vivid. That is, they must not seem manufactured. It is all well enough
to say that Jack has made an enemy at College, but _how_ did the
enmity arise? The young men will not become opponents merely to suit
the photoplaywright. You must think out some natural, interesting,
fresh, and vivid cause for the antagonism. Such a logical basis for
action is called _motivation_. And so with all the preliminaries on
which your plot is based--they must motivate what follows. Remember
that forces or persons outside the two characters may lead them to
quarrel. Swiftly but carefully lay your foundations (mostly out of
sight, in the manner of a good builder) so that your building may be
solid and steady--so that your story may not fall because the
groundwork of the plot does not appeal to the spectator as being
_natural, convincing, interesting, fresh, and vivid_; these words bear
reiteration.
_(b) The complication_, or struggle, including all its immediately
surrounding events, must be (usually) surprising, of deep concern to
the chief character, and arouse the anxiety of the spectator as to how
the hero will overcome the obstacles. Jack discovers that the girl he
has just learned to love is the well-loved sister of his college
enemy. How will this complication work out? An interesting series of
movements and counter-movements immediately becomes possible, and any
number of amusing or pathetic circumstances may arise to bring about
the denouement--which simply means the untying of the knot.
The struggle in a plot may be either comical or tragic. Mr. Botts
ludicrously fights against a black-hand enemy--who proves to be his
mischievous small son. Plump and fussy Mrs. Jellifer lays deep but
always transparent plans to outwit her daughter's suitor and is
finally entrapped into so laughable a situation that she yields
gracefully in the end.
And so on indefinitely. Hamlet wars against his hesitating nature.
Macbeth struggles with his conscience that reincarnates the murdered
Banquo. Sentimental Tommy fights his own play-actor character. Tito
Melema goes down beneath the weight of his accumulated insincerities.
Sometimes light shines in the end, sometimes the hero wins only to
die. To be sure, these struggles suggest merely a single idea, whereas
plots often become very elaborate and contain even sub-plots,
counter-plots, and added complications of all sorts. But the basis is
the same, and always in some form _struggle_ pervades the drama;
always this struggle ranges the subordinate characters for or against
protagonist and antagonist, and the outcome is vitally part and
substance of all that goes before--the end was sown when the seeds of
the beginning were planted. This touches upon the third element:
_(c) The Denouement_, or disclosure of the plot just before its close,
is one of its most vital parts.
"Novelty and interest in the situations throughout the story, with an
_increasing_ interest in the denouement, are the essential demands of
a plot."[12]
[Footnote 12: Evelyn May Albright, _The Short Story_.]
It goes without saying that you must interest your audience, but you
must also satisfy them--gratify the curiosity you have earlier
aroused. It is all very well to write an "absorbing" story, in which
the excitement and expectation are sustained up to the very last
scene, but be sure that the theme is essentially such that _in_ the
last scenes, if not before, your action will unravel the knot that has
become so tantalizingly tangled as the play proceeded. No matter how
promising a theme may be in other respects, it is foredoomed to
failure if from it comes a plot of which the spectator will say as he
goes out, "It was a pretty picture--but I couldn't understand the
ending."
Another thing: If it is important that, in every case, the spectators
must be "shown" what happens in the working out of a plot, it is
equally important that they be shown _why_ it happens. This also has
to do with sound and comprehensible motivation. "It is not so much a
case of 'show me,' with the average American, as a common recognition
that there must be a reason for the existence of everything created.
He is inclined to give every play a fair show, will sit patiently
through a lot of straining for effect, if there is a _raison d'être_
in the summing up, but his mode of thought, and it belongs to the
constitution of the race, is that of getting at some truth by
venturesome experiment or logical demonstration."[13]
[Footnote 13: Louis Reeves Harrison, in _The Moving Picture World_.]
Bear that truth in mind, no matter what you write of, and never start
anything that you can't finish--which is simply one way of saying, do
not start to write a story _at all_ until you have every scene,
situation, and incident, so thoroughly planned, motivated and
developed in your mind that when you come to write it out in action in
the scenario you cannot help making the audience understand the plot.
Never attempt to introduce even a single situation without a logical
cause; be sure that "there's a reason."
"Break away from the old lines," advises Mr. Nehls, of the American
Company. "Try to write scenarios that will hold the interest with a
not too obvious ending, with sudden, unexpected changes in the trend
of the story."
If the story contains a mystery, do not allow the end to be guessed
too soon. Interest thrives on suspense and on expectation. The
surprising thing, yet the natural ending, swiftly brought about, marks
the climax of a good photoplay plot. Many a promising photoplay script
has failed because it did not make good its prophecy. The plot opened
well, but "petered out"--the complication was a good one, but the
unfolding of the mystery, the result of the struggle, the aftermath of
the choice, were disappointing.
And one final word in this connection: The _photoplay public loves a
"happy ending"--unless it must be forced_.
_3. The Study of Plot-Structure_
A careful study of fictional and dramatic plot will well repay the
photoplaywright. But little more can be said here on the technique of
plot, though it deserves a treatise in itself; but much will be gained
if these few words are taken seriously, and no stories are submitted
except those revolving about ORIGINAL, CLEAR-CUT, PLAUSIBLE
SITUATIONS SHOWING THE LIVES OF HUMAN BEINGS IN THEIR HOUR OF CRISIS,
AND WORKING OUT THE AFTER-RESULTS OF THAT CRISIS WITH LIVELY, DRAMATIC
HUMAN INTEREST.
This advice applies even to humor, for humor takes things which are
ordinarily serious and by introducing the incongruous makes them
laughable. It is the sudden interruption of smooth going, the
unexpected shifting of the factors in the problem, the new and
surprising condition of affairs, the swift disappointment--it is any
of these in countless variety that makes plot possible.
Learn to invent plots. Invent them wholesale--by day, by night. Turn
the facts of everyday life into plots. Draw them from jests, from
tragedies, from newspapers, from books, from your own heart--and don't
omit the heart, whatever else you do omit. At first, invent merely
complications; later work out the situation entire. Thus you will
cultivate an inventive attitude and at least _some_ good plots are
sure to result.
_4. Preparation of the Synopsis_
The synopsis of the plot is the first part of the script to be read by
the editor, for from it he decides whether the whole script is worth
reading further. For this reason, even were there no other, the
importance of the synopsis should need no argument. Besides, many
companies now are willing to consider "synopsis only."
The _final_ preparation of the synopsis should be the last stroke in
the completion of the script. We emphasize "final" because, as has
been briefly pointed out in a previous chapter, the writer should at
the very outstart draft a rough, or working, synopsis, to be used as
a guide while working out the various scenes in his scenario.
The reasons for reserving the synopsis for improving and polishing at
the very end of the writing may easily be understood. Suppose an
author were to write the complete synopsis of his story first, and
then in writing his scenario follow that synopsis rigidly, adding no
scene not indicated in it, introducing no character that it does not
mention, and otherwise being bound by his earlier work. He might
indeed produce a good scenario, but would it be quite as good as it
might have been had he allowed himself a freer rein in working it out?
Might there not have been a scene or two added that would have aided
materially in making every little detail of his plot clear to the
spectators?
Again, a writer will frequently find, when working out his scenario,
that he can improve his story by transposing some of the scenes as
originally planned. In fact, there are a dozen ways in which the story
may be altered for the better while in course of construction. Why,
then, should the author hamper himself by obstinately adhering to his
original plan or synopsis of it? In photoplay writing an author should
not promise himself never to change his mind.
An experience of a certain writer will serve to illustrate the
impracticability of writing the final form of the synopsis first. A
few years ago, when all editors were asking for the complete script,
and when most companies were insisting upon a synopsis of
approximately two hundred and fifty words, the editor of a company
for which he writes suggested that, instead of preparing the complete
script before submitting it, the author should merely write out his
synopsis in the usual way and send that in. If the synopsis was
satisfactory, his being told to go ahead and finish the script would
mean that the story was as good as purchased. Appreciating this
kindness, three synopses were submitted by the writer, and two of them
accepted; the third was for certain reasons unavailable. It was
necessary, then, to write out and send in the scenarios for the two
satisfactory synopses, and the author started in. Notwithstanding that
the firm in question places no restriction on the number of words in
the synopsis of scripts submitted to them, and that this author, for
that reason, seldom sent in, even in those days, a synopsis of less
than a thousand words, giving the theme and details of the plot, he
found that in working out the scenarios of both stories the original
plots could be improved, strengthened, given a more decided "punch,"
by making some changes. In one, he added a character and transposed
several scenes, thereby strengthening the whole plot. In the other,
elimination of two scenes of minor importance made it possible for the
director to give more footage to a big scene. These changes being made
in the scenarios, the original synopses could not be used. It was
therefore necessary to write two new ones which corresponded with the
scenarios that went with them. Thus the original synopses of the two
accepted stories really amounted to nothing more than working, or
first-draft, synopses.
5. _Length of the Synopsis_
How many words should be allowed for the writing of a synopsis still
remains a matter of opinion. Almost every writer wishes that he could
use, within reason, an unlimited number. The acceptance or rejection
of the script depends so almost entirely upon the interest the editor
takes in the synopsis, that it unjustly hampers a writer to be limited
in the number of words he may use. This is peculiarly true if the plot
should happen to be one that requires the explanation of several
minor, yet important, details of the story. And even though you are
sending to a company that asks for the complete script, you must bear
in mind that some editors base their decisions wholly upon what they
get from the synopsis.
On the other hand, more scripts suffer from having the synopses
loosely and wordily written than from being over-compressed. The young
writer especially cannot be too careful in drilling himself in the art
of clear-cut, concise, yet effective expression. To be able to tell a
story in outline, using few but vivid words, is an art worth
cultivating.
However, now that the market has expanded from one to five, and even
more, reels, the limit of words is not so closely drawn. Indeed,
today, whether the studio is one that asks for the complete script or
insists upon examining the synopsis only, you may almost feel safe in
sending in a synopsis containing _just as many words as are really
needed_--which means, simply, that the editor's first consideration is
to be able to "get" your whole story from one reading of your
synopsis, whatever its length. It _should_ be concise; it _must_ be
clear and readily understandable. A busy editor has no time to waste
in re-reading certain paragraphs or even sentences the meaning of
which is obscure. One of the first things to remember is that certain
companies send out the call for "synopsis only" because they prefer to
have their staff writers do the continuity of scenes (write the
scenario), instead of accepting the scenario prepared by the author
and upon occasion, altering it in the studio to suit their special
requirements. Why so many concerns prefer to do this is easily
understood. Instead of cutting up the originally submitted scenario
and substituting different settings or locations, and perhaps, even,
different large and difficult-to-obtain "props," they simply provide
the staff writer with the synopsis of the story purchased from you,
and tell him to go ahead and prepare the continuity, knowing as he
does, and keeping in mind while at work, to just what approximate
expense the company is prepared to go, just what sets are available or
can be built, what necessary locations can be reached within a
reasonable time, and what players--especially if they must be
distinctive types--are in the company or may be readily engaged.
These, of course, are matters over which the outside writer can have
no control; if he is selling to a concern that demands the synopsis
only, he must make up for what he does not know about the inside
workings of the studio by giving the editor and (especially) the staff
writer _every needed detail_ of his plot. Only by so doing can he
feel sure of eventually seeing the story on the screen in the form of
an artistic and satisfactory working out of his original idea.
Some companies that request the synopsis only also like the writer to
submit two synopses. The first, for the special benefit of the editor,
and _shorter_ than the two-hundred-and-fifty-word synopsis of a few
years ago, is intended to show the editor or his reader almost at a
glance if the story is what that particular company could use at all.
The second synopsis, of course, is the longer and more detailed one
from which both he and the staff man can get _all_ the necessary
details if your story is purchased. By reading the market departments
of such magazines as _The Writer's Monthly_, and the various trade
journals, you can keep posted as to which concerns like this double
synopsis. For your own good, always observe the rule if the company
lays it down, and remember that it is an easy matter to make a brief
synopsis from the longer one already prepared.
Again, while it is also necessary to observe strictly the rule of
sending the "synopsis only" to companies that demand it, one of the
present writers has found that many firms welcome the author's
continuity, _after the story has been purchased on the strength of its
synopsis_, for the sake of the finer details of action and the
technical and mechanical suggestions contained in it, and even though
they use it merely as an additional aid to the staff writer in
preparing _his_ continuity. Such a company, of course, merely gives
the writer a courteous "thank you" for his continuity, as contrasted
with those that pay a certain amount for the synopsis and, usually,
double that amount if the scenario also is _called for_; but the
earnest writer has the satisfaction of knowing that, with the
additional details supplied in the scenario, or continuity, the staff
writer stands an even better chance of perfectly preparing the blue
print, as it were, of the story from which the director will work
while building the photoplay.
These things being so, this writer works along the following lines:
From a rough draft, or working synopsis, he prepares the complete
scenario, just as he would do for a company that was having a story
done to order. To this, in any case, must be attached a synopsis. He
therefore writes a very complete, detailed synopsis, preparing it in
the manner which will presently be described. In addition, it is a
very simple matter to write a synopsis of from one hundred and fifty
to two hundred and fifty words, according to the story, and have it
ready in case he finds it advisable to submit to a "two synopses
requested" concern.
