair treatment of the writer? Not at

all! Following the discovery of the concealed particles of paper, a

glance at the first page was sufficient to convince the editor that it

was the work of another amateur who was foolish enough to add to a

miserably prepared script the proof that he doubted the honesty of the

editor to whom he had addressed his offering.

It is only reasonable to believe that every editor will read at least

so much of every script as is necessary to convince him of its value

or its lack of value to the firm by which he is employed. He draws a

salary to discover stories which _are_ worth while, and is always on

the lookout for good, live, gripping stories which will make pictures

calculated to add to the reputation of his employer. There is just one

way he can find such stories, when the author's name is unknown to

him, and that is by reading the script, either in whole or so far as

to permit his trained judgment to pass fairly upon it. The editor who

does not do this honestly either does not exist or will soon lose his

position, for he will be sure to overlook valuable material by his

negligence.

At the very outstart resolve to _be professional in your methods, be

businesslike, and play fair_.

The advisability of constantly abiding by these three rules of the

photoplay writing "game" must be apparent to any intelligent person.

Though the field for the sale of photoplay scripts is likely to become

much larger, and the prices paid promise to become better as time

goes on, every day some new writer of proved ability (in the field of

fiction writing, as a rule), enters _this_ field. Against him, with

his superior experience and knowledge of literary usages, you must

compete. Therefore, in order to win, you must do as he does. _He is

fair to himself._ From a mechanical point, his scripts are likely to

be all that they ought to be; he sends them out knowing that they are

in correct form to receive the proper consideration of the most

exacting editor. _And they do._ In the same mail with his script comes

one from a beginner. This unknown writer may have an idea--that _most_

important requisite in picture-play writing--which is really fresher

and even better than that embodied in the story of the experienced

writer. But the merit of the idea is hopelessly concealed under a mass

of misleading and unnecessary language; the script is poorly

written--in longhand; it is badly spaced; spelling, punctuation,

everything, betray ignorance or carelessness of what is expected in a

properly prepared script. What chance, then, does it stand when placed

beside that of the trained writer? And whose fault is it?

_Give yourself a fair chance._ From the day that you write your first

photoplay, write it so carefully, prepare the script with so much

regard for the accepted rules, that no editor will be able to point to

it with a sigh and exclaim: "Oh, well, it has to be read. Here goes!"

Make it a script that he will dive into with keen anticipation of

finding something as good as its mechanical preparation would cause

him to expect.

We now add a number of items of practical advice.

[Illustration: Essanay Producing Yard; Two Interior Sets Being

Arranged for a Historical Drama]

[Illustration: Players Waiting for Their Cues in the Glass-Enclosed

Selig Studio]

THE PAPER. This is an important matter, and you should _not_ follow

your own preference or convenience. The paper should be of regulation

Ms. ("letter") size, 8-1/2 by 11 inches, not transparent, and should

be pure white.

The editor prefers not to examine odd sizes when he is used to the

uniformity of the proper manuscript paper. Never use foolscap, or

8-1/2 by 13 paper. The writer knows one studio in which the different

directors, all of whom write photoplays of their own, use the 8-1/2 by

13 size; but remember, it is the director's privilege to write his

scripts on shop-keeper's wrapping paper if he so desires. So make it

8-1/2 by 11.

It must be opaque, because no editor wants to be annoyed by having the

writing on the second sheet show through between the lines of the

first, when he is reading that. That is the chief, and a sufficient,

reason. A second, is that thin paper is flimsy and hard to handle.

It should be white, because that, too, is the common practice.

Besides, dull white paper displays the typewriting most clearly. We

have heard of one photoplay writer who uses a buff-colored paper, and

who maintains that since adopting it his scripts have received better

treatment than formerly; his theory being that, on account of the

difference in color, his scripts attracted attention and were more

carefully handled. This may be true; but a good grade of yellow paper

will cost you more than white, and if white, opaque paper is good

enough for the leading photoplay writers, why not make it your paper?

The cheapest grade of paper that is sufficiently opaque costs about

$1.50 a box, containing one ream, 500 sheets. The next heavier costs

about $2.00 a box; a still better quality, a few cents more. Certainly

here is a case where, up to a reasonable limit, the best is the

cheapest. If you take pride in your work, send it out well dressed;

but, no matter how æsthetic your taste may be, never use the shades of

cherry, opaline, canary, or Nile green, in which certain grades of

paper are made.