Now, whether the company is or is not one of those that will accept
the author's own continuity as an additional guide for the staff
writer, if it is a concern that asks for a complete, detailed
synopsis, this writer sends in what he has more than once humorously
termed a "camouflaged continuity." He does not, so to speak,
send in the "plot of action"--the full continuity--with the
technical directions and scene numbers left out, but a genuine,
specially-written synopsis, in proper narrative form. However, it is
written _directly from_ his own complete, detailed continuity, and
the action, though in narrative form, is made to run along exactly as
it does in the continuity. This, it may be said, is almost the same
process which was followed by writers a few years ago, when complete
scripts were first in demand, and which we advocate earlier in the
present chapter. But you must bear in mind that the method here
outlined is used _in connection with_ the writing of a synopsis of
from three thousand to six thousand words, or even more, if really
necessary, as contrasted with the two-hundred-and-fifty-word synopsis
generally demanded a few years ago. Furthermore, the synopsis is
written in such a way that anyone could separate this writer's
sentences and paragraphs by drawing a lead pencil between the lines,
thus dividing it into almost the exact number of scenes, with the same
continuity of action as shown in the scenario. The minor details of
action are omitted, of course, and there are little side remarks
written in, in connection with characterization, etc., which would be
out of place in the scenario.
As for its mechanical preparation, this synopsis is double spaced,
with a left-hand margin of one and one-half inches. As the story runs
on, many statements are made which give the staff writer an
opportunity to use a leader (sub-title) at that point if he wishes to;
but if in his own scenario the writer whose practice we are quoting
has a number of leaders (frequently ordinary statement, or
before-the-scene, sub-titles, but usually cut-in, or dialogue,
leaders) which he really feels are of special importance, and worded
just right, they go into the synopsis _written in red_, and started
in the left margin at "0," with double space both above and below
them. In this way they stand out clearly and give the staff writer or
the sub-title editor (if the firm employs someone to attend to that
special work), a chance to pick them out quickly and decide whether or
not he wishes to retain them. Even more important than the matter of
keeping in the sub-titles after the picture has been produced is that
of directing the action of the players when putting on the picture, so
as to work directly up to the leader that fits into the action at a
certain point. Knowing this fact, the writer gives the director help
in the way just described; what necessary changes are made after the
script has been sold is a matter over which no free-lance writer has
any real control.
At the end of this chapter is reproduced a page from one of this same
writer's synopses, illustrating just how far he usually goes in giving
details of the action when writing a complete synopsis, and showing
how the suggested inserts are separated from the narrative of plot.
Let us repeat, however, that not all companies that ask for the
detailed synopsis care to have also the scenario, even as a gift. This
explains the introduction of little bits of detail and certain
suggestions which ordinarily would have no place in the synopsis were
it not that, in order to insure as fully as possible the proper
interpretation of his story, the writer inserts them in this way for
the benefit of both editor and--especially--staff writer.
The importance of trying to acquaint yourself with the preferences of
the different editors as to the length of the synopsis should be
apparent to any writer--although it is well to remember that editors
change and studio rules change with them. For a feature-story of five
reels or more you may have, say, from six to twelve typed pages--the
length of the synopsis, of course, depending upon the nature of the
story and the action it contains. You must be especially careful to
ascertain the preferences of an editor who reads scripts for a star
such as Douglas Fairbanks, because you know that a story prepared
especially for his use (although not written to order) may not sell
elsewhere if his company rejects it. However, regardless of its
length, the object of the synopsis is to present a clear, interesting
and comprehensive outline of the story--of what is worked out in
action in the scenario, if you send one--and to give editor, staff
writer and director all the help you possibly can without for a moment
making it appear that you are trying to teach them their business.
This does not mean that if you know _your_ business you need hesitate
to send in a scene-plot diagram as your suggestion for a certain
important set, or supply historical or other needed data, or give your
own idea of how best a certain effect can be obtained. All
broad-minded and progressive directors are glad to receive such help.
But do not attempt such suggestions until you have thoroughly mastered
the technique of photoplay writing and have also seen on the screen
many examples of how different effects have been procured in the past.
It is not out of place to say now what is enlarged upon in a chapter
to follow: The screen is, after all, the greatest of all schools for
the would-be professional photoplaywright.
Here are some wise words from Mr. Epes Winthrop Sargent, in _The
Moving Picture World_:
"The successful seller of synopses first makes his story interesting,
not through inflated literary style, but through clearness in the
exploitation of idea. He makes his second point through the fullness
of the _necessary_ detail. His third point is made through the
omission of _unnecessary detail_. His last advantage is that he knows
when to give scenes that are out of the ordinary and leaders that will
be useful to the continuity writer. He undertakes to sell no more than
an idea, and, selling an idea, he does not confound it with history
nor expect the buyer to be a mind reader. That is the great trick in
synopsis writing. Learn what to put in and what to leave out. Learn to
tell what the continuity writer needs, and learn to omit the things
that will suggest themselves to the imagination of any intelligent
plot-handler."
_6. The Form of the Synopsis_
An examination of the scripts of some amateur photoplay authors shows
that there is a frequent tendency to misunderstand the form in which
the synopsis should be written. This may be due to the writer's being
impressed with the necessity for not making his synopsis too long. At
any rate, the examples we have in mind are written--the story is
told--exactly as the scenario _should_ be written, only even more
briefly and without being subdivided into numbered scenes. Thus,
instead of writing: "Blake conceals himself behind a boulder and, as
Tom is about to pass him, steps out and orders him to throw up his
hands. He compels Tom to surrender his revolver and cartridge belt,
hastening Tom's actions, when he momentarily hesitates, by firing a
shot close to his head;" the writer may say: "Blake sees Tom
approaching up path. Hides behind boulder. As Tom is about to pass
boulder, he is held up by Blake, who makes him strip off gun and
cartridge belt. Tom too slow in actions, so Blake shoots past his
head. Tom drops belt and gun on ground, etc." Obviously, the mistake
consists in not writing the synopsis in narrative form.
It is well to note another point also. Although some manufacturers in
preparing synopses of their stories for the trade journals write them
in the past tense, it is always advisable to tell your story in the
present tense. In the scenario, you _must_ follow this custom, and in
the synopsis you _should_ do so.
In adding bits of characterization to your synopsis, and particularly
in pointing out the dramatic incidents of your plot, consider the
value of suggestive words and phrases. Not _many_ words, but words
that suggest pictures, call up whole scenes, tell entire stories, are
needed. And this is particularly true when you are writing to meet the
"synopsis only" demand. Don't over-adjective your synopsis, but such
qualifying words as you use should be vivid, clear and precise. One
specific word outweighs a score of general statements. Consider the
difference between "horse" and "broncho;" "house" and "bungalow;"
"woman" and "sour spinster." Be definite.
A careful examination of any well-written synopsis will convince the
novice that several rewritings are not too many to give to a synopsis
before deciding that it is _clear, concise, and interesting_. Each of
these points is well worth considering carefully. Interest, no one can
teach you; conciseness may be attained only by cutting out needless
words and _studying_ how to express the utmost in terse language; and
clearness is surely equally worthy of conscientious effort to master.
A first-class rhetoric, like Genung's, or Hill's, will be of great
value in acquiring conciseness and clearness of style, as well as
other good qualities of expression. One point only is there time to
dwell upon here: the lack of clearness arising from the careless use
of personal pronouns. For example, compare the relative clearness in
these two statements:
"In a moment of excitement, Harley strikes Jim a heavy blow. The whole
thing dazes him, and he scarcely knows what to do. After a few hours,
he determines upon revenge and, after taking his brother into his
confidence, warns him that he will shoot him on sight, etc."
"In a moment of excitement, Harley strikes Jim a heavy blow. The whole
affair dazes Jim, and he scarcely knows what to do. However, after a
few hours, he determines upon revenge, and, after taking his brother
Ted into his confidence, he warns Harley that he will shoot him on
sight, etc."
In the following 248-word synopsis, we have a model of clearness,
conciseness, and interesting statement. The same general form, applied
to a longer synopsis, should satisfy any editor. For the second, or
short, synopsis, demanded by certain companies, one of about this
length, and as carefully prepared, would undoubtedly be entirely
acceptable. Add to the conciseness and clearness of this Vitagraph
synopsis the suggested inserts, leaders, etc., already described in
connection with the synopses usually sent out by one of the present
writers, and you have what comes pretty near to being the ideal form
when the wishes of the editor, staff writer and director are all
considered. You will find other synopses in chapters V and XX.
A WASTED SACRIFICE
_Produced by the Vitagraph Company_
With all his faults, Jack Martin, an Arizona gambler, has one
redeeming quality, a deep love for his motherless child. The baby is
taken sick. Leaving her with Aunt Jane, the Mexican housekeeper, Jack
goes for Doctor Winton, who is also the sheriff. The child dies.
Crazed with grief, Jack gets drunk and shoots the town Marshal.
Leaping astride his horse, he escapes into the desert. Far out on a
sandy plain, he comes across the dead body of a young Apache squaw,
who has been bitten by a rattlesnake. By the side of the lifeless form
he finds a child who has nursed from its mother's breast and imbibed
the poison.[14] Jack thinks of his own child and his heart goes out to
the little one. Jack has eluded his pursuers and his horse has
dropped from exhaustion. He knows that he is free to escape. He
hesitates, but determines to save the little papoose by doubling back
on his tracks and meeting the posse, of which the doctor-sheriff is
the leader. On rounding a curve in the canyon, he comes upon his
followers, who cover him with their weapons. Holding out the child to
the doctor, he begs him to do something for it. The sheriff examines
it and discovers that it is dead. Jack, with tears in his eyes, stands
ready for his capture, conscious that inasmuch as he did it for one of
God's little ones, he has not done it in vain.
[Footnote 14: The scientific inaccuracy of this statement need not now
be considered.]
Mr. Epes Winthrop Sargent has well epitomized some important
principles in synopsis writing when--in _The Writer's Monthly_ for
April, 1918--he says that "the good synopsis:
"Starts with a 'punch' fact.
"Tells the story clearly in full detail as to facts, with as few words
as possible.
"Identifies as fully as possible all the leading characters at their
first introduction.
"Fully establishes minor personages as they enter the story.
"Gives _all_ of the facts required by the staff writer in the
construction of a continuity.
"Presents these facts fluently and interestingly, with some suggestion
of literary charm, but without the use of florid phrase or elaborate
descriptive writing.
"Presents facts in their logical order, but not necessarily in the
exact order of their happening.
"Is as brief as is consistent with clearness of statement, but may run
5,000 words or more IF fewer words will not permit the story
to be clearly told."
[Illustration: Paint Frame on Which Scenery is Painted]
[Illustration: Checking "Extras" Used in Rex Beach's Photodrama, "The
Brand." Produced for Goldwyn at its Culver City Studios]
[Illustration:
The Man who Mocked - 2 -
Dear Dwight:
What do you say to a trip to Italy? Father
is very anxious to continue his historical
researches, especially in Rome and the Campagna.
We'd be delighted to have you as one of our party.
Run up to the house tonight and we'll talk it over.
As ever,
Muriel.
Delafield cares nothing for the ruins and historical treasures
of the Eternal City, but he is mightily interested in being
near Muriel, and he leaves the house prepared to accept this
invitation.
As he comes down the steps of his house to enter his car,
an old blind man, led by a little dog on a cord, shuffles
along and collides with him. Delafield steps back, pushing the
man from him, who, as if fearing a blow, raises his arms to
guard against it and then hurries on, while Delafield, sneering
as he watches him, steps into his car and drives off.
At the Trevor's, he is shown into the library, where Muriel
and her father are sitting in earnest conversation. They rise to
greet him, the professor shaking his hand warmly. When Muriel
goes to him, Delafield takes her left hand in his (close-up),
and with his right index finger touches the engagement ring
on her finger and then points to himself, thus indicating that
he already looks upon her as his property, albeit he plainly
shows his genuine regard for her. She presently picks up the
book to which she and her father have been referring before
Delafield's entrance and shows it to him, saying:
"FATHER AND I HAVE BEEN DISCUSSING THE THEORY OF REINCARNATION"
At which Delafield smiles good-naturedly, but plainly shows that
he considers the theory so much rubbish, answering:
"WHILE I'M ALIVE, THAT SORT OF THING DOESN'T INTEREST ME; AND WHEN
I'M DEAD, IT WON'T MATTER"
The professor is plainly disappointed by this speech, but he
passes it off with a smile, answering:
"ONE HAS TO DIE, MY DEAR FELLOW, TO FIND OUT THAT IT _DOES_ MATTER"
The truth of which remark is not apparent to Delafield until
some time later. He smiles at the professor's earnestness,
which Muriel quite evidently shares, and is about to speak to
the girl again when her brother, Jack, enters. He is about
twenty-two, clean-cut and jovial, and he greets Delafield
heartily, at the same time asking his father:]
CHAPTER IX
THE CAST OF CHARACTERS
The expression "the cast of characters" may be used in any one of
three senses: the list of principal characters as it is thrown on the
screen to serve the purpose of a theatre program; the actual group of
actors used in the production of the photoplay; and the complete cast
of characters as made by the writer for his script. Of course it is
not necessary here to consider each of these three uses of the term,
but it will be quite easy to avoid confusion if we bear the
distinctions in mind.
_1. Showing the Cast on the Screen_
Introducing the cast of characters as a printed part of the pictured
drama is a comparatively recent improvement in the art of the
photoplay. For many years the picture "fans," as we have come to call
them, were kept in ignorance of the real names of the players who
entertained them on the screen. Then in Great Britain the exhibitors
came to realize that the added interest that would come of having the
various artists known to the public by name would mean an increase in
the box-office receipts, and they began to give out fictitious names
for such favorites as Mary Pickford, Florence Turner, and Mary Fuller.
This opened the eyes of some of the manufacturers to the wisdom of
giving on the films the names of the players as well as the names of
the characters represented by them, and the Edison studio, of which
Mr. Horace G. Plimpton was then manager, was one of the first American
concerns to give the cast of characters in connection with the
pictured story. Leaving aside the wishes of the public, it was an
injustice to the players not to have included the casts sooner, just
as the names of actors and actresses are given in a "legitimate"
theatre program.
Following the first showing of the casts on the films, different
manufacturers began to see the wisdom, as well as the additional
artistic effect, of showing the name of the author of the photoplay,
and this practice has gradually grown until, today, it is very seldom
that the name of the writer is omitted. There are patrons who feel
that, at the present time, the preliminary announcements on most
films, especially "features," are rather overdone, inasmuch as they
usually give the names of the author of the story, the writer of the
scenario, or continuity, the director, the cameraman, the "art title"
maker, and the supervising producer. However, most writers and actors
feel that the manufacturers are quite welcome to go as far as they
like in this direction, so long as they continue to give the credit
due to those who write and enact the story.
Undoubtedly, one reason why the manufacturers hesitated about giving
all this information on the film in the days of the single-reel
photoplay was that they had the matter of footage to consider. With an
even thousand feet to a reel, and a reel to a story, no footage could
be spared for preliminary announcements without crowding the
story-part of the film. Today, with one-, two-, three-, and a few
four-reel pictures, and feature productions of from five reels up,
less attention need be paid to the matter of footage consumed by both
preliminary statements and the regular leaders and inserts, as further
pointed out in Chapter XII.
Again, today, one company at least--the Essanay, of Chicago--has
broken away from the old rule of making pictures run to one, two, or
more even reels. They decided to let all their photoplays run on until
the story was logically told (with the aid of the printed inserts) and
then to end it, regardless of the length to which it had run. Then,
instead of announcing in the trade-papers that the picture was in so
many reels, or parts, they simply stated that the screen-time of the
picture was so many minutes, or an hour and so many minutes. From
this, the exhibitor may easily reckon the approximate length of the
picture. The important point in this connection is that it would seem
that the foolish old custom of making a picture run to an arbitrary
length, either by padding it out or by cutting it down, regardless of
all reason and logic, will soon be a thing of the past. The harm done
to certain productions in the past by forcing them to adhere to a
certain number of feet--so many even reels--can hardly be estimated.
Imagine stage plays being written to run so many even hours, instead
of ending logically when the story is fully and consistently worked
out!
At any rate, today, and especially in the case of those concerns which
call for the synopsis only, the free-lance photoplaywright has a much
better opportunity to centre his attention on turning out a good
story, without having constantly to keep in mind the matter of how
many reels of film it will take to tell it--which, of course, is as it
should be. Thus, as has just been shown, the gradual breaking of the
restrictions on footage has resulted in proper screen-publicity being
given to the cast.
_2. The Time for Showing the Cast_
The methods adopted by producing companies in presenting the names of
characters and players on the screen are varied. Indeed, no set rules
are followed. The producer's whole object in each case seems to be
simply to present every cast-announcement of this kind in as striking
and artistic a way as possible. Some companies list the characters at
the very outset--or all the principal characters, at least--with the
names of the players. Others open with a statement-leader, which
gives, so to speak, the "theme" of the story to follow, this leader
being at once followed by the name of the leading male or female
character, sometimes with and sometimes without an additional
descriptive statement. With the particular method followed by the
producer the author is little concerned. His best plan is simply to
make out a complete list of the people in his story, following one of
the forms given later in this chapter. At the present time, nearly
every big concern employs a sub-title editor whose duty it is to
eliminate, alter, or add to the writer's own leaders and inserts, and
this person also "fixes up" to comply with the firm's rule any
additional wording that may be attached by the author to the names of
his characters when the cast is made out.
_3. The Number of Characters_
The "legitimate" dramatist, especially the untried dramatist, must be
very careful to use only as many characters in his play as are
absolutely necessary. Every theatrical manager knows that he is taking
a chance, and a big chance, when producing the work of a new writer.
The writer, also knowing this, and realizing that every additional
character means an addition to the salary list--and therefore to the
manager's risk--wisely uses no more characters in the unfolding of his
plot than he can help. Even when an actor "doubles" two parts, he
expects a proportionately larger salary for so doing.
In the moving picture studios, on the other hand, the players are paid
by the week, to work, as it were, by the day. The photoplay actor
plays as many different parts as the director finds it necessary to
cast him for. If necessary, in a big production, a director can draw
on any or all of the players making up the stock company, provided he
does not prevent them from playing the parts in another picture then
in course of production, for which they have been previously cast. So
that, so far as salary is concerned, unless certain "types," either
men or women, are specially engaged for a production, the film
manufacturer does not need to worry about how many "principals" are
needed to take part in a picture. He has, of course, to consider the
salaries of the "extra people," or supernumeraries, when a picture
calls for their employment. But the principal reason for keeping the
photoplay cast as small as possible is that the fewer the principal
characters the more easily understood is the story. In this respect,
better twenty extras and five principals than twenty principals and
two extras.
Remember, then, to use as few principal characters as possible in
developing your plot. This does not mean that you may be prodigal in
your use of extras; quite the contrary. But, since extras who are
posing as cowboys, soldiers, guests at a ball, bystanders in a street
scene, or saloon loungers, are easily distinguished from the
principals, it is a matter of small importance how many are used so
long as the scene is full enough to harmonize with the idea. It would
be silly, of course, actually to specify the number of "travellers and
bystanders" used in a scene at a railroad station at train time. The
director will employ as many as he thinks necessary.
_4. How the Director Assigns the Cast_
It frequently happens that members of the regular stock company are
used to fill in in certain scenes, although they may not be cast in
the picture at all. When, for example, the scene is laid in a
ballroom, or when boxes and orchestra chairs in a theatre are shown,
the director uses as many of the regular company as are
available--knowing that they may be relied upon to sustain the
necessary action, and feeling sure that they will "dress" the scene
suitably. Extras are then drawn upon for as many more people as he
may require.
A distinction must be made between extras who merely fill in or dress
a scene and those who play a small part, or "bit," in one or more
scenes. In every studio there are men and women who are known as
"regular" extras--people who are on hand every morning and who remain
until they are either told that they can work in a certain picture or
that they will not be required that day. Practically all of these
regular extras are experienced actors and actresses, and most of them
continue to report daily in the hope that, being given a small part to
play, they may in this way attract the attention of the director and
eventually be offered positions in the stock company. Many of the best
known photoplayers in the country today made their start in
moving-picture work in this way after having forsaken the "legitimate"
stage.
_5. Planning the Cast_
Strictly speaking, it is no longer advisable, nor even possible, to
plan your cast ahead, when writing photoplays, any more than it would
be possible to state exactly in advance how many characters you would
introduce if you were setting out to write a novel. Today more than
ever before the demand is for good _stories_. Given a good story, a
competent director will do the rest. He will not hesitate to engage
for that production just as many people as may be necessary, whether
they are special "type" players, male or female, or for "straight"
parts. Your cast, in other words, must inevitably be a result of the
final working out of your story. The one thing you _can_ do in advance
is determine whether you are going to write what is simply a good
story or is a story designed as a vehicle to exploit some particular
"star."
This latter procedure is always a risky one for the writer to adopt.
The story planned and worked out to fit the talents of a certain star,
especially if designed to feature the very unusual work of such a
player as Douglas Fairbanks, may not sell at all if it fails to sell
to the one for whom it was planned, and the writer's work goes for
naught. By far the wisest plan is to write for certain particular
stars _only under contract_, or at least to write only stories that
stand a chance of selling elsewhere if rejected by the firm at which
they were first aimed.
If you _are_ writing "to order" for a certain star, and if you are
reasonably sure that the supporting players are permanent members of
that particular company, you may plan your story so as to give the
director a chance to use all the people at his disposal to the best
advantage, for today, while character-actors are just as busy as ever,
it is the actual "type" that is usually cast for a certain part if
such a man or woman is procurable at all.
As for whether a certain "small" part is played by an "extra" or by a
regular member of the stock company, you need not worry. The director
will do his best for every part, however small.
One thing that you should _not_ overlook in making up your list of
characters, we repeat, is to show the director how he may cast his
available people to the best advantage. To do this, you should not
only mention every character, no matter how unimportant, but in the
case of all those characters who do not actually come under the head
of principals in that particular picture, you should give the number
of the scene or scenes in which they appear. This will, in many cases,
enable the director to use some of his people in more than one
character by "doubling" two minor rôles.
As an example, let us suppose that you have written down your
principals--the ones who will keep the one part through the whole of
the action. You can then write:
Mrs. Brown's maid, in 9 and 11.[15]
Trained nurse, in 22.
Policeman, in 15.
Blind beggar, in 27.
Colored porter, in 28.
[Footnote 15: Meaning _scenes_ 9 and 11. Of course, you can only make
this arrangement _after_ your scenario has been blocked out, scene by
scene.]
Here are five minor characters, and yet, if the director desired, he
could use only two people to play all five parts. Mrs. Brown's maid in
9 and 11 could easily change to a trained nurse for 22. The actor
playing the policeman in 15 could just as easily make up as a blind
beggar for 27; and he would then be able to change again and go on as
a colored porter in 28, the next scene.
A point that many who are not familiar with the inner workings of the
studios do not realize is that although Scene 10, let us say, is
"done" on one day, Scene 11 may not be taken until the following day,
or even a week later. It frequently happens that one set is allowed to
stand for several days, on account of "re-takes" that have been found
necessary, or because a director has difficulty in obtaining a certain
lighting effect. In such cases certain players are required to play
the same part over and over again, even though between the "re-takes"
they may "work" for other directors in the same studio.
_6. Actual Work on the Cast_
You will probably find that the best and easiest way to prepare your
cast of characters is to keep a rough list of all the people who take
part in the action, as you write the scenario. Because, of course,
although the cast of characters is the second division of the script,
it should have its final preparation after the scenario has been
completed, for the same reason that the synopsis is also finally
prepared when the scenario has been finished.
Keep a sheet of paper beside you as you write your scenario. First put
down the names of all your _principal_ characters so as to have them
before your eyes as you write. Then as you work out your scenario,
scene after scene, set down every character introduced; for example,
if you use a doctor, who merely pays one visit to a patient appearing
in only one scene, set down the following on your memorandum sheet:
Doctor, in 2.
and so on. At the time you write Scene 2 you may think that that _is_
the only one in which you will use the doctor; later on, perhaps as
you are giving the action of Scene 16, you may find that you have
occasion to introduce a doctor again. Unless Scene 16 is supposed to
be located in another part of the country, the chances are that you
might just as well bring in the same physician again, and you then
simply make it
Doctor, in 2 and 16.
_7. Naming the Characters_
Of course it is unnecessary to give a name to _everyone_ appearing in
a picture. The cast of characters is made up of the names only of
those whose work in the photoplay materially advances the action in
some way or another. On the "legitimate" stage any character who has
even a "line" to say may be said to have a "speaking part." Only these
are supposed to be in the cast proper. Similarly, in the photoplay no
one whose work in the picture is not in some way necessary to the
working out of the plot need be given a name. In the same way that you
would write "Doctor, in 2 and 16," or "Policeman, in 8," write
Guests at ball, in 13.
Stock brokers and clerks, in 22.
Clubmen, in 27.
The following is quoted from Mr. Epes Winthrop Sargent's weekly
department, "The Photoplaywright," in _The Moving Picture World_. He
says all that could be said upon a subject that is of the greatest
importance, no matter on what division of the photoplay script you are
at work--the necessity for simplifying everything so as to make it
quickly and easily understood by editor and director alike:
"When you start to write a play decide what you are going to call your
characters, and adhere to your decision. If you have a character named
Robert Wilson, do not indiscriminately call him Bob, Robert, and
Wilson. Decide on one of the three and use that one invariably. If
your character travels under an alias, being known as Montgomery in
society, and Jimmy the Rat in the underworld, do not call him
Montgomery in the society scenes and The Rat when he gets among his
proper associates. Call him Montgomery straight through, and the first
time he changes from Jekyll to Hyde tell the audience, in a leader,
that he is known as the Rat; but in the plot of action hold to
Montgomery, because you started with that and do not want to confuse
the director. The editor is going to read in a hurry the first time
through, and he cannot continually consult the cast to identify your
constant changes in cognomens.