RULES FOR WRITING THE SCRIPT. Instead of simply saying that the

manuscript _should_ be typewritten, let us ask once more: If you are

in earnest, and intend to succeed, why not give yourself every chance

to gain the editor's attention and interest by proclaiming that you

are a business man as well as a writer? Many film manufacturers

plainly announce that only typed scripts will be examined. Therefore

write the script with a typewriter. Today, when many companies rent

good machines at from $4.00 for three months to $3.00 a month, and

when you can buy a typewriter outright for from $15.00 to $100.00, the

writer who is able to use one and who does not do so is simply being

unfair to himself. Any good machine may now be had by paying down a

small sum and the same amount monthly for a term of months. Serious

writers should promptly decide to step out of the amateur class and

equip themselves properly for the work. If you wish to experiment with

your talents before deciding to rent or buy a typewriting machine,

there are plenty of responsible typists who will typewrite your script

for from 35 cents to 50 cents per thousand words, including one

carbon copy.

If you have a typewriter you will, of course, make at least one carbon

copy. Should the script you send out be lost or badly marred in any

way, you have the carbon from which you can make another, but never be

so unwise as to send out the carbon copy itself should the original be

lost. Make a new copy. In the first place, should the carbon copy also

be lost, you will have nothing left as a record of your story--unless

you happen to have kept your notes and rough draft. Besides, carbon

copies rarely look as well as an original script, and the editor who

receives a carbon might not look upon it with any great favor--though

this is the least valid reason.

Another important point is, if your photoplay is accepted, your copy

will serve you as a valuable basis for criticism of your own work,

inasmuch as you can compare the play as written with the play as

produced, observing what changes the editor and director may have

deemed necessary. This practice is followed pretty generally by

earnest writers of fiction, but is applicable also to photoplay

writing, and should help the writer, after seeing his play produced,

to do even better work next time.

For carbon copies, almost any weight and quality of paper will serve.

A plain yellow or a manilla paper, costing about 50 cents a box of 500

sheets, is very satisfactory.

Most authors who are users of typewriters know that a black "record"

ribbon is far superior to a "copying" ribbon. The latter is likely to

smudge or blur and spoil a clean manuscript. Again, it pays to get a

pretty good grade of carbon paper; the best, in fact, is none too good

for literary work of any kind. Cheap carbons smear the copy and stain

the writer's fingers; besides, they have a tendency to make the copy

look as if it were covered with a fine layer of soot or black dust.

Avoid them.

GENERAL DIRECTIONS. Other hard and fast rules for the practice of

photoplay writing are:

Do not write on both sides of the paper.

Do not fasten the sheets of your script with clips or pins which

perforate the paper; there are at least half-a-dozen kinds of paper

clips which hold the sheets firmly without permanently fastening them

together. The editor likes to have the sheets loose when reading the

script.

Above all, do not roll your script. If it is 8-1/2 by 11 paper, as it

ought to be, fold it no more than twice. That is what all writers do

who follow the rules.

DIRECTIONS FOR TYPING THE SCRIPT. While it is well to remember that

the suggestions here offered are intended for those who type their own

photoplays, the same suggestions can be made by authors to the

professional typists to whom they send their stories to be prepared

for the editor.

The editor of one company suggests that it is best always to put your

name and address on each sheet of the manuscript. This is simply

"making assurance doubly sure" that the script will not go astray or

become mixed in the editorial office, for winds and dropped

manuscripts sometimes play annoying tricks upon editors, it need

hardly be said. But at least write your name and address plainly in

the upper left-hand corner of the _first_ sheet of the synopsis; then

write it in the same place on the _first_ sheet of the _scenario_;

and, provided you have room--if the last scene of your scenario does

not run clear to the bottom of the page--also at the bottom of the

_last_ page of your scenario. Then, further, write on every other page

the title of your photoplay. If it is a short title, write it in full.

If it should be a long title, such as "Where Love is, There God is

Also," a Selig release taken from Tolstoy's story of the same name,

simply write "Where Love is, etc." That will be ample to identify your

work should one of the sheets become separated from the rest of the

script. Thus the editor has your name and address in three different

places, and with all or part of your title on the other sheets of the

script, there is little danger of any part going astray after it

reaches his hands.

The following plan for the actual mechanical preparation of the three

or four parts of the script has been approved by editors in general;

nevertheless, it is here offered as a suggestion, not laid down as a

rule. To follow it, however, insures your having a neat, readable

script, one which will catch the editor's attention as soon as he

opens it.