"Be careful in selecting your names. Do not let them sound too much
alike, or confusion will arise. Often a story will be sent back that
might be regarded more carefully were the characters more individually
named, and perhaps fewer of them named. Too many names are apt to be
confounded with each other. Names too much alike or not possessed of
individual sound are apt to be confusing. In either case your story
is not readily understood on a first reading and never passes to a
second perusal. Take pains with your literary baptisms."
It seems scarcely necessary to point out that it is both easier and
better to call the young people by whatever Christian name you decide
to give them and to refer to their elders by their last name. You can
say Freeman or Mr. Freeman, when speaking of Jess's father, but do not
say that Tom and Miss Freeman are discovered by her father making
love. Simply say Tom and Jess. If Jess's father is a farmer or a
miner, it may seem more natural to say Freeman, or Jess's father. If
he is a banker or a stock broker, you may choose to speak of him as
Mr. Freeman. The most important thing is to make the name, as clearly
as possible, suggest the age, rank, and general characteristics of the
person to whom it is given.
A good deal has been written concerning the advisability of using only
short and simple names for most characters in the photoplay. Others
have advised photoplay authors to try to discover unhackneyed names
for their characters. There are, of course, hundreds of short and
appropriate "first" names for people of different nationalities; the
trouble, especially with amateur writers, is that such names as Tom,
Jack, Jim, and Charley, and May, Mary, Grace, Ethel, and Kate, are
used over and over again, and without any regard to the surname which
follows them. Simple and common names _are_ desirable, so long as they
really fit the characters who bear them. John and Tom and Mary and
Kate are names that will be used over and over again, both in fiction
and in photoplay. But unusual names are desirable too, provided they
fit the characters. The work of an amateur writer can almost always be
told by the names he gives his characters.
In the writing of photoplays, where the author has no description to
rely on to explain who and what his characters are, there is especial
need of names that will help to indicate the social status of his
different characters. In real life, a bank president is as likely to
be a Casey or a Smith as he is to be a Rutherford or a Pendleton, but
the chances are that, when given to a great banker, either of the last
two names would make a greater impression on "popular" spectators.
Again, certain names instantly make us think of villainy, while others
as plainly tell us that the owner of the name is an honest man. The
authors of the "good old" melodramas used exaggerated names that today
would probably be laughed at. "Jack Manly" and "Desmond Dangerfield"
would hardly "get by" in modern drama or in present-day picture plays;
but the idea of appropriateness that was responsible for such names
being used is what is needed by photoplaywrights who desire to name
their characters convincingly. Percy certainly does not suggest a
prizefighter, any more than Miriam portrays a cook.
By all means keep a special notebook in which to jot down new and
unusual names to fit characters of every nationality and of every
station in life, _but try to get names that are short and easily
pronounced_. Very few photoplaywrights adhere to only one line of
writing. A clever and ambitious writer may "do" a story of city life
this week, and one with the scenes laid in Mexico the next. You can
get plenty of names for your "down East" story, but will you be able
to find eight or ten really appropriate names for your photoplay of
life in "Little Italy" or the Ghetto? The following methods of
obtaining suitable names--especially surnames--for characters have
been found very helpful:
1. If you live in a city, cover the different foreign quarters
thoroughly and note in your book names of every nationality that
strike your fancy.
2. If the public library in your town gets French, Italian, or other
foreign papers (all great city libraries do, of course), go over them
and get similar lists of foreign names. You can never tell when a
typical Russian surname, or an Italian Christian name, may be wanted
for one of your stories. This will prevent your calling a Spaniard
"Pietro" or an Italian "Pedro."
3. Buy an old or a second-hand city directory. An out-of-date New York
or Chicago directory contains names enough, of all nationalities, both
Christian names and surnames, to last you a life-time and will cost
you little. But directories are not _absolutely_ trustworthy after
all.
4. When reading novels and short-stories, copy any names that
particularly strike you. Use only the first or the last name in every
case, of course, and do the same when selecting names from the
directory or from signs in the street. You would not name your hero
Richard Mansfield, nor his uncle John Wanamaker, but you might wish to
call the uncle Richard Wanamaker and make John Mansfield the hero.
5. Select from regular theatre programs names that please you, but
transpose the first and last names as recommended above. If you choose
a French Christian name from one of Henri Bernstein's plays, do not
take the surname of another character _in the same cast_ to go with
it. Rather take it from another French play, or from a French story in
a magazine.
You do not wish to find, when the time does come for your cast of
characters to be thrown upon the screen, that the director has found
it necessary to change half of your names. Make them so good and so
appropriate that there will be absolutely no excuse for altering them.
One thing to be remembered, however, is that the picture spectators of
today have been gradually educated up to expecting and approving many
things which the spectators of a few years ago would have looked upon
as too "highbrow." This is due in no small degree to the many screen
adaptations of literary classics and fictional successes generally
which have been made, as well as to the large number of stage plays
that have been transferred to the screen, for, of course, the authors,
publishers and dramatic producers have always stipulated that the
casts be kept as they originally were made out--except that
occasionally certain characters who in the stage-production of a
certain play were merely spoken about and described have been, in the
photoplay form, actually introduced, and thus added to the cast. But
the point is that there is no longer the frantic striving to keep
everything as "short and simple as possible" that once existed, and
this applies to everything in the nature of inserts quite as much as
to the names used for characters in the picture. Little by little
"art" in motion picture production is becoming a reality instead of
being merely a high-sounding word used occasionally by the
press-agents.
_8. Describing the Characters_
Since there is no restriction placed upon the way in which a cast of
characters is made out, the writer may choose between the simple
statement-form, when giving the names of his characters, and that in
which the appearance and dominant traits of the character are set
forth. You can say:
Silas Gregory, a miser,
or you can draw a picture of the man himself in the very way you
describe him, thus:
Silas Gregory, an extremely wealthy and eccentric miser; a bachelor
and a man who both by his appearance and his nature repels the
friendship of his fellow men; inclined to practice petty cruelty on
children and animals; suspicious of and seeming to hate everybody
except his old body-servant, Daniels, to whom he is strangely
attached.
While the foregoing is a rather long description of a character to be
included as part of the cast-outline, and while some of the points in
connection with Gregory's nature could be more forcibly demonstrated
by having him _do_ little things in the action that would make them
apparent, the point is that you are supplying these items of
information for the benefit of the editor and the director, and that,
as must be apparent, the fuller their understanding of your meaning in
everything you write, the better will be their interpretation and
production of your story.
It is very important to keep this point constantly in mind. Seldom is
it today that the cast appears on the screen exactly as prepared by
the author. Almost all the big companies at the present time are given
to long sub-titles, and to lengthy statements in connection with the
introduction of the principal characters. Many readers will see the
similarity between the second of the foregoing descriptions of the old
miser and the printed statement, in connection with a similar
character, shown in the Triangle and Paramount pictures written by C.
Gardner Sullivan, as well as in many others. The statement on the film
which introduces a principal character, today, is much more in the
nature of an actual leader than it is a mere announcement of the names
of the character and the player. Thus, in Universal's feature
production of "The Kaiser," the heroic blacksmith of Louvain was
introduced in this way:
Marcas, the blacksmith of Louvain, was a mighty man. This
man, Marcas, lived in faith and love and friendship, and, by
the sweat of his brow, had won peace and happiness.
MARCAS......................ELMO LINCOLN
In writing out your cast, give your most important characters first.
Try, also, to simplify it and eliminate unnecessary words, first
writing the name of a principal character and then giving the others
in the order of their relationship, as:
Charles Waldron, a wealthy rancher.
Mrs. Waldron, his wife.
Bessie, his eldest daughter.
Jean, his youngest daughter.
Dick, his son.
Graydon, Waldron's foreman.
This will save words and show at a glance just how the other five
characters are related to or connected with Charles Waldron.
Make it a rule to write your cast on the last sheet of your synopsis
_if you have plenty of room left after finishing the synopsis_.
Otherwise, use a separate sheet. Don't crowd the two divisions as if
you were trying to economize paper. In the cast proper, give the names
or occupations of every character whose work in the action really
helps to advance the action of the play. Also name the scenes in which
appear the various characters--other than the principals, who are
likely to dominate nearly every scene.
The first two sample casts which follow do not give the
characteristics of the different people concerned in the plot. They
are simply reproduced as examples of photoplay casts which have been
printed in the manufacturers' bulletins and other advertising matter,
after the photoplay itself had been produced and was ready for
release. The third and full cast is altered, so as not to be
recognizable, from a photoplay which has not yet been produced. This
last of the three forms is the one we recommend you to follow.
PIERRE OF THE NORTH
by
_Elmer N. Wells_
Pierre, a French Canadian trapper.......
Baptiste, his brother...................
Duncan McLain, a trapper................
Mary McKenzie, the factor's daughter....
John McKenzie, the factor...............
Mail Carrier............................
Half Breed..............................
_Produced by the Selig Polyscope Company_
THE OLD MUSICIAN
by
_W.A. Tremayne_
François Vian, an old musician
Pierre le Noir, his neighbor
Oscar Muhlbach, a German spy
Bertha le Noir, Pierre's sister
General of the German army
Infantry officer
Gendarme
_Produced by the Vitagraph Company of America_
THE SOPHOMORE'S SURPRISE
by
X Y Z
TED CARSON President of the Freshman class at
College; twenty, blonde, bright,
athletic, full of gay spirits.
FAY NORTON The college co-ed beauty, inclined
to love Ted, who loves her.
NITA CARSON Ted's twin sister; a freshman
co-ed, in love with Hal Coates.
HAL COATES President of the Sophomore class;
twenty-four, dark; athletic rival of
Ted, whom he looks down upon.
A college leader; lover of Nita.
DAN WILLIS Ted's chum; a slim and mischievous
Freshman.
"BUCK" SLAGLE Hal's chum; an unprincipled Sophomore.
DEAN HALL A nervous professor; comedy character.
POLICEMAN In 16, 17 and 18.
STUDENTS Throughout.
WAITERS In 16, 17 and 18.
CO-EDS In 4, 6, 7, 10, 13 and 17.
CHAPTER X
THE SCENARIO OR CONTINUITY
The first step in the preparation of the scenario--or continuity of
scenes--is not a step at all--it is a state of mind: the mood of
visualization.
_1. The Picture Eye_
No matter how easy it may be for you to write a clear, brief and
interesting synopsis of your story, nor how successful you may be in
drawing up your cast of characters, you will fail in producing the
right kind of scenario to accompany them until you acquire or
cultivate the picturing eye. To possess it is simply to be able to
visualize your story as you write it--yes, even before you write it.
You must not only write that "Hal Murdoch steals his employer's
letter-book so as to find out some important facts," but you must
yourself first _see_ him do it, just as you expect to see it on the
screen. On the regular stage, the "business" of the actors--important
as it is--is nevertheless of secondary consideration; dialogue comes
first. On the photoplay stage it is just the reverse--at all times it
is action that is of primary importance. It is what your characters do
that counts. Leaders, letters, and other inserts help to make clear
what you are trying to convey to the audience, but for a proper
understanding and interpretation of your plot the spectators depend
upon what they see the characters do; so how can you expect the
editor, the producer, or the spectator, to "see" your plot
understandingly unless you yourself are able to visualize every scene
and incident distinctly as you are putting your thoughts on paper?
This is what Mr. C.B. Hoadley has to say on this subject, quoted from
_The Photoplay Author_, now _The Writer's Monthly_:
"Suppose you have a story that has all the requirements for an
acceptable motion-picture play. You seat yourself to write it, chock
full of enthusiasm and faith in the idea, and in the exuberance of
your spirits you see visions of a substantial check. Very well. But
have you a visualization of the story? Can you close your eyes and see
it on the screen? Or will you 'get stuck' about the tenth scene when
it appears to be running smoothly, and then finish along the lines of
least resistance, mentally concluding that the plot is so excellent
that the editor or director will finish the work you have so
enthusiastically planned? This happens to about fifty per cent of the
authors."
Mr. Phil. Lang, former editor of the Kalem Company, offered this
sensible advice in reply to a question as to whether his company could
use psychological scripts. We quote from _The Moving Picture World_:
"The successful photoplaywright is the one who has developed the
'picture eye.' If you will visualize each scene of this scenario,
abandoning the 'psychology' which inspired it, you can readily
determine how it will appear to the picture patron. The psychology of
an action or the development of an act in the photoplay is only
psychology when the natural pantomime and business make it clear to
the spectator. By the process of visualizing you can readily determine
if your play offers anything different from others of the same
character which have been done."
Strive, then, to cultivate this ability to see your scenes in action,
remembering that it is the thing of all things most calculated to help
you in writing a clear-cut, logical, and interesting scenario of your
plot. What you cannot clearly visualize is not worth writing.
_2. Identifying the Characters Early_
There is nothing more annoying to the spectator or more calculated to
insure the widespread condemnation of your photoplay after it has been
produced than to fail in establishing the identity of all your
principal characters early in the action. The basic relationship of
each character to the others should be made clear just as soon as
possible after each makes his first appearance in the picture, if,
indeed, it is not made clear just before his appearance by the
introduction of an explanatory insert.
We urge this clear identification of characters so that your
spectators may be saved the annoyance of needless speculation, and be
able to yield to the play their instant attention and sympathetic
interest. Furthermore, this course will enable you to tell your story
and develop your plot with much greater ease, since the onlookers,
understanding who everybody is, and how they are disposed towards
each other, will grasp the points of the plot more quickly. Remember
that the motives actuating the different characters are virtually sure
to be the very foundations of a photoplay plot.
Almost everyone has sat half through a photoplay which was perfect in
all other respects, but far from pleasing because it left the
spectators guessing for minutes as to "who's who."
"Keep your first characters on the screen, even though in different
scenes, long enough to get everyone familiar with them and their
environment in the story before introducing a new and unexpected phase
in the tale. To fail in this is faulty construction."[16]
[Footnote 16: Herbert Case Hoagland: _How to Write a Photoplay_.]
_3. Prompt Beginning of the Action_
A common mistake among amateur photoplaywrights is to waste far too
much time on preliminaries. If a guest is expected from a distant
city, all that is necessary, as a rule, is to write in a short letter,
which is opened and read by the host- or hostess-to-be, announcing
that the guest will arrive at a certain time. But the young writer--to
judge from many scripts we have examined--thinks that in such a case
it is necessary to show the housemaid preparing the guest-chamber,
another scene in which the hostess instructs the chauffeur to be ready
at such an hour to meet her guest at the station, and so on. No matter
what kind of story you are writing, go straight to the point from the
opening--make the wheels of the plot actually commence to revolve in
the first scene--_plunge_ into your action, don't wade timidly in inch
by inch. To use up two or three scenes in showing trivial incidents
which may happen to the characters while they are, so to speak,
standing in the wings ready to make their entrances, is as tiresome as
it is useless. If the hero of the Western story makes his first
appearance by dashing into the scene madly pursued by a band of
Indians, the spectator is not interested in finding out what he was
doing at the time he first discovered the red men closing in upon him;
it is how he will escape them that engages their whole attention. Once
get your action started vividly and the interest of the spectators
will permit you to give all the really necessary foundation
information as you move on with your story.
_4. Sequence in the Action_
Apply the same rule of directness to the introduction of new
characters in the scenes that follow. There is one main theme, one
main line of development, in every well constructed story--and only
one. See to it that you do not digress from it except as you bring up
from the rear other essential parts of the action. There is absolutely
no place in the photoplay for side trips.
As simply and as emphatically as we can put it, the most important
thing in connection with the writing of the scenario is to have the
action progress smoothly, logically, and interestingly from the first
to the last scene. Wherever possible, one scene should lead into the
next scene, and each scene should appear to be the only one
possible--from the standpoint of the action it contains--at that stage
of the plot's development. If, even for a moment, a scene appears to
have been written in solely for effect, or merely to delay the climax
of the story, the picture is open to criticism for padding. Not only
should the denouement (the untying, the clearing up of the story at
the close) appear to be the only one logically possible, but each
successive scene should follow the one preceding it with
inevitableness.
To be sure, this does not mean, as we explained in the chapter on
Plot, that the sequence of your scenes must be the simple,
straight-forward sequence of everyday life, in which one character is
seen to carry out his action without interruption from start to
finish. Quite to the contrary, photoplay action must often interrupt
the course of one character so as to bring another personage,
or set of personages, into the action at the proper time to
furnish the surprising interruptions and complications--and their
unfoldings--required to make a plot. But all this really _is_ the
progressive, logical development of the story in good climacteric
style.
Elsewhere in this volume we have spoken of the way in which the action
progresses in the twelve- to sixteen-scene comic pictures in the comic
supplements to the Sunday newspapers. Take for example the well-known
"Bringing Up Father" series of "comics." Commencing with the basic
situation, the action moves progressively to a logical conclusion, the
climax coming, usually, in the next to the last picture. The last
picture is the surprise-denouement--the event which naturally and
inevitably follows the climax. There is, of course, a wide contrast
between one of these series and a "dramatic" photoplay; but the same
principle that governs the evolution of the story in the comic
supplement should be applied to the working out of your photoplay
story. Cultivate the picturing eye, we repeat, so that by being able
to visualize each scene as you plan it in your mind you cannot fail to
produce in your scenario a series of scenes whose action is logically
connected and essentially natural and unforced.
_5. The Interest of Suspense_
To say that there must be a logical sequence in progressing from scene
to scene, and that each must appear to be the natural outcome of the
one preceding it, is by no means to say that you must suggest in one
scene what is about to follow in the next. It is when we review a
photoplay in retrospection that we decide whether proper care has been
given to the planning of the scenes so as to make them lead smoothly
one into the other, but while we are watching a photoplay for the
first time, half the charm lies in _not_ knowing what is coming next.
Suspense, then, must be kept in mind as the scenario is being planned.
You should not only keep the spectator in suspense as to the climax as
long as possible, but in building up your plot you should work in as
many unexpected twists as you can without destroying its logic. Mr.
Hoagland says: "Suspense is a delightful sensation, though we all beg
not to be kept in it." So whet the spectator's imagination by
springing little surprises and minor climaxes whenever they can be
introduced without seeming to be forced. Make each such incident
another step upward toward your climax proper; hold back the "big"
surprise, the startling denouement, until the very end. The most
enjoyable feature of Anna Katherine Green's "The Leavenworth Case" was
that she kept the reader in the dark until the last chapter as to who
was the real murderer. All the many detective novels that have since
appeared have been successful exactly in proportion as the solution of
the mystery has been withheld from the reader until the end of the
story.
Naturally, this requires careful planning. About twenty years ago, one
of the high-class fiction magazines published a story in which a
reporter who had been interviewing the leading woman of a theatrical
company was caught on the stage as the curtain rose on the first act.
The leading woman was supposed to be "discovered" at the rise of the
curtain, but the newspaper man was both surprised and embarrassed by
_his_ being discovered. Nevertheless, having his overcoat on and
carrying his hat in his hand, with great presence of mind he turned to
the actress and said: "Very well, madam; I will call for the clock at
three this afternoon." Then he made a deliberate exit, and the leading
woman read her first speech. But, as the play progressed, there was
scarcely one in the audience who failed to wonder why the "actor" who
had spoken the line about the clock did not reappear according to
promise. At a certain point in the action of the drama, just where the
intervention of someone from outside would have been most opportune,
the audience expected that the "jeweler" would make his reappearance;
but of course he did not, the play ended as the author had intended it
to end--and the audience went out feeling that something had gone
wrong somewhere--as it had.
The lesson to the photoplaywright is plain: Never introduce into the
early scenes of the scenario any incident that is likely to mislead
the spectator into thinking that it is of sufficient importance to
affect the ultimate denouement, when it really has no bearing upon it.
Reverse this, and you have another good rule to follow in writing the
scenario. As one critic said in substance, if you intend to have one
of your characters die of heart disease toward the end of the play,
prepare your audience for this event by "registering" in an earlier
scene the fact that his heart is affected. Do not drag in a scene to
make this fact clear, but, in two or three different scenes, have him
show that his heart is weak, and be sure that every one of these
scenes serves the double purpose of registering this fact and
introducing other important action relevant to the plot. In other
words, make the slight attacks which the man experiences all through
the story merely incidental to the scenes in which they occur. Then
when the fatal attack comes, the audience is prepared for it, yet
they have not been actually looking forward to it through several
scenes. While speaking of heart disease, we would call the attention
of the writer to an observation lately made by the photoplay critic of
_The Dramatic Mirror_: "Scenario writers notwithstanding, it is
exceptional for people to die because an unexpected piece of news
shocks them, even when they suffer from weak hearts. Robust men do not
part from life so readily, and film tragedies of this kind generally
fail to carry conviction because the facts presented are divorced from
the customary laws of nature."
Do not introduce a new character in one of the late scenes, especially
if he or she is importantly connected with the plot, even though you
use that character in the picture for only a brief interval. If the
appearance of a certain man in one of the late scenes will help in
saving the life of a condemned man, try to plan the entrance of this
character into the story in an earlier scene, even though only for a
period long enough to establish who and what he is. In this way you
may avoid a long and otherwise unnecessary leader just when you are
approaching your climax and thus halt the interest.
_6. Action May Be Too Rapid_
If you are writing the scenario of a dramatic plot, it is evident
that, within reasonable limits, the more dramatic situations--the more
"punches," in the vernacular--you can put into it, the more likely it
is to find favor in the eyes of the editor and the producer. But too
many writers, conscious of this fact, make the mistake of forcing the
pace. The solid photoplay of today should not be made to resemble a
cheap melodrama, in which something highly sensational is sure to
happen every three minutes. Just because you have seen a sensational
episode in a play on the screen, do not attempt to crowd your scenario
with minor thrills and sensations, regardless of whether the incident
pictured is relevant to the plot. If your plot is a strong one, its
unfolding will _suggest_ scenes of sufficient dramatic quality to hold
the interest. But do not search your brain for startling situations to
introduce here, there, and everywhere in the action, paying no
attention to whether they have little, if anything, to do with the
plot.
Imagination is the writer's greatest asset, but imagination run riot
is photoplay madness. It must be intelligently exercised else it will
fairly run away with the plot, and the result will be a literary
wreck. You must study--and hence realize at least fairly
completely--the possibilities of your story before you start to write
it at all. Haphazard work will never bring you anything--in photoplay
writing or in any other creative line.
_7. Centralizing the Interest_
It is almost impossible to produce a really effective photoplay
without centering the attention of the spectator on one of the
principal characters and holding it there until the end. Even when the
principal characters are lovers, either one or the other is bound to
stand out in the picture more than the other. As in a play on the
regular stage, either the hero or the heroine must dominate the action
or the spectator is very likely to miss some of the best points of the
plot because of the shifting interest. In such a play as "Romeo and
Juliet," many would find it difficult to determine which of the two
principal characters evokes the more sympathy and interest in the
spectators. Yet a careful study of the play will leave no doubt that
it was Shakespeare's intention that one of the two "star-crossed
lovers"--Juliet--should dominate the action of the drama very subtly
and certainly, the other being, though in only the slightest degree,
it is true, subordinate to the "principal." The same thing is true in
the stories of Damon and Pythias, Paolo and Francesca, and Pelleas and
Melisande. You must determine at the very beginning whether it is to
be the man or the woman, and, having trained the spot-light upon that
one, keep it there until the end.
A certain picture, released about four years ago by a European
manufacturer, was concerned with a husband, his wife, and his
friend--a man who for a period of some months was a guest in the home
of the pair. In the ordinary sense, it was not a problem plot; the
friend was an honorable man, and the husband, who had the most sincere
admiration for his old college companion, was a fine fellow in every
way. Yet, as the story progressed it became apparent that there had
been a love affair between the wife and her husband's friend when
they were both scarcely more than children. Little incidents in the
action of the next few scenes gradually caused the audience to
sympathize with the friend. Then, toward the end of the play, the
sympathy was definitely shifted to the husband. This, of course,
viewed in the proper light, was as it should be; but only a scene or
two from the end of the picture an incident happened that again caused
the audience to feel that it was the friend who alone deserved the
woman's love. The result was that out of all the hundreds of people
who saw the picture in the two days during which it was shown at a
certain theatre, none expressed themselves as being satisfied with it,
although only a few were able to say directly that they did not
approve of the play because of the frequently shifted interest.
Thus the picture failed because whoever wrote it did not keep in mind
the important fact that divided interest will go a long way toward
destroying the dramatic value of any story, regardless of how perfect
it may be otherwise.
Use as few principals as possible, no matter how many minor characters
or extra people are employed; and be sure to keep the subordinate
characters in the background sufficiently to prevent them from
detracting in any way from the interest that should be constantly
fixed upon your principals, and especially the _two_ principals who
make possible nine-tenths of all the stories written.
_8. Managing Changes of Scene_
In preparing the scenario it is important to remember that if a leader
is introduced _before_ a scene, the leader should be written first,
and followed by the number and description of the scene. And in
describing your scenes you should study the convenience of the
director: where more than one scene is to be done in a set, refer back
to the _original_ scene number. Thus if Scene 5 is the sheriff's
office, and the same background is used for scenes 7, 9, and 14, when
writing Scene 14 say:
14--Sheriff's office, same as 5--
No matter how many times that setting may be used as the background
for a scene of your story, write it out every time just as you did at
first. Do not merely say: Same as 5. Follow the scene number, whether
it be 7, 9, or 14, with: "Sheriff's office;" then add the "same as 5."
Also, do not forget what was said in Chapter VI regarding the writing
of your scene-number at 0 (or 0 and 1, if there are two figures) on
the scale-bar of your typewriter. In this way, if 5 is your left
marginal stop, you will have almost a half-inch space between the
number and the description of the scene. Bridge this space with the
hyphen or short-dash character, and you will be sure that the
director's attention is quickly drawn to each change of scene.