The scale-bar on most standard typewriters is numbered from 0 (the

next figure, of course, being 1) to 75. Each figure indicates one

space. When writing your name and address on the first page of both

synopsis and scenario, set your left marginal stop at 5. When the

paper is pushed as far to the left of the paper-shield as it will go,

this will give you a left-hand margin of about 1-3/16 inches--which is

quite wide enough for the margin on a photoplay script. Write your

name and address so that the top line will come about three-quarters

of an inch from the top of the sheet, and, keeping it even with the

left-hand margin, write the two or three lines of the name and address

directly beneath each other, and the other material below, in the

manner illustrated on the succeeding type-page.

Frank B. Stanwood,

392 W. 62nd St.,

New York City.

_T H E R A J A H ' S H E I R_

_Dramatic Photoplay in 27 Scenes;_

_6 Interior and 10 Exterior Settings_

(Use only one line in Ms.)

_S Y N O P S I S_

The first sheet of the script being the one on which you commence to

write your synopsis, first of all get your title neatly spaced.

Always write your title entirely in capitals, leaving one space

between each letter of each word in the title, and three spaces

between each word. Say that your title contains three words, as the

foregoing. After you have written the first word--with a space between

every letter--the machine will automatically space one. Do not count

that as one, in leaving the three spaces suggested, but touch your

space-bar three times. This will move the carriage back so that the

first letter of the next word will be printed four spaces away from

the last letter of your first word, leaving three spaces between. Take

one sheet of your typewriter paper and keep it as a test sheet, trying

out your title-spacing thus: Write the complete title, with spacing as

suggested above, once, getting it as nearly right (with even spaces on

either side) as you can at a good guess. If it is not right, space one

line down on your trial sheet and try it again, this time a little

farther to the right or left as the case demands. One or two trials

and you will have it as nearly even in margins as it can be made on a

typewriter. Thus, in a title like

T H E H E R O I N E O F T H E

P L A I N S

you will find that to start the first word at 11 on the scale-bar,

managing the spacing as suggested, will get your title in the centre

of the page with practically no variation in the two margins.

Then, about an inch below the title, write the descriptive lines:

Dramatic Photoplay in 28 Scenes;

5 Interior and 12 Exterior Settings

as described in the chapter on "The Synopsis." About an inch below

this, write the word

S Y N O P S I S

starting to write at 28 on the scale-bar. The O in the word OF, the

middle word of your title, is the exact centre of the title. Starting

the word

S Y N O P S I S

on 28 causes the centre of this word (which is the space between the O

and the P) to fall exactly beneath the centre of the title. Then,

about 1-1/2 inches below that, start to write your story in synopsis

form. Commence your paragraph at 15, indenting ten spaces from the

left margin. Thus the neatness and businesslike appearance of your

pages will impress the editor favorably at the very first glance.

Follow the same rule when typing the scenario, or continuity, and also

the scene-plot, if one is made.

Having written your synopsis, if you find that you have plenty of room

on the last sheet to write your cast of characters, do so; but do not

crowd it in. If you cannot get it in so as to look well, double

spaced, and appearing to be, as it should, a separate division (though

not necessarily a separate sheet) of the manuscript, by all means give

it a separate sheet.

On the other hand, there is a rule regarding separation of divisions

of the script which must be observed in every case. You must ALWAYS

start to write the _scenario_ on a fresh sheet, no matter how much

room you have left after writing your cast. The reason for this is

simply that, should your scenario be in proper shape for the director

to work from just as it is, he wants the scenario separate. Having

read the synopsis once or twice, he is through with it; whereas, when

working on a picture, the director "sleeps with the scenario."

And now a word as to the typing of the continuity, or scenario, for

you should do everything in your power so to prepare it as to make its

every word quickly and easily understood.

In the first place, we strongly recommend the following method for the

mechanical preparation of the scenario:

When writing the number of your first scene (1), place the indicator

at 0 on the scale-bar. Write all scene-numbers up to 9 at the same

point. When you start to write scene-numbers containing two figures

(from 10 to as high as you will go) do so at 0 and 1, respectively.

Now space one, then print the hyphen mark (which will make a short

dash), after which space one or two, as the case may be, which will

bring you to 5 on the scale-bar. At 5 start to write the _descriptive

phrase_ for your scene. You should also make 5 your left marginal

point for the writing of the body of your action. In writing the

subject matter of each scene, or division, of the action, _commence

each new paragraph_ at 15. In writing "Leader," "On screen, Letter,"

_or any other_ direction intended especially for the director, always

start to write at 0 on the scale-bar, in a direct downward line with

your scene-numbers.

The result of following these suggestions will be a neat and

attractive type-page, upon which the producer will be able to locate

the scene-numbers and other directions at a glance, as may be seen

from the following example:

[Illustration:

LEADER-

FIVE YEARS LATER TOM RETURNS HOME.

8-Platform of Railway Station.

Train pulls in and stops.

Tom alights. Sets grip on ground

--feels in pocket--produces

Kate's letter. Opens it and

glances at it again.

ON SCREEN, LETTER-

DEAR TOM:

Remember your promise. We

shall be counting upon seeing

you at Christmas. Don't for-

get--etc.

BACK TO SCENE.]

The fact that every studio has writers on its staff to make over

scenarios which are good but not in quite the correct form for the

director, into what are known as "working scripts," should make no

difference to you when writing your script. Let what you offer to the

editor be as perfect as you can make it, regardless of what becomes of

it after you have sold it. Make it, in _every_ sense, a desirable

script.

With regard to the proper spacing for a photoplay manuscript, some

editors prefer single and others double spacing. Again, sometimes an

editor may have a fondness for double spacing, while the director

leans to scripts that are single-spaced. Our experience has shown,

however, that the majority of editors and directors like single

spacing for the actual subject-matter of the scene--the paragraphs of

action--but double spacing _between all other matter_. Therefore use

double space between a leader and the description of the scene which

follows, and between the description of the scene and the action

proper. This method of spacing, when combined with the rule of placing

all directions in the extreme left-hand margin, results in a script

that is almost sure to be satisfactory, and is certainly attractive,

mechanically.

In conclusion, do not forget that a _good_ typewriter is a tool of the

writer's trade, and perhaps the most important tool of all. As for

the question of which is the _best_ typewriter, it is entirely a

matter of opinion. If you live in a small town, where there is no

typewriter agent or agency, see if, among your business acquaintances,

there are not represented all the standard makes. Ask permission to

examine as many different makes as you can find; try what each will

do; make up your mind whether you prefer the single or the double

keyboard. If you choose a machine with the single keyboard, you must

get used to the shift-key system of printing capitals, yet many

writers prefer the single keyboard. If you are _buying_ a machine the

makers will gladly substitute for one of the needless characters

already on the keyboard--such as @--an odd character for which a

writer of photoplays or of fiction would have particular use, such as

the exclamation mark.

Having a typewriter, take care of it. Clean the type regularly with a

stiff brush; keep it cleaned and oiled; protect the platen from spots

of oil or grease of any kind; and give the machine the general

attention which it deserves.

From all this, it may seem that undue stress is laid upon the neat

appearance of the script, and the way it is planned from a mechanical

viewpoint. But we re-affirm what has been said at the opening of the

present chapter, and, in addition, we assert that not only are

neatness and correctness in the preparation of the script of

importance now, but, in the good times to come, to which all photoplay

writers are looking forward, the names that will be featured on the

posters and in the advertising matter of the companies will be the

names of the writers to whom the big checks are paid, and for whose

work there will be a steady demand, and they will be the names of the

writers who consider it worth while to TAKE PAINS.

CHAPTER VII

THE TITLE

For a few moments, it will be well to pause in order to survey the

road we have patiently travelled in our efforts toward writing the

photoplay, and also to look briefly at the course that lies ahead.

In the preceding six chapters we have determined the precise meaning

of the word "photoplay;" touched upon the qualifications necessary to

success in photoplay writing; familiarized ourselves with the

vocabulary of the craft; looked briefly at the parts of the photoplay

script; examined a complete specimen; and found what are the proper

methods for its typing.

After all this foundation work, containing the general information and

instructions necessary to enable the photoplaywright to take up

intelligently the actual planning, building, and writing of the story,

we enter upon a second group of discussions, chapters VII to XII,

which are essentially lessons in _how_ to write the photoplay.

The third section, from Chapter XIII to the end, takes up the details

of instruction and information in such a way as to supplement the main

points before discussed--minor yet really important points which are

sure to be of value to the photoplaywright in his work of turning out

a script that will need little or no changing on the part of the

director or the staff-writer.

_1. Importance of the Title_

Nearly everything that has been written on the subject of titles for

novels and short-stories applies quite as much to titles for "regular"

plays and the photodrama. No photoplaywright who is earnest in his

desire to turn out only the best and most original work should neglect

to read thoroughly the chapter on "The Title" in each available book

in the list of works on the writing of the short-story in Appendix A,

at the end of this work. Do not be satisfied with what has been

written specially for writers of the photoplay; go deeper; study what

has been written for fiction writers and dramatists, and so equip

yourself thoroughly. We should like to write at the beginning and end

of every chapter of this book this reminder: Only those who are

thoroughly equipped will be able to remain in the ranks of

photoplaywrights when once the various manufacturers have drawn out

enough competent writers to keep them supplied with scripts. There

will always be room for the competent writer, but a competent writer

he must be. And as one element in competency this matter of the title

is important, vitally important, when it comes to selling your script.