It is extremely important to remember that in telling your story in
action even the slightest change of location means another scene. Let
us make this point perfectly clear:
Suppose you have a scene in which a fire ladder is placed against the
wall of a burning building, only the lower part of the ladder showing
in the picture. A fireman starts to mount, and finally disappears
overhead. The scene changes, and we see the upper windows of the
building and the upper portion of the ladder. Suddenly the fireman's
head appears as he climbs up (into the picture), then his whole body
comes into view, and presently he climbs in at one of the windows.
These are written in as two separate scenes, though it is plain that
in real life they are actually one, and in the photoplay they are not
separated even by an insert of any kind, thus seeming to be one, as
intended.
But now suppose that when the fireman starts up the ladder the
cameraman "follows him"--tilts his camera so that the result is a
"shifting stage"--the eye of the spectator following the fireman as he
goes up and until he reaches the top of the ladder and climbs in at
the window. That, of course, constitutes only one scene--the swinging
of the camera to follow the progress of the actor simply enlarges the
stage, as it were. Such scenes as this second one are frequently seen
in photoplays--an aëroplane leaving the ground and rising in its
flight, a band of horsemen riding "across" and eventually "out of" a
picture, a man climbing down the side of a cliff, and the like. But as
a rule they are simply arranged by the director's instructing the
cameraman to swing his camera as described--the writer of the script
does not introduce an actual direction to the director to obtain the
effect in this way but writes them in as two scenes.
In taking such panoramic scenes as those just described, the tripod of
the camera remains unmoved. Even in a railroad drama, where we see an
engine run down a track for a quarter of a mile or more, the camera is
mounted on another train, which closely follows the one seen in the
picture, and hence it is plainly, from a technical standpoint, only
one scene, though while it is being shown on the screen the background
is changing continuously. It is the _abrupt_ shifting from one
locality to another that constitutes a "change of scene" in the
photoplay.
This being so, it follows that each change of scene must be given a
separate scene-number in your scenario. We have examined dozens of
amateur scripts in which scenes would be found written thus:
8--Library, same as 2.
Tom looks on floor, fails to find locket, and then goes into
one room after another searching for it.
This, of course, is impossible. Even though the director were willing
to show Tom going through the different rooms looking for the lost
piece of jewelry, each scene would have to be separately and
consecutively numbered in the scenario. If in the tenth room visited
Tom should find the locket and then go out on the piazza to speak to
Mabel about it, the scene showing the piazza would be 18 and not 9.
It is quite as incorrect to divide into two or more parts the action
of what should be one scene, as already explained, as it is to try to
make one scene out of two or more by running them together in the way
illustrated in the foregoing bad example. To avoid both errors, bear
in mind that besides giving every scene a separate scene number, you
must write a scene into your scenario whenever it is necessary to
supply a new background for some bit of action. For example, you
cannot say:
Scene 4. John comes out of the store, walks down the street
for a couple of blocks, and enters the bank on the corner.
That much action would be written about as follows:
1--Exterior of store.
John comes out of store and walks down street, out of
picture.
2--Street.
Enter John. Passes down street and out of picture.
3--Exterior of bank on street corner.
John comes down street, approaches bank, and enters.
In the foregoing example, three scenes are given to show how John gets
from the store to the bank; but it might not be really necessary to
take three scenes to show this action. We might see John leave the
store and start down the street, the camera being set up in such a way
as to take in not only the doorway of the store but also a
considerable portion of the street. If the scene showing the front of
the bank were planned in the same way, so as to show John approaching
up the street, as though coming from the store, the connecting scene
(2), which merely shows him between the two points, could very well be
left out altogether, to be supplied by the imagination of the
spectators.
Experience alone--combined with the study of the pictures seen on the
screen--can teach you just what scenes are really necessary and which
may be avoided; the point to remember is that you should not waste
footage on even the shortest scene that can be eliminated without
detracting from the interest or breaking the logical sequence of the
events in your story. In other words, make it your hard and fast rule
to write _nothing_ into your scenario that does not aid materially in
telling your story and making your meaning clear to the spectator. On
the other hand, see that you _omit nothing_ that will tend to produce
the same result.
Going back to the example just given, we would point out that we
purposely introduced into it an example of what _not_ to do. Scene 3
is described as the "exterior of bank _on street corner_." That is
something that it is best to leave entirely to the director. Let him
do the locating of all the buildings used in a story, unless there is
an exceptionally good reason why you should specify just where a
certain building ought to be. The chances are that there is no special
reason why the bank in your story should be located on the corner of
the street, and the director might be able to locate a bank suitable
for the purpose of the scene in question within a block or two of the
studio. If there is a really important reason for having the bank on
the corner, he may have to go a mile or more away from the studio to
find one; and, inasmuch as it is frequently the case that the director
will take his cameraman and the necessary actor or actors out with
him, and do such a scene as this one outside the bank while another
set is being built up inside the studio for him to work in, it will
easily be seen that the more you can help him out by making things
convenient for him the more likely he is to express a desire to
examine other stories written by you.
This point will bear repeating: A scene is so much of the entire
action as is taken in one place without stopping the camera; in its
photoplay sense, _scene_ never refers to the action between certain
players, nor does a new scene commence when another character enters
upon a scene already in course of action.
It is a mistake, in working out the scenario, to keep the action in
the same setting too long at a time. Frequent changes of scene are
advisable. In his article in _The Photoplay Author_ for March, 1913,
Mr. C.B. Hoadley tells of a script written by a well-known actress who
is also the author of several successful "legitimate" dramas. Having
appeared in a notable picture drama, she determined to take up
photoplay writing herself. Her first effort--a comedy drama--was
returned. The lady was highly indignant; yet the reason for the
rejection of her script becomes apparent when it is known that the
entire action of her story occurred in a hotel corridor and in a room
in the same hostelry. Only nineteen scenes were used, and of these,
eighteen were to be played in the one room without a break in the
settings. Imagine the monotony of such a production, even on the
regular stage!
But while it is best to have a frequent change of scene, it is also a
mistake to risk confusing the spectator by changing often from one
scene to another far removed from the first, especially without the
use of some explanatory insert.
In connection with the error of some amateur writers referred to on
page 146, of making what is (or would be, if their script was worked
out as planned by them) actually one scene when they intend it to be
two, it may be said that this is one of the commonest and most amusing
errors of beginners. The mistake lies simply in their failure to
observe the rule of _always separating two different scenes in the
same set or location by interposing a scene in a different setting, or
by introducing a leader_. If this rule is not observed, the
result--even though it goes no farther than the amateur script--is
decidedly funny. To illustrate, take the following example:
23--Bedroom, same as 12--
Thorn, still looking through contents of bureau drawer,
stops, listens, indicates that he hears someone coming down
hall, and then, closing drawer, crosses to the window again
and makes his escape.
24--Bedroom, same as 12--
Tom is sitting at the table opening the letters laid there
by the landlady. He opens one, etc., etc.
A glance at the foregoing will show that, if produced as written, the
result on the screen would be a continuous scene in the bedroom
setting. Thorn would be seen making his exit by way of the window, and
then _instantly_ there would be Tom sitting at the table, opening his
mail! There would be lacking the logical action of his coming into the
room, crossing to the table, and sitting down. The whole effect would
be much the same as in those "fairy" plays produced several years ago,
where "stop camera" work was resorted to to obtain the effect of a
supernatural being suddenly appearing on the scene, greatly to the
astonishment of the mere mortals present.
Introduce a scene showing Thorn just landing on the ground after
sliding down a rain-water pipe from the roof of the veranda, or even
insert a leader between the two scenes as now written, and the mind of
the spectator is prepared for almost anything that he may find to be
going on in that room when he sees it again. But too much care cannot
be taken to guard against everything that may make for jerky or
illogical action of this kind. The merciless scissors of a careless
operator in the picture theatre may remove three or four inches of the
film at a certain point, with the result that a character leaving one
side of the room and starting to go out by the door on the other side
may be made to cross the room at a bound, causing a surprised laugh
at a very serious moment of your play. Do not approximate this
ludicrous effect by writing your scenes as illustrated in the
foregoing example.
Still another laughable error of the novice is to introduce into a
scene certain action which could not be properly registered in mere
pantomime. We lately examined an amateur script in which the following
appeared as part of the action between a girl and a man in a farm
location:
so (Mary) tells the stranger that her father is over in the
next field, milking the cow. He starts to, etc.
Now, whether or not the spectator in the theatre were shown a previous
scene in which Father actually milked a cow, the pantomime of Mary, in
trying to make plain without the aid of a cut-in leader the fact that
she was telling the man what her father was doing, would be extremely
ludicrous, to say the least. You must give thought to every bit of
action you write, remembering that it is of no use to say that
so-and-so happens if the action described will not register clearly in
pantomime. Here again experience will teach you what to put in and
what to leave out.
_9. The "Cut-Back"_
Readers of the boys' story papers published a few years ago will
remember how at the end of one chapter the hero would be left hanging
by a slender vine over a yawning chasm, "one thousand feet deep." The
next chapter, instead of continuing the logical sequence of action and
explaining how he was rescued--or rescued himself--would begin: "Let
us now return to Captain Barlow and Professor Whipple, whom we left
facing the band of dwarfs at the mouth of the cave, etc." These
stories exemplified practically the same technique as is employed
today by photoplaywrights who use what has become known as the
"cut-back," sometimes referred to as the "flash-back."
Mr. D.W. Griffith is commonly credited with having "invented" this
technical device, which is simply a frequent switching from one scene
to another, and then back again to the first, in order to heighten
interest by maintaining the suspense. Its use has been well
illustrated by Mr. C.B. Hoadley, who cites a play in which the
contrasting pictures of "a gambler seated at cards with convivial
companions, and his wife at home in a scantily furnished room keeping
vigil at the bedside of their sick child," are flashed back and forth
in such a manner as to keep the contrast before the spectators while
yet developing the drama effectively.
Another good example of the use of the cut-back was shown in an old
Biograph subject, "Three Friends." One of three friends who have sworn
never to separate falls in love with a young woman of the village and
marries her. A second of the trio is enraged to think that his friend
has broken up the triangle; the third, of better nature, is merely
very much disappointed. As a result of breaking up the trio, the two
bachelors leave the factory to go to another town. A baby is born to
the young married couple, and they are very happy for a time. Then the
second friend, Jim, comes back to his old shop to take the position of
foreman. As the result of a quarrel between him and the young husband,
the latter is discharged. From that time on things go badly with the
young couple, and soon bad is followed by worse. When they are on the
verge of starvation, and the husband has returned home after a
fruitless search for work, the wife goes out to try to beg a bottle of
milk. While she is away, the husband, thoroughly disheartened,
resolves to ask her to die with him, confident that neighbors will
care for the child. She returns home empty handed, and, though at
first shocked and horrified by his proposal, finally consents. Just as
the husband covers his wife's eyes with his hand and raises the
pistol, the two friends of former days burst into the room. One of the
husband's shop-mates has told the third friend of how "Jim fired
him"--as a leader tells us--and the reproaches of the third friend
have been instrumental in bringing about a feeling of remorse in the
heart of the foreman. The two hurry together to the little home,
arriving just in time to prevent the tragedy.
All through this picture the cut-back is used most effectively. Early
in the action, supposedly a day or two after the young man had met his
future wife, we are shown the two other men waiting for him at the
saloon, the three glasses of beer standing untouched upon the table.
The scene then switches to the young man and the girl out walking,
gazing from a bridge into the river. Back to the saloon again, and we
see the two friends looking at their watches, about to leave, the
third glass still standing untouched. Then, back to another pretty
exterior, where the young man proposes and is accepted. Toward the
climax, the use of the cut-back becomes even more effective: we see
the wife go out to get the milk; the two friends at the same old table
in the saloon; the husband bending over the child, taking out the
revolver, and indicating what is in his mind to do; then the scene in
the saloon, where the fourth man tells the kind-hearted friend how the
foreman has discharged his former comrade; back in the house again, we
see the man and the woman prepared to die together; then the exterior
of the saloon, with the two friends coming out; another home scene
leading up to the expected tragedy; the two friends hurrying down a
street--and even though they are hurrying, we know that they are
unaware of what is going on in the house which is their destination,
and we are fearful lest they may arrive too late; the man with his
hand held over the eyes of his wife, the revolver being slowly raised;
the two friends at the gate of the cottage; and then the climax as
they enter the room just in time to avert the tragedy. Thus the
cut-back effect kept suspense and interest at highest pitch every
moment.
Some years ago the same company released a drama, "The Cord of Life,"
in which the cut-back was used so effectively to heighten the suspense
and add to the thrill that many people in the audience of the theatre
were leaning forward in their seats and making excited comments--the
supreme test of a picture "with a punch."
One caution is necessary in the use of the cut-back--_do not use it as
an excuse to digress_. Above everything else, when you have started
the ball of your plot rolling, keep it rolling _forward_. You must not
switch back to some earlier scene for the purpose of picking up a
point that you have overlooked. Nor is it possible to go back and
follow the characters who have been temporarily dispensed with. If
they reappear, it must be in a scene which naturally follows, and does
not come with a sense of perplexing surprise. Remember this: When
characters are reintroduced they must not have been too long absent
from the plot-movement, but they must have been all the time
consciously or subconsciously present in the mind of the spectator _as
being essentially in the story_.