_2. General Functions of the Title_

"The title has for its main function the advertising of the story to

the public."[8] Is not this, even if there were no other, a sufficient

reason for making your title as attractive, interesting and

appropriate as you possibly can? True, there are thousands of

picture-play patrons who go to their favorite theatre night after

night, prepared to see anything that may be shown for their

entertainment. But there are also thousands who are _not_ regular

attendants. Many go only when attracted by the title of a picture

based on some well-known book, poem, or play. A great many more are

guided in their selection of moving-picture entertainment by the

attractiveness of the titles displayed on the posters and banners

announcing the regular daily programs. As a means of attracting all

such, the advertising value of the title is important.

[Footnote 8: Evelyn May Albright, _The Short Story_.]

"A good title," Barrett has said[9] "is apt [appropriate, fitting],

specific [concerning itself with, and narrowed down to, something

individual enough to grip the attention], attractive [interesting and

calculated to inspire attention], new [fresh and unhackneyed], and

short." The bracketed comments, of course, are ours.

[Footnote 9: Charles Raymond Barrett, _Short Story Writing_.]

_3. Titles to Avoid_

Judging from the titles of many dozens of scripts that the writers

have seen slipped into the "stamped addressed envelope enclosed" and

sent back to amateur photoplaywrights, one of the greatest mistakes

that the young writer makes in his choice of titles is in making them

commonplace and uninteresting. When an editor takes out a script and

reads the title, "The Sad Story of Ethel Hardy," would he be

altogether to blame if he _did_ put the script back into the return

envelope utterly unread, as so many editors are accused of doing yet

really do not do? To anyone with a sense of humor, there is more cause

for merriment in the titles that adorn the different stories that a

photoplay editor reads in the course of a day than is to be found in a

humorous magazine. Yet it is as easy for some writers to select a

good, attractive title for their stories as it is difficult for

others.

Do not choose a title that will "give away" your plot. The title

should aid in sustaining interest, not dull the spectator's attention

by telling "how it all ends." To quote Mr. Harry Cowell, writing in

_The Magazine Maker_: "A title is a means to an end. The end of a

story should justify the title. If the title gives the story away, the

writer may have to give it away, too, or sell it for a song, which is

bad business." Let the title suggest the theme of the story, by all

means; but keep your climax, your "big" scene, safely under cover

until the moment comes to "spring it" upon the spectators and leave

them gasping, as it were, at the very unexpectedness of it. Avoid

titles beginning with "How" or "Why," for they are prone to lead in

this direction. A good exception is the well-known play, "Why Smith

Left Home."

If you use a quotation or a motto for a title, be sure it is not

overworked. Variations of "The Way of the Transgressor," "And a

Little Child Shall Lead Them," "Thou Shalt Not Kill," and "Honesty Is

the Best Policy" are moss-covered.

Avoid baldly alliterative titles, such as "The Deepening of

Desolation," "Elizabeth's Elopement," and "Tom Truxton's Trust." Had

not the three elements mentioned in the title, "Sun, Sand and

Solitude," practically made the story possible, it would never have

been used; even so, it is really too alliterative. Usually, the

over-use of alliteration is artificial and suggests a strained effort

to be original.

For more than one reason, names, as titles for photoplays, are not

very desirable, especially for original stories. To entitle a

photoplay "Andrew Jackson," or "Jane Shore," if the plot is chiefly

concerned with either of those two personages, is, of course, the

proper thing; but the class of historical stories indicated by these

or similar titles is usually turned out by the film company's own

staff of writers. Once in a while, however, it happens that an

original story of modern life is written around one character who so

completely dominates the action that the name constitutes the very

best title that could be given to it. Two good examples of stories

having names as titles are "Mickey," in which Mabel Normand played the

title rôle, and "Innocent" (the name of the heroine), produced by

Pathé and featuring Fannie Ward.

One-word titles are good only when they are especially apt. Such

titles as "Jealousy," "Retribution," "Chains," "Rivals" and

"Memories" have been worn threadbare.