Unfriendly critics of the photoplay--and there are some such--have
said some harsh things about "the mugging close-up and the
nerve-wracking cut-backs," nor have their criticisms been wholly
without point and justification. But only, of course, when these
technical devices are abused by over-use. Mr. Sargent has pointed out
that the close-up of the silent drama is only another form of the
spot-light used on the regular stage, and, similarly, the cut-back
finds its duplicate in the "off-stage" sound-effects of the regular
drama. Instead of the "galloping horse" effects of the legitimate
stage, we get on the screen the actual scene of the horseman dashing
ahead. But anything overdone is bad, and cut-backs and other similar
devices are no exception to this rule. Not only is our attention
called to the fact that the writer or director is working a certain
technical trick to death, but in following the story its working out
is spoiled for us as a result of the very thing used with the
intention of heightening our interest.
"Even Griffith, in his big production, 'Hearts of the World,' taxes
suspense too far at one point," says Mr. Sargent. "So clever a
trickster as he (and, like Belasco, he is more the artistic trickster
than the artist) has failed to realize that suspense, carried too far,
becomes first tiresome and then amusing. This applies most directly to
the single situation, but it is almost equally applicable to a
situation strong in itself, but which is depended upon to yield
suspense out of proportion to its value."
And, since Mr. Griffith's main suspense-producer has always been his
self-invented cut-back device, the error of over-using this technical
trick is made even more apparent by what this critic points out. Here
again a careful study of the methods of several different leading
directors is your best guide.
_10. How Various Kinds of Inserts Are Used_
The use of leaders, letters, and other inserts needs some treatment in
connection with the scenario. The ordinary statement-leader, such as
"Two years later. Bob returns to his old home," is used before the
scene to which it applies. It shows the spectator the passage of time,
and explains what is about to follow. The ordinary, before-the-scene,
leader, is frequently employed to make such a statement as, "Tom
accuses his brother of having forged the check." But the other way of
telling the audience what Tom does is the use of the cut-in leader--of
which more later. This enables us to read Tom's own words--the
distinguishing mark of the cut-in.
This very effective form of the leader takes its name from the fact
that it cuts in, or is inserted into, the midst of a scene. That the
cut-in leader may tell all that is necessary much better than could a
long statement of what is going on is evident because the direct words
of a character are more effective than the same ideas expressed in the
third person.
Another consideration is that using the cut-in and omitting the leader
before the scene makes it possible to start the scene with action that
does not at first disclose Tom's intention. Then when the proper
moment arrives, the cut-in leader is flashed on the screen, and the
result is that, instead of the spectator's anticipating what is about
to happen, he is likely to be as much taken by surprise as is the
guilty brother.
After introducing the cut-in leader, write _Back to scene_, the same
as after an inserted letter, telegram, newspaper item, or the like.
In what follows we give examples of proper scenario form, as well as
examples of the way in which the leader, cut-in leader, letter, bust,
and mask are used.
[Illustration: View of Stage, Lubin Studio, Los Angeles, California]
[Illustration: Wardrobe Room in a Photoplay Studio]
_Leader_--TOM DISCOVERS HIS BROTHER'S CRIME
9--Maxwell's library, same as 4--
Tom enters, followed by Ralph. Tom goes straight to desk,
opens it, and takes out envelope. From it he takes Ralph's
letter and the check. Glances over letter again, Ralph
standing by, watching him with nervous expression.
_On screen, letter._
Dear Blakely:
I send you enclosed my father's check to cover amount of my
debt to you. Kindly send receipt to me at old address.
Yours,
RALPH MAXWELL.
_Back to scene_.
Tom lays letter on desk and picks up check, looking at it
closely. Suddenly starts, frowns, glances at Ralph, and then
looks intently at check again. Opens drawer of desk and
takes out reading-glass. Holding check in left hand, he
examines it closely through the glass.
10--Bust of Tom's left hand holding check, right hand grasping glass,
focusing the glass upon the name signed to the check. This shows that
the name has been written in a very shaky hand.
11--Back to 9--
Tom lays reading-glass on desk, looks at his brother
accusingly, and then thrusts check close to his face.
_Leader_--"RALPH, YOU FORGED THIS CHECK!"
_Back to scene_.
Ralph looks at Tom despairingly, his face betraying his
guilt. Tom hangs head in shame, at thought of his brother's
crime.
12--Hallway, showing door of library--
Wilkins, the butler, kneeling before library door, his eye
glued to key-hole.
13--Portion of library, same as 4, seen through key-hole--
Ralph is explaining to Tom how he came to owe Blakely the
money, etc.
Now let us take up the different points just as they have been
introduced in the foregoing example, and briefly explain each.
The leader is shown, first of all, simply as an example of an ordinary
before-the-scene leader. In writing a scenario such as the one of
which this might be a part, if you introduced the cut-in leader in
Scene 11, there would be no necessity for giving also the ordinary
bald statement-leader before Scene 9. The fact that "Tom discovers his
brother's crime" is made plainer by Tom's own spoken words, in Scene
11, than an ordinary leader before the first scene in the library (in
this example) could make it. In the middle of this scene (9) Tom reads
his brother's unsent letter, and you write "On screen, letter,"
following this note to the director with the letter itself. After the
letter you write "Back to scene," showing that the scene in the
library is not ended and that the action which is broken by the
flashing on the screen of the letter is continued just as soon as Tom
lays the letter down--that is, as soon as it disappears from the
screen.
The "bust" comes next, but since we wish to compare the bust with
another technical device, the "close-up," let us pass it by in detail
for the moment. But you must remember, when introducing a bust, that
it is a separate scene, and must, therefore, be given a separate and
distinct scene-number. The bust breaks the scene in the library as Tom
scrutinizes the check through the reading-glass. The letter previously
shown also broke the scene, or interrupted the action; but the bust,
being considered as a separate scene, is given a scene-number--10.
After the bust (10), Scene 11 takes us back to the library; but we do
not follow the scene-number (11) with "Maxwell's library, same as 4"
(4, as the example shows, was the number of the first scene played in
the library). Instead, we write "11--Back to 9," which shows that the
action in the library is picked up and continued from the point where
it ended (on the screen) when the bust picture was flashed.
_11. Masks_
After Tom has openly accused his brother of forgery, as shown by the
cut-in leader, the scene changes to the hallway outside the library
door. We see Wilkins, the butler, who is implicated in the plot
against Ralph, kneeling and peering into the room through the
key-hole. This is a very short scene, but it is necessary to show two
things: not only that the brothers are being spied upon, for we are
not interested in merely watching the butler kneeling there, but it is
important for us to see _what_ he is watching so intently--the action
in the library. So, after we have shown the spy kneeling outside the
door, the scene is shifted back to the continuation of the interview
between Tom and Ralph. This time, however, we see it on the screen in
a way that merely _suggests_ the butler kneeling outside the closed
door. On the screen appears a large key-hole, and within its limits
the scene between the brothers is acted.
The effect thus produced is termed a "mask." Ordinarily the lens of a
moving picture camera is masked by a metal plate, rectangular in
shape, one inch wide by three-quarters of an inch high. The use of
this mask prevents the light from spreading up or down the film as it
is being exposed. As explained in Chapter III, each of the sixteen
tiny pictures that make up a foot of film is termed a "frame," and,
the camera being masked as described, the light is permitted to act
upon only one frame at a time. But within this limit of one inch by
three-quarters of an inch another mask may be used, cut in any form
that the producer may desire. It may be a key-hole mask, as in the
foregoing example; it may be simply circular, to suggest that the
scene is viewed through a telescope; or a mask with hair-line bars,
which will suggest that you are looking through a window. We examined
a script a short while ago in which a travelling salesman for an
optical goods house amused himself in the interval before train time
by watching through a pair of binoculars the street below and the
buildings opposite his hotel window. The scene enacted in an office of
a building not far away led him to believe that a murder was being
committed, and the action which followed was extremely funny. The
scene in the office, watched by the "drummer" through the binoculars,
appeared on the screen as though viewed through a large and very round
figure eight, lying on its side, thus: [symbol: figure-eight].
The four just mentioned are the commonest forms of the mask; but we
have seen masks cut in the shape of oak leaves, bottles, and other
forms, though these latter were used merely to obtain novel effects.
The mask may be used as an inserted scene--as we have here chiefly
considered it--or it may serve as a sort of excuse for the entire
action of the photoplay, as in the case of the commercial traveller
and his binoculars, and add effectiveness by its novelty of
presentation.
_12. The Bust and the Close-up_
In former usage, the term "bust" was employed to describe any enlarged
view, as a watch, a face, a hand turning a door knob. Now the term has
been given a less wide range and has been superseded in its broadest
meaning by another technical expression--the "close-up."
The bust now means any enlarged _object_, such as a hand holding a
watch, a box of cigars on a table with a note pinned to a cigar, or
any object shown close to the camera, _where no action is called for_.
If Maud comes into a room and sees her sister staring at the window
sill, crosses to the sister's side and stares also, it is natural that
we wonder what it is that causes the consternation. The camera is
manifestly too far away to show unmistakably what Maud picks up--say,
a broken-off knife-point. Suppose that it is part of the plot to have
the spectator also grasp the fact that there is a dark stain on the
knife-point. We must get it closer. So we write the scene up to the
point where Maud holds up the object, then we start another scene and
say:
43--Bust of Maud's hand holding knife-point to show
blood-stain in shape of rude star.
There is no action. The hand simply holds the object. A scene of this
kind is usually taken before a black curtain or in front of some such
indeterminate background. Later, this bust scene is inserted into the
film at the proper point. A point worthy of notice is that bust scenes
are always taken, and close-up scenes are _nearly_ always taken,
either before or (usually) after the scenes into which they break have
been done. If the plot demands that a certain character examine his
watch at a certain point, and if the spectator is supposed to see
exactly what time the watch shows, the director is not going to stop
his camera, bring the camera nearer to the player or the player nearer
to the camera, as his method may be, make the bust picture, and then
resume the taking of the "wide-angle," or full-size-stage, scene. Much
time can be saved by making the _different kinds_ of scenes
separately. This explains why every scene and every kind of scene in
the entire scenario _must_ be given a separate scene-number. The
scenes in a photoplay may be likened to a cut-up picture puzzle, each
part of which must be properly assembled and inserted in its proper
place to make a complete, understandable picture.
As has already been said, the bust picture in photoplay is like the
spot-light in the regular theatre. It centres the spectator's
attention on a certain object and holds it there until the important
object is fully observed by the watcher. It "not only magnifies the
objects, but it draws particular attention to them. Many points may be
cleared in a five-foot bust picture which would require twenty to
thirty feet of leader to explain, and the bust picture always
interests. Sometimes in a newspaper illustration a circle surrounds
some point of interest, or a cross marks where the body was
discovered. The bust picture serves the same purpose, and answers, as
well, for the descriptive caption that appears under a cut."[17]
[Footnote 17: Epes Winthrop Sargent, _The Technique of the
Photoplay_.]
Bear in mind, then, that the introduction of a bust scene makes the
succeeding portion of the action in that setting _another scene_, with
its own consecutive number.
In the past few years, the number of scenes to the reel has been
almost doubled, in most studios; and this is due to the increased use
of the close-up. The bust and the close-up are entirely separate in
their utility and effect, yet, properly used, each has been found a
valuable addition to the technical devices of photoplay construction.
It is now frequently the practice of many directors to bring the
camera nearer to a certain character, or group of characters, at some
important point of the action for the sake of emphasizing facial
expression or certain bits of "business" that are vitally essential to
a proper understanding of the plot.
This may be accomplished in three different ways--the method employed
always depending upon the nature of the scene as well as of _the
setting or location_. First, if the surroundings of the character at
that stage of the action are important as having something to do with
the "business" being carried out--if, for example, it is necessary to
show, at close range, the actions of two characters who are seated at
a table--the director has the camera moved down toward them, and that
particular close-up, or series of close-ups, is taken usually, as has
been said, after all the wide-angle scenes in that setting have been
"done," for the obvious purpose of rendering unnecessary the frequent
shifting of the camera.
If, on the other hand, the director merely wishes to emphasize at
certain points in any scene the facial expression of his players, as
affected by the humorous, startling, or other emotional "business"
incidental to the plot at that point, and if the surroundings of the
character or characters may be indeterminate without detracting from
the value of the scene, the player or players may be brought _nearer
to the camera_, and the close-up may even be made with the subjects
posed against a plain, dark background. This method of obtaining the
close-up is frequently resorted to, and, it may be said, is not always
truly "artistic," if seriously considered, inasmuch as it tends to
detach the character from the surroundings of the scene, and make the
result more than ever in the nature of a figure in the spot-light. We
have seen many pictures, particularly those with female "stars"
featured--as, for example, the Mary Pickford pictures--in which the
action of a scene would be broken several times, and the head of the
pretty "star" shown photographed against a plain, very dark
background.