"Eschew titles that are gloomy, as 'The Sorrow of an Old Convict,'

Loti; or old style, 'Christian Gellert's Last Christmas,' Auerbach; or

trite, 'The Convict's Return,' Harben; or newspapery, 'Rescued by a

Child;' or highly fantastic, 'The Egyptian Fire Eater,' Baumbach; or

anecdotal, 'A Fishing Trip;' or sentimental, 'Hope,' Bremer; or

repellent, 'A Memorable Murder,' Thaxter."[10]

[Footnote 10: J. Berg Esenwein, _Writing the Short-Story_.]

"The American editor, like the heiress, is willing, anxious, to pay

big money for a genuine title; only she is on the lookout for an old

one, he for a new," says Mr. Harry Cowell, in _The Magazine Maker_.

And though he speaks of titles for fiction stories, what he says

exactly fits when applied to photoplay writing. Again, Mr. Cowell says

that "the best of titles, once used, is bad"--for re-use, of course.

Mr. Epes Winthrop Sargent remarks: "There are dozens of instances of

title-duplication to be noted in the past year, some of the titles

being used more than twice. A matter of greater moment is to avoid

duplication of plot." It is of still greater moment to avoid both.

Because he discovered that the Essanay Company was about to release a

picture called "Her Adopted Father," a certain writer changed the

title of one of his stories from "His Adopted Mother" to "The Bliss of

Ignorance." This avoided, not a duplication, but a too great

similarity in titles; at the same time the change was an improvement,

when one considers the theme of the story.

As a photoplay author, you should subscribe for one of the

trade-papers, if for no other reason than to keep posted on the titles

of the various subjects released by the different manufacturers. In

this way you will have a much better chance of avoiding the repetition

of titles. It goes without saying that originality in a title is only

less desirable than originality in a plot; yet every now and then some

manufacturer will release a picture with a title similar to, or even

quite the same as, one already produced by some other company. For

example, on July 15th, some years ago, Lubin released a picture called

"Honor Thy Father." Four days later, on the 19th, Vitagraph put out a

picture with the same title. Yet this was the merest coincidence. On

August 17th of the same year Reliance released "A Man Among Men,"

while Selig's "A Man Among Men" was released November 18th. The plots

were totally different, and the Selig story was written and produced

in the plant before any announcement of the Reliance picture was made.

Again, on January 8, of the next year, Selig released "The Man Who

Might Have Been." Twelve days later, Edison put on the market "The Man

_He_ Might Have Been," by James Oppenheim.

The exhibitor is the one who suffers as a result of these similarities

in titles; many people see the poster and imagine they have seen the

picture before, not noticing the difference in the make of film, and

so go elsewhere to see some show that is entirely fresh to them.

Therefore keep posted, as fully as possible, as to what the

manufacturers are putting out.

Of course this matter of title-duplication has a bearing, though a

remote one, on titles that are similar yet not identical, as when

Artcraft releases "Wolves of the Rail" (with William S. Hart) and

Triangle puts out "Wolves of the Border" (with Roy Stewart). Perhaps

there is no valid objection to such similarity, which can be called

imitation only when the themes are more or less alike, but it actually

seems to have been the policy of many companies to follow the line of

least resistance when selecting titles for their pictures, using a

title, provided it is good in itself, and appropriate to the picture

under consideration, regardless of whether or not it is already

familiar to the public as the title of another photoplay, fiction

story, or legitimate drama. Needless to say, this has led to a great

deal of confusion--and, in one or two cases, to law suits.

Bear in mind that the titles of already published fiction and already

produced stage plays are not the lawful prey of the photoplaywright

merely because he is working in a different literary field. More than

one librarian has told us of the confusion caused by reason of Anna

Katharine Green's title, "The Woman in the Alcove," having been used

later by another popular woman novelist. Again, such a unique and

thoroughly distinctive title as Gouverneur Morris's "It" has been used

for a very different type of short-story by another writer.

Occasionally, we will admit, this happens by the merest

chance--although not when a certain motion picture concern puts out a

picture showing life in an American factory town and bearing Kipling's

well-known title "The Light That Failed." Your literary conscience

must dictate what you should do--willing as we are to admit that there

is, very frequently, a great temptation to use the title already

employed by another writer because of its extreme appropriateness to

your own story.

It may be said that most photoplay producing companies are led to use

unoriginal titles because of the poor and inappropriate titles given

the stories sent in to them by the authors themselves. Your duty,

then, is to help to keep the producing company from "going wrong" in

this respect by supplying them with the very best and most original

title you can devise for every story of yours which you are fortunate

enough to sell.

_4. Where to Look for Titles_

Good titles are everywhere--if you know how to find them. The Bible,

Shakespeare, all the poets, books and plays that you read, newspapers,

even advertisements on billboards and in street cars, all contain

either suggestions for titles or complete titles, waiting only to be

picked out and used. But be sure that someone else has not forestalled

you!

Sayings, proverbs, and well-known quotations are a fruitful source of

titles, as we have already intimated. But sometimes the real

significance and value of such a title are not apparent to a great

many of the spectators until they have witnessed the climax of the

picture. This arises from their ignorance of literature and is, of

course, their loss. Many good and extremely appropriate titles of this

character are taken from the Psalms, from Shakespeare, and other

poets. Frequently these quotations, used as titles, are so well known,

and their meanings so apparent, that almost every one of the

spectators will at once understand them, and catch at least the theme

or general drift of the story from the title. Sometimes, again, the

real significance of a title is best brought out by repeating it, or

even the complete quotation from which it is taken, in the form of a

leader at the point in the action where its significance cannot fail

to be impressed upon the spectators. For example, a certain Selig

release was entitled "Through Another Man's Eyes." Before the next to

the last scene, which showed the ne'er-do-well lover peering in at the

window, while his former friend bends over to kiss his wife--who might

have been the wife of the wayward young man, had he been made of

different stuff--the leader was introduced:

"How bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through

another man's eyes!"

--SHAKESPEARE, _As You Like It_.

5. _The Time to Choose a Title_

Notwithstanding that the title is the first in position on the

writer's script, as well as on the film as exhibited, it is frequently

the last thing decided upon. A writer may have his theme well in hand,

know every motive of every character, have settled to almost the

minutest detail just how his scenes are going to work out as they

unfold his story, yet, when he begins his first draft of the script,

he may not have the slightest idea of what title he will eventually

give it.

On the other hand, he may create a story _from_ the title. Having hit

upon an expression that suggests a story by starting a train of

thought, he may find that it is directly responsible for the way in

which he builds his plot; its very words suggest the nature of the

story, and supply at least a suggestion of how it can be

developed--they hint at a possible plot, suggest the setting, and

show, almost as one might guess the theme of a novel by glancing for a

moment at one of the illustrations, what the probable outcome of the

story will be. Hence the expression becomes a natural title for the

photoplay.

As an example of the foregoing, in "The Fiction Factory," by "John

Milton Edwards," the author says that "the sun, sand and solitude of

the country God forgot" did, or caused, or made something--just what

does not now matter. The point is that those ten words supplied one of

the present authors with not only titles for two of his photoplays,

but with the plot-germ for the plays themselves. Both are stories of

Arizona: "Sun, Sand and Solitude," and "In the Country God Forgot."

_6. Choosing the Title Last_

But you may decide to leave the naming of the story until after you

have made the rough draft of both synopsis and scenario. Your story is

told; you know the motives that have prompted your different

characters to do what they have done; you know the scene; and you

understand the theme, or _motif_--as the word would be used in

music--which underlies the whole action. The question arises: To what

do you wish to have your title call _particular_ attention? If a

woman, or a girl, has the leading part, and it is what she does in

your play that really makes the story, it would be best to feature the

girl and her deed of cleverness or daring in your title, as in "The

Ranch Girl's Heroism," "A Daughter's Diplomacy," or "A Wife of the

Hills." Or you may attach most importance to the locale of your story,

the background against which the rest of your picture is painted, and

call it, for instance, "A Tragedy of the Desert," "In the North

Woods," "A Tale of Old Tahiti," or one of the titles of Arizona

stories, just cited. Again, the interest in your story may be equally

divided between two, or among three, people, as in "The Triangle,"

"The Girl and the Inventor," and "The Cobbler and the Financier." Note

that every title here given is the actual title of a picture play

which has already been released. Bear in mind, too, that many

photoplays are released bearing poor, commonplace, and inappropriate

titles, and the foregoing are not so much named as models as for the

purpose of illustrating the specific point now being discussed--that

the _feature idea_ may often direct your choice after the story is

worked out.

A great many comedies have titles which state a fact, or specifically

make an announcement concerning what happens in the photoplay, as

"Arabella Loves Her Master," or "Billy Becomes Mentally Deranged."

Photoplays with such titles are, as a rule, the product of the

European makers. Once in a while a dramatic picture will be given such

a title, as "Tommy Saves His Little Sister"--a picture made in

France--and "Annie Crawls Upstairs," the last a beautiful and touching

picture by the well-known writer of magazine stories and photoplays,

James Oppenheim, produced by the Edison Company. Again, there are more

general titles exploiting the theme of the story, as "The Ways of

Destiny," "The God Within," and "Intolerance." There are also

symbolical titles, which have, naturally, a double meaning, playing

upon an incident in the plot, as "A Pearl of Greater Price," and

"Written in the Sand."