The third method used in the studios is one which actually changes a
wide-angle view into a close-up without breaking or interrupting the
action in the slightest degree. This is accomplished by mounting the
camera on a specially built platform on wheels--on a truck--which as a
rule is operated on wooden tracks previously prepared to suit the
action taking place in that set or location. Take for example the
Babylonian setting (the principal Babylonian setting, that is) in the
D.W. Griffith production, "Intolerance." When this scene is first
thrown on the screen we see an immense open court, surrounded by
banquet halls and long corridors, with walls reaching up to tremendous
heights, the walls themselves banked with huge figures of heathen gods
and images and great elephants, compared to which the human figures
participating in the scene are mere pygmies. At the back of this
enormous setting is a flight of steps, perhaps a hundred feet or more
in width, upon which are probably a hundred girls going through the
graceful motions of a religious dance. We are permitted, for several
feet of film, to view the immensity and the grandeur of ancient
Babylon in this wide-angle view. Then, smoothly and steadily, we
approach the back of the set--the great flight of steps, with the
dancing figures. Hundreds of details of architecture and sculpturing
are unfolded as we draw nearer, and when the truck suddenly stops, we
have a close-up of part of the steps with the dancing girls just
finishing their performance.
The point is, simply, that if a mere close-up of a certain character
or group of characters is all that is desired, either of the two
methods first explained is used. But if the director has an unusually
beautiful and imposing setting which he wishes to show off, the moving
truck, with the constantly turning camera, gives him exactly what he
wants to show. Close-ups of this type may be likened to the more
frequently used panoramic scenes--"panorams"--obtained in open-air
work by mounting the camera on a train, an automobile, or some other
moving vehicle. Another point is that the ordinary close-up, produced
as first described, is the one most used because it does away with the
footage consumed in the gradual-approach method.
Suppose, now (following up the previous example of the use of the
bust), that having shown Maud's hand holding up the broken-off point
of what she believes to be her brother's knife, we go back to the
wide-angle view of the room and show the two sisters together, and
Maud casting the knife-point from her in horror. Let us imagine that
they are supposed to suspect some other character--their brother, in
fact--of having used the knife of which this is a part, to commit some
crime. This character now comes into the room. We want to register
certain expressions and, what is equally important, we want to isolate
one character's expression from that of another, so that the eye and
mind of the spectator will not be confused by the wide range of vision
employed in the full--or wide-angle--scene. We show the brother as he
comes into the room and stops, seeing the eyes of the two girls fixed
upon him. How shall we isolate him? Not by the use of the bust, for
the bust is now employed only to give a close view of an _inanimate
object_. We use the close-up, and we write the scenes thus:
42--Living room, same as 15.
Maud comes in to find Ethel staring at an object lying on
the window sill. She crosses and stares down at it also,
then, with a shudder, picks up--the knife-point!
43--Bust of Maud's hand holding knife-point to show blood-stain in
shape of rude star.
44--Back to wide-angle of room.
Maud flings the knife-point from her in horror, then turns
to Ethel and clings to her. Both look towards door as Frank
enters. He advances a pace or two, sees them, and stops,
aghast.
45--Close-up of Frank. His eyes suddenly drop, he sees the object
lying on the floor, and, slowly, his hands go up over his eyes.
46--Close-up of Maud and Ethel. Maud slowly turns to her sister with a
question in her eyes--"Is he guilty?"--and bows her head, then looks
up quickly and fixes her gaze on Frank.
47--Close-up of Frank. With agony in his eyes, the boy protests his
innocence. Suddenly he pauses, realizing that he is not making an
impression.
48--Back to wide-angle of room.
Both sisters are staring at Frank. Maud's look is one of
unmistakable accusation. She looks down at the floor. Frank
follows her gaze. Maud stoops, picks up the knife-point, and
holds it out towards him. He slowly advances and takes it
from her. He knows what they expect--what they demand!
Slowly, hesitatingly, he draws a pocket knife out of his
pocket. The sisters come closer, drawn magnetically by the
horrible thing they fear to see--the meeting of the knife
and the broken point.
49--Close-up of Frank. A very close view to show him slowly opening
the knife, the point of which is broken off. The other hand puts the
bloodstained point to the broken blade. They match! They fit
absolutely!
50--Back to wide-angle of room.
With an anguished face the boy cries:
_Leader_--"I DIDN'T!--OH! WON'T YOU BELIEVE ME?"
_Back to scene_.
He sees a hardening of Maud's face. Silently his hands
unclench; the knife-point falls to the table. Then, with an
access of fear, he closes his knife, thrusts it into his
pocket, and rushes wildly out, while the two girls merely
stare after him, too horror-stricken to move, to follow.
The foregoing is a good example of how "straight" action, all in one
uninterrupted wide-angle scene, would not be half so convincing,
dramatic or suspense-holding as the broken-up series of scenes, all in
the same setting, all in the one situation. Incidentally, Scene 49
shows very clearly the distinction between the bust and the close-up.
This is a very close view of the boy's hands, but it cannot be called
a bust because of the fact that it is an action scene. The close-up
compares with the bust in much the same way that any painting with
supposedly human, moving figures compares with those pictures which
come under the "still life" classification.
This illustration of the use of the bust and the close-up is taken
from an actual script, prepared by one of the Vitagraph Company's
staff writers. It will be noticed that the "description" of the scene
following the bust scene is "44--Back to wide-angle of room," instead
of "44--Back to 42," which it would have been had this Vitagraph
writer followed the same rules of technique as were used by the writer
of the script from which the example on page 159 was taken. The
Vitagraph writer follows the same rule in writing the description of
close-up scenes, also. Either form is correct, and it is optional
which you use. There are certain technical terms as well as methods of
writing for which there are no hard and fast rules, and this accounts
for the fact that some writers will say "leader" when others use the
term "sub-title," and so on.[18]
[Footnote 18: Compare the Vitagraph-made working scenario in Chapter
XX with the one-reel scenario reproduced in Chapter V.]
Shortly before one of the present writers was appointed scenario
editor for the Edison Company, Mr. Bannister Merwin, who for several
years was one of Edison's chief contributing writers, gave up his work
in this country and went to England to live. He is now active in the
British film world and also a director--or "producer," as Mr. Merwin
still calls it--for one of the largest English motion picture
manufacturers. The present writer found that Mr. Merwin's work had
left a considerable impression upon the methods of work of the various
Edison directors, and, indeed, he has always been regarded as one of
the leading authorities on photoplay technique. The three paragraphs
which follow are taken from a letter written by Mr. Merwin to Mr. Epes
Winthrop Sargent, and published in _The Moving Picture World_. Several
important points in connection with the scenario are briefly but
interestingly discussed. In connection with what we have just been
discussing--the close-up--it may be said that, as Mr. Merwin himself
says, all writers make use of the close-up at certain points of
different scenes; but what this author-director says in addition may
be taken as another warning against the _over-use_ of this effective
technical device:
"My present notion of the best construction for long feature stories
follows somewhat the lines of the stage play. The line of climactic
development should be a series of ascending waves. After each crisis
or climax there should be a slight lull. And the first few hundred
feet, like the first ten minutes of a play, should be devoted to
getting your audience acquainted with your characters and their
relationships. To place a very important action in the first few
hundred feet before the audience knows who the characters are or what
they are to one another tends to create confusion. People will later
say, 'Oh, was _he_ the one who did that?' Of course the characters
must do things in these first few hundred feet, but they should be
things that express their characters interestingly rather than things
that have important significance in the plot development. Perhaps I
put the point a little too strongly, for there are always exceptions,
but you will know what I mean.
"The thing is to look at one's own work from the viewpoint of the
audience, and continually ask one's self such questions as, 'Is it
clear? Can I follow it without confusion of mind? Does it constantly
keep my interest stimulated?'
"Now the question of breaking one's scenes with close-ups and varied
shots from different angles. Of course, we all do this in preparing
our scripts. But lately I have wondered whether it would not be better
to leave the breaking up of the scene to the producer, except in very
obvious cases. You see, I am now speaking as a producer as well as a
writer. The value of the close-up almost always is governed in
practice by floor conditions. I mean by this several things. For one
thing, if the cast is not the ideal cast you have had in mind when
writing the play the character you have set down for a close-up may
not be able to express what it is essential to express in that
particular close-up. The producer must then find some other means of
punctuating the situation. For another thing, no producer is likely to
build a set and handle his people in it in exactly the way you have
conceived. For that matter, no two producers are likely to handle the
set and the characters in the same way. It follows that very often the
producer can secure a natural close-up in the course of the action
where you have called for a special close-up scene. And on the other
hand the producer may find that he needs a special close-up scene at a
point where your conception of the movements of the characters has not
made it appear necessary. Anyhow, the close-up is an interpretation.
If, as I hold, the producer is an interpreter, would it not be better
to leave this matter of close-ups to him, and write your scene
straight, with emphasis on the points that should be brought out most
strongly? I don't say that this surmise is right; I merely am
wondering. In any event, we do not want to see the close-up overdone.
We don't want too much of the Griffith staccato. It leads to what a
certain friend of mine once called Tom Lawson's method of
muck-raking--'The method of universal emphasis.'"
It is interesting to note in the first paragraph of the quotation from
Mr. Merwin's letter that he advocates giving, in most pictures, "the
first few hundred feet" to a proper introduction of the characters and
to laying the foundation, as it were, for the story proper. This is in
marked contrast to the method of a few years ago, when one-reel
pictures were the rule, and when very little footage could be spared
for such introductory scenes. Today, with very much longer pictures,
there is no excuse for any writer's ever feeling himself cramped for
room in which to make clear everything that the spectator ought to
know in connection with his characters and his plot.
Finally, in connection with the _story_, as written by you, and the
_picture_, as put on by the director, we again quote Mr. Sargent:
"If you _need_ a close-up, write it in, numbering it as a separate
scene. If you do not need a close-up, don't write one in, even though
you see innumerable close-ups used. Let the director make these as his
fancy or judgment may dictate. He can see just where and how the use
of the close-up can help the _pictorial_ quality of the picture. You
are apt to concern yourself only with the narrative value of the
close-up, employing it only where it is necessary in order to get the
_story_ over clearly. You cannot possibly imagine the scene exactly as
it will be set up or played, therefore you cannot tell where and how
_pictorial_ close-ups or other effects will be useful. Leave that to
the director and he will handle the numbering according to his special
system. Number _your own_ close-ups, because they are separate scenes
even though they are in reality a part of other scenes."
What this critic means by the director's "special system" of handling
the numbering of close-ups that he may decide to use after the story
has been placed in his hands is simply that such added close-ups will
be inserted into the working script in this manner (40 and 41 being
your original scene numbering):
40--(a) Henderson steps forward to give his prisoner
a better view of his face.
(b) Close-up of Trask and Henderson. In the
stronger light, Trask recognizes his old enemy
and his face is convulsed with hate.
(c) Henderson steps back, laughs, and holds out
the handcuffs, etc.
41--This scene as originally written.
It will be seen that the action contained in (b) is the inserted
close-up action. In what remains (c) we get the end of the scene as
written by the author.
_13. Visions, Memories, Dreams, and Other Devices_
We have already referred to the old method of obtaining certain
effects in so-called fairy-tale pictures by "stop-camera" work, or by
simply stopping the character at a certain point just prior to the
scheduled appearance of some supernatural visitant, having the other
characters hold their positions while the witch or the fairy character
walks into the scene and takes her proper position in it, and then
starting the camera again, the result on the screen being that the
supernatural figure stands, in the fraction of a second, where nothing
of the kind appeared before. Today, stop-camera work is used very
seldom--as a rule only to obtain ludicrously sudden and unexpected
effects in certain types of "slap-stick" comedy. A far more artistic
effect, when it is desired to introduce visitors from other worlds, is
obtained by "superimposure," or by taking the picture twice, as it
were. On the first "take" the characters go through the business
already rehearsed, and the director keeps careful track of just when
each important move is made by counting while the cameraman turns the
crank. If, at the count of "Eleven!" one character registers surprise
and points excitedly at an unoccupied corner of the room, it is the
first step in introducing the fairy, or the spectre, who is to appear
there in the picture as shown on the screen. After the scene has been
gone through with, following this rule, the film is run through the
camera a second time, the "stage" being empty of players up to the
count of "Eleven!" at which point the unearthly-visitor character is
brought into the scene at the proper place in the setting, either
appearing quite suddenly or being more gradually dissolved in,
different studios having different methods of accomplishing this. The
point is that visions of this kind are obviously written into the
scene proper, just as you would introduce any new character. If it is
a ghostly visitor of some kind, you simply say: "Harding looks in
horror (at whatever point of the room or location you desire). Vision
of Blake, standing quite still and pointing an accusing finger at
Harding." Or, if Tom is in the city and has reason to believe that
Frank, back on the farm, is taking advantage of his friend's absence
to win his sweetheart away from him, write the scene down to the point
where Tom straightens up in his office chair and stares (perhaps
directly into the camera) with a worried expression, and then say:
"Vision-in portion of the apple orchard, with Frank making love to
Mary as they stand beneath one of the trees."