_7. The Editor and the Title_

Some successful writers have expressed dissatisfaction when editors

have ventured to change the titles of their scripts after having

accepted and paid for them. Doubtless some of these objections have

been not without reason. Many editors and directors have, in the past,

taken entirely too much upon themselves, in this and other respects

taking liberties with the scripts received which, if known to the head

of the firm, would have led to their being at least reprimanded. But

in such studios, the editors, and especially the directors, worked for

days at a time without having once come in contact with the head of

the firm; as a result, they all did pretty much as they liked. During

the last few months, however, changes have been made in every studio

in the country, and at the present time the scripts that writers send

in are not only handled much more carefully, but, if the title of a

story is changed in the studio, there is usually a very good reason

for so doing.

Let us suppose, for example, that a certain company (such as, at this

writing, Goldwyn) is featuring women stars only. A writer sends in an

unusually good script entitled "Not Like Other Girls"--which, by the

way, is a well-known book-title. At about the time that his script is

received at the Goldwyn scenario department, the company decides to

feature, in addition to its women, a certain male star. This writer's

story, while one with a "woman lead," is also one whose plot is

capable of being worked over and slightly altered so as to provide a

good vehicle for the leading man who has just been engaged. On the

strength of this fact, the company buys the author's story without

even informing him of their intention to make alterations in it--or

they may, of course, tell him of the contemplated alterations and

request his help in recasting the story. Not only is the action

changed in different ways, but the title is sure to be altered to make

it appropriate for a male leading character--and all quite

justifiably.

In this condition of affairs, by no means infrequent, the

photoplaywright may find a strong reason for being familiar with the

people composing a certain company, for the actual structure of the

play as well as the title will influence its acceptance in some

instances. It is well to ask: Are men or women featured in their

pictures; or do they put out stories with a male and a female "lead"

of equal strength? Your story should be good enough to make it

acceptable to any editor; yet, if you plan to send it first to a firm

that features a woman in most of its pictures, as you have the

opportunity of knowing if you study the pictures you see on the screen

and read the trade-papers, do not write a story with a strong male

"lead," and do not give it a title that draws attention to the fact

that the principal character is a man.

Remember, once again, that your title is the advertisement that draws

the public into the theatre. The title is to the public what the title

combined with the synopsis is to the editor--the all-important

introduction to what is to follow.

CHAPTER VIII

THE SYNOPSIS OF THE PLOT

The synopsis is a brief--a clear, orderly outline--of the plot of your

story. However, before considering the preparation of the synopsis,

one important element must be considered:

_1. What Constitutes a Plot_[11]

_A fictional or a dramatic plot is the working plan by which the story

is made to lead up to the crisis (or complication, or cross-roads of

choice), and then swiftly down to the outcome (or unfolding of the

mystery, or untying of the knot, or result of the choice)._

[Footnote 11: The student is advised to read _The Plot of the Short

Story_, Henry Albert Phillips; and the chapters on plot in the

following treatises: _The Short Story_, Evelyn May Albright; _The

Contemporary Short Story_, Harry T. Baker; _A Handbook on Story

Writing_, Blanche Colton Williams; _Short Stories in the Making_,

Robert Wilson Neal; _The Art of Story Writing_, Esenwein and Chambers;

and _Writing the Short-Story_, J. Berg Esenwein.]

There can be no real plot without a complication whose explanation is

worked out as the story draws to its close. A mere chain of happenings

which do not involve some change or threatened change in the

character, the welfare, the destinies of the leading "people," would

not form a plot. Jack goes to college, studies hard, makes the

football team, enjoys the companionship of his classmates, indulges in

a few pranks, and returns home--there is no plot here, though there

is plenty of plot _material_. But send Jack to college, and have him

there find an old enemy, and at once a struggle begins. This gives us

a complication, a "mix-up," a crisis; and the working out of that

struggle constitutes the plot.

So all dramatic and all fictional plots give the idea of a struggle,

more or less definitely set forth. The struggle need not be bodily; it

may take place mentally between two people--even between the forces of

good and evil in the soul of an individual. The _importance_ of the

struggle, the _clearness_ with which it is shown to the spectator, and

the sympathetic or even the horrified _fascination_ which it arouses

in him, have all to do with its effectiveness as a plot--note the

three italicized words.

_2. Elements of Plot_

Dividing the subject roughly, in this brief discussion, three

important elements of plot deserve consideration: