of examples of "visions," produced in one or another manner, and it
should be easy to distinguish between "visions" and "thoughts" or
"memories." The latter _may_ be introduced as part of another scene
just as the vision (using the word in the sense of "apparition" or
"supernatural visitant") is introduced; but it must be borne in mind
that the photoplay spectators have in the past few years been
gradually educated up to a rather perfect comprehension of what
results different technical devices produce--even if they do not quite
understand the technical why and wherefore; and for this reason it is
best when writing action in which the characters are supposed to show
what they are thinking about or describing to use the fade-out and
fade-in device, as the meaning of this is now very clearly understood.
The spectators are quite used to seeing the picture fade out, or "go
black" at the end of certain scenes, just as they are familiar with
the use of it at the actual end of the photoplay. Apart from these two
uses, they have come to associate the fade-out with the thought of
the immediate introduction of a "memory," either related to others or
silently indulged in, or a mere thought, or, if the character is seen
going to sleep, of a "dream."
If the fade-out is used, it means three scenes instead of one, of
course, because following the introduction of the "memory," or
whatever it may be, you return to the scene proper, just as you go
back to the wide-angle view after using a bust or a close-up scene.
They would be numbered, for example, 17, 18 and 19, and you would
write the action as follows:
17--Library, same as 6.
Fenton continues to make love to Beverly, presently ending
what he is saying with an impassioned plea to fly with him
at once. For just a moment she seems on the point of
yielding; then she starts back and shows that she is
thinking of what it would mean. (Fade out into--)
18--Bedroom, same as 8.
Dean, lying in bed, wakes up and calls out, as if calling to
his wife. Then he falls back again on the pillow, exhausted.
(Fade back to--)
19--Back to 17.
Fenton reaches out to grasp Beverly's hand, but she draws
quickly back and urges him to stop pleading with her, at the
same time crossing etc.
If you are using the "dissolve" or "interpose" (see definitions in
Chapter III) you introduce the device in the same way as above; but
bear in mind that the dissolve is somewhat harder to accomplish than
the fade, and, again, while it merges one scene into another in an
artistically beautiful manner, it is not so readily recognized by the
spectator as an announcement, so to speak, of what is to follow.
The diaphragm (in or out), as the definition in Chapter III states, is
used to indicate a lapse of time in the action of a story without
using a leader. Also, in scenes between which there is supposed to be
only a very brief interval, but which nevertheless call for a definite
break of thought, the diaphragm is resorted to. Some directors will
say "Circle out!" that being the effect on the screen--the oblong
picture changing to a circle, which gradually becomes smaller and
smaller until the diaphragm of the camera is entirely closed and the
film "goes black." The reverse of this, of course, is called
"diaphragming in."
As several critics have pointed out, the fade and the diaphragm should
never be used to denote synchronized action. Action occurring in two
places at practically the same moment should be cut one into the
other, for this is the primary function of the cut-back. At no time
should the diaphragm be used in this connection, either as a means of
fading out or to reduce the field, for this robs the action of any
suggestion of immediate change. Here the use of cutting back is
imperative, and no other device should be substituted.
As has been indicated, photoplay terminology is, even yet, only in
process of formation. The terms given and defined in Chapter III are
the terms in common daily use in the majority of studios, but there
is no ancient precedent to compel any writer to adhere to any of
these terms if he is in the habit of using others. There is too great
a disposition on the part of amateur writers to split hairs over the
correct technical term. A matter of far more importance is to turn out
a good story.
_14. Camera Tricks and Special Effects_
With the way most trick-effects are produced in the studio the average
writer need be little concerned except as a matter of interest.[19]
The object of discussing them here is to show how certain plots, or
parts of plots, are made possible as a result of knowing how these
things _may_ be accomplished, whereas without this knowledge the
writer with a good idea might fear to include it in his story in the
belief that it was impossible of production. It may be remarked that
what is said here has a bearing on Chapter XV, in which is discussed
the matter of expense in picture production. Some of the very
companies who a few years ago were warning the beginning writer
against introducing action that would necessitate too great an outlay
of money are today producing features seemingly regardless of expense.
Yet most concerns are really exercising a wise economy and getting
some wonderful results with cleverly planned trick-camera work.
[Footnote 19: See Homer Croy's _How Motion Pictures Are Made_.]
For example, in one episode of the Wharton serial, "The Eagle's Eye,"
the German conspirators in New York, seeking to injure the cause of
the Allies and lay the blame on the American 'longshoremen at the same
time, arrange to have a train of freight cars, crossing on barges from
Manhattan to Jersey, dumped into the North River by removing the means
by which they are held in place on the tracks of the barge and
"letting 'em slide." The effect on the screen is wonderfully like what
a long-range photograph of such an actual event would show. All that
was needed to produce the scene was a tank of water with a miniature
barge pushed along by a tiny tug-boat, the latter steaming up very
realistically. When the toy barge and tug-boat were right in the
middle of the "stage," three or four toy freight cars were allowed to
slide off into the water. Above the tank, as a background, was hung
some white or light colored cloth, making everything from the
waterline up a white blank. Against this blank was superimposed, by
running the film through the camera twice, a picture of the New York
sky-line as seen from the Jersey shore. The unruffled surface of the
water in the tank--so unlike the wavy North River--was almost the only
thing to show certain of the spectators that the scene was not the
real thing. In another episode of the same serial, after the German
spies have caused an Allied grain ship to be loaded on one side only,
so that she will turn turtle as soon as released from her moorings,
another very realistic scene shows the ship actually turning over, as
much as the comparative narrowness of the slip will let her, after
they have cut the ropes holding her to the dock. Here, again, a model
vessel in a built-up miniature slip supplied the means of obtaining a
startlingly realistic effect. The scene lasted only a few seconds, so
that little opportunity was given the spectator to see how it was
worked, but the effect of the brief scene was very convincing.
In scores of feature productions models or miniatures of various kinds
have been resorted to to obtain startling or novel effects, and have
saved the outlay of thousands of dollars in the production of certain
pictures. Double photography, or superimposure, is a ready ally when
the director wants to get an effect showing a specially arranged
fictitious scene played against a real and frequently well-known
background, as in the North River scene just described. In the same
picture, "The Eagle's Eye," the Whartons, who produced it, displayed a
new feature in photography--a genuine photographic device rather than
a trick--in what they described as "the triple iris"--three diaphragms
opening at once and disclosing the heads of Boy-Ed, Von Papen and Dr.
Albert, and then fading and showing a scene in which these three
characters were seen grouped in conversation.
Another effect which might, perhaps, be classed as a trick was used in
the Mary Pickford feature, "Amarilly of Clothes-line Alley." It was in
reality merely a clever scene intended to take the place of a leader,
while being also an improvement on a leader because of the fact that
to almost everyone in the audience it instantly "put over" the idea
back of the action at that point of the story. At the time that
Amarilly's good-hearted but socially impossible mother, with her
little brothers and sisters, are being entertained by the rich
hostess who desires to shame the little girl from the tenements in the
eyes of her son, there is flashed on the screen, against a dark
background, an empty glass gold-fish bowl with the fish themselves
wriggling and gasping on the table beside it. The idea of "fish out of
water" was very apparent to the spectators. Later, when the
tenement-bred family had returned to their humble home, another
picture showed the gold-fish contentedly swimming about in a
well-filled bowl. It is such an effect as this that any clever writer
might think of suggesting in his scenario, and it is legitimate in
every way--far more so, in fact, than some of the tricks of
diaphragming and fading so frequently made use of by certain
directors.
A startlingly novel effect was shown some time ago in the Vitagraph
Company's production of Arthur Stringer's story, "Mortmain." Just as
Mortmain was put under ether the scene proper faded out, giving place
to a dull blur in which the faces of the doctor and his attendants
were brought right up to the lens of the camera and then withdrawn for
several feet, the action being extremely rapid, and being repeated
several times, by means of the camera mounted on a truck, as already
described. This was accompanied by another dark-background strip of
film, across--or rather down--which shot fiery streaks, like the tails
of discharging sky-rockets. The whole effect of anæsthesia was vividly
reproduced, and the effect on the audience was most marked. The idea
of what Mortmain experienced in his last conscious moments "got
across" in no uncertain way. Especially startling and realistic--to
those who have been there--was the effect of the patient's feeling
himself dropping, dropping, dropping through space into--oblivion.
It is extremely unlikely that this work will be made use of by anyone
who has not visited the picture theatres often enough to have seen ten
times as many camera tricks, special effects, and examples of the use
of different technical devices as are herein described. But if you
_are_ taking up photoplay writing without having seen many photoplays
on the screen, you are but half equipped, notwithstanding all the help
you may receive through text-books and trade-journal articles. In
other words, we urge upon you the wisdom of keeping in mind that the
real finishing school for screen writers is the picture theatre
itself.
_15. Dual-Character Double Exposures_
Undoubtedly, the gradual perfecting of the double exposure
(superimposure) device in motion-picture making has made possible the
screening of innumerable good stories which would otherwise have been
almost impossible of production. When only a few years ago the
Vitagraph Company made their very creditable production of Charles
Dickens's "A Tale of Two Cities," the two leading male characters,
Sidney Carton and Charles Darnley, were played by two different
actors--the final action of the plot turning on the fact that these
two were "doubles," for this fact makes possible Sidney Carton's
supreme sacrifice for his friend and the woman he loves. There was a
fairly close facial resemblance between the two actors who played
these parts--enough, with the aid of the wigs they wore and other
make-up, to make the picture convincing. Today, no director would
think of putting on such a picture with two different actors in the
dual rôles of Carton and Darnley. When, in 1917, the Dickens classic
was released as a William Fox feature, William Farnum played both
rôles, and some really remarkable results were obtained in scenes
where both characters were present at the same time. Almost everyone
has seen pictures containing examples of the possibilities offered by
double exposure in making pictures of this nature.
In the first place, when two characters are supposed to be "doubles,"
it is certainly more convincing to have one player portray both rôles.
Again, any additional trouble that is attached to making pictures of
this kind, on account of the double exposures involved, is confined to
those scenes in which both characters are present in the scene at the
same time, and even then the difficulty is minimized by the use of
close-ups.
For example, to show Carton in one scene where Darnley is not present
is simply to take an ordinary scene in an ordinary way. Then, suppose
you wish to show Carton seated in a chair at one side of the room
while Darnley leaning against the table at the other side of the room
talks with him. In pictures of this kind the director frequently uses
more close-ups than usual merely to avoid the necessity of making
double exposures, in connection with which the greatest trouble is
always the keeping track--by counting, for instance--of the moves of
the two different characters. But it is a much easier matter for the
dual-rôle actor, made up as Carton, to be photographed singly in one
part of the room as he goes through with the action of one or more
scenes, after which, dressed as Darnley, he goes through the
synchronized action of that character. Synchronization--or harmony of
movement in time--of course demands that the action of both characters
be properly matched--to use a common and easily understood term--but
it will be seen that when the spectator watches only one character at
a time there is not the need for the _perfect_ synchronization of
action that is always demanded of the wide-angle double-exposure
scene, in which one man, playing two different characters, must face
himself and keep the action natural and convincing at all times.
Very few things in the development of motion picture art have advanced
so noticeably as this trick of portraying dual characters on the
screen by means of double exposure of the film. Theoretically,
it is extremely simple. There is a middle--or at any rate an
arbitrary--dividing line to the stage. A mask being placed over
one-half of the camera lens, the film is run through and the action of
Carton in a certain scene in which he is supposed to face Darnley is
taken. Careful track is kept of just what important moves he makes at
different stages of the count. Later, after he is made up as Darnley,
the first half of the lens is masked in the same way as before, while
the second half is exposed and the action of Darnley is gone through
with, with the gestures and other action properly timed to
synchronize with the action of his "double"--and that is all there is
to do. But the skill of the director is tested in his timing of the
moves of the characters, just as his knowledge of lighting and
backgrounds is tested so as to avoid showing the line where the two
differently exposed parts of the film join. Then, too, certain
directors have, of late, procured some "double" effects which well
deserve to be called wonderful, as when in a certain William Fox film
the two different characters, played by the one woman, are made to
meet and kiss each other most naturally.
To repeat, double exposure (to use the simplest term for this camera
trick) has made possible the writing of many stories for the screen
which a few years ago would have been rejected because of the
inability of the company to procure two people similar enough in
appearance successfully to portray the "doubles." No author with a
really fine idea for a dual-character story need hesitate to offer it
to the film companies today. But there is still enough additional
trouble attached to the production of this kind of story to justify
the editors in rejecting everything but the very best in the way of
plots.
_16. Features_
The most surprising thing, when one looks back and considers the
single-reel stories of a few years ago, is that a complete, logically
told story could ever have been produced in one thousand feet of film,
part of which was consumed by sub-titles and inserts. Of course, the
sub-titles and inserts _helped_ to tell the story in those days, just
as they do now, but even so, the comparatively small amount of footage
allowed to each picture seems even less than it actually was in the
light of the five- to eight-thousand feet and more to which we expect
feature pictures to run today.
The fact remains, however, that for several years one-reel pictures
were the rule; and a still more important fact, considered from the
standpoint of the writer, is that many--a great many--of the stories
that were then confined to one thousand feet of film were far better
_stories_, if not quite so pleasing as _pictures_, than many that are
now being put out in lengths of five-thousand feet or more and labeled
as features.
The reason is clear; there simply could not be a clearer or more
undeniable reason: When a story had to be told in one thousand
feet--perhaps a few feet less than that, but never a foot more--it had
to be _all story_, all meat. "Padding" was a thing quite unknown in
1909. The wonder was that so much story could be crowded into so few
feet of film. Good as was the Famous Players five-reel production of
Dumas' "Monte Cristo"--judged by the standards of the year in which it
was released--a great many people who saw it were struck by the fact
that this feature production had very little more actual story in it
than had the carefully condensed one-reel version of the same
novel-play that was put out by the Selig Company in 1908. What it did
have was more detail, and a great deal more opportunity for pictorial
effects. The one-reel Selig release gave every essential detail of
the romance, with the necessary explanatory inserts in the way of
leaders, letters, etc. The Famous Players feature production gave
the essential details plus innumerable details that were by no
means essential--although very effective as helps to a better
understanding of the locale, the period in history, and the author's
characterization.
The Famous Players "Monte Cristo," however, was not, at any point,
"padded." It might have been two reels longer--and probably would have
been three reels longer had it been produced a little later--without
giving too much of the wealth of picture-material contained in the
complete story of Edmond Dantes. We mention these two pictures solely
for the purpose of drawing a comparison between the kind of stories
put out in 1908 and those that were beginning to appear about six
years later. But "padding"--the filling up of the picture with
non-essential and often very extraneous details or pictorial
effects--has steadily increased with the yearly increase of the
so-called "features," and has unquestionably been responsible for the
falling-off in interest among countless former photoplay "fans." They
have gone into the theatres expecting to see a "big star" in a "big
story"--and have come out after having seen only the "big star." Just
who is responsible for this very unsatisfactory state of affairs it is
sometimes hard to say. Occasionally the story, if written by an
"outside" writer, is lacking in plot-material in the first place, and,
having been purchased on account of its having, none the less, several
good situations, is allowed to go into production without being built
up in plot (which is quite another thing from "padding") by one of the
studio staff-writers. Or it may be that, the logical length of that
particular story being five thousand feet, the director lets it run on
for another reel, or even two, in order to be able to work in several
hundred feet of quite unnecessary close-ups of the female "lead," who
chances to be his wife, and whose popularity he is naturally anxious
to maintain. This actually has happened; but even a conscientious and
otherwise artistic director may occasionally "stretch a picture out a
little" in order to take advantage of the beautiful natural locations
of the part of the country in which he is working.
All these things being so, it becomes more and more the duty of the
author to see that his story _has_ plenty of _story_. Give the
director a strong, well-developed plot and he will have far less
opportunity and much less excuse for introducing anything that will be
in the nature of padding. Moreover, so evident is it that photoplay
audiences have come to recognize the padded story when one is shown,
that the producers have started to call a halt on this foolish
practice, and as a result stories accepted from the outside are
closely scrutinized to see if they are full length in actual material.
So far as any special rules in connection with the writing of the
feature picture is concerned, there are really none--unless the
admonition to try to make a five-reel story five times as interesting
and five times as cleverly plotted as a one-reel story may be called
a rule. In other words, the writer who can turn out a salable
synopsis for a one-reel story ought to be able to write an equally
good synopsis for a five-reel feature; and similarly, if you can write
the continuity for a one-reel story--if you can write a single-reel
scenario of the kind that would have been acceptable in any studio a
few years ago--you undoubtedly can write a five-reel continuity that
is up to the technical standard demanded by those companies that
accept complete scripts today. And of course the same applies to the
"synopsis only" script.
The one thing that you cannot do, unless you are actually on the staff
of a certain company, is obvious, and has been referred to in the
chapter on "The Synopsis": You cannot write any story with the
certainty that it will be entirely unchanged after being accepted for
production. Any one of a dozen very good reasons may demand that some
alteration, addition to or elimination of certain scenes or parts of
scenes in your story must take place while it is in the director's
hands. There is a vast difference between the necessary changes
carefully made by an artistic and painstaking director and the
indiscriminate slashing to pieces of a writer's story common among a
certain variety of directors in the past. Fortunately for the writer,
this class of director is rapidly being outlawed, and the
photoplaywright should write at all times in the confident belief that
his perfect-as-he-can-make-it story will be adequately "put on" by a
director who knows his business and is, as Mr. Merwin says, an
interpreter of the author's plot.
We need only repeat here one other thing that we said in Chapter VIII:
No matter what the length of the story, today, it is always run
through--in all but the very smallest and most out-of-the-way theatres
and towns respectively--without interruption, because two projecting
machines are used, and another reel is started as soon as one
finishes, there being no perceptible break in the action on the
screen. For this reason, if you are writing a five-reel feature-story
with, say, forty scenes to a reel, you start with Scene 1 and number
straight through to Scene 200. There should be a series of rising
climaxes, but no special forward-looking climax exactly at the end of
each thousand feet.
Also, of course, it is quite unnecessary to have an equal number of
scenes to each part. The action of your first reel--more or less
introductory--may demand only thirty or thirty-five scenes, whereas
when your story gets to moving rapidly you may see the necessity for
running up the number of scenes by introducing several short scenes,
or "flashes."
_17. Serials_
We advise a rereading of the definition of the term "serials" given in
Chapter III. In addition to what is there said, it may be stated that,
as a rule, it is best not to write a complete serial--even though only
in synopsis form--unless you have what is beyond question a sure
market. As a matter of fact, most serials are written at present by
big-name writers of fiction--such as Arthur B. Reeve--or "inside"
writers, such as George B. Seitz, who has been responsible for
several successful Pathé serials. The comparatively few "outside"
writers who have "made good" with serials follow the plan of writing
the synopsis of the first four or five episodes (which in film form
would mean eight or ten reels), which they submit for the editor's
approval in the regular way. If the editor likes the idea, or theme,
of the story, and thinks it would make a successful picture, he will
commission you to finish it. Four or five episodes of well-planned,
suspense-holding plot will be sufficient to assure him that you are
capable of keeping up the same speed and making the story consistently
interesting all through.
To reiterate what was also pointed out in the definition in Chapter
III, you must bear in mind that while the end of each separate reel in
an ordinary feature need not end with a forward-looking climax, the
end of each _episode_ in a photoplay serial _must_ be a climax of a
most thrilling nature, or, at any rate, must be such a climax as will
greatly excite the interest of the spectator and insure his coming to
the theatre when the next episode is shown. The serial photoplay is
exactly like the well-written and carefully edited serial story of
fiction. Judged from the box-office viewpoint, the supreme test of a
good photoplay serial is its ability to keep the same spectators
coming to the theatre where it is being run week after week.
What has been said as to the thrilling climax at the end of each
episode, or chapter, must not be interpreted as meaning that a mere
thrilling _situation_ is all that is required. In the boys'
story-papers of a few years ago, referred to in our discussion of the
cut-back, the hero was frequently left hanging over the edge of the
cliff, or tied to the railroad track, or waiting for the timed fuse to
reach the keg of powder. These situations in themselves were
sufficient to make juvenile readers wait anxiously for seven whole
days in order to find out what would happen "in our next." It has been
demonstrated, however, that what holds the attention of the photoplay
spectator, young or old, is the mystery connected with the story, and
it is the solving of this mystery that must constantly be kept in
mind. "Who is the masked stranger?" "Who is the owner of the
mysterious clutching hand," "Who is the mysterious and ominous
personage who inevitably sends a telephone message of warning when
about to strike down a new victim?" These are the questions that keep
them guessing from week to week and draw them back to witness every
episode. Your climax may be a thrilling situation--should be, in
fact--but it must also be a definite way-station on the journey to the
point of discovery.
While there is still a great deal of absolute nonsense--viewed from
any standpoint of common sense and logic--in most photoplay serials,
and while the long-drawn-out mystery is often made possible only by
the introduction of weird and unnatural happenings not even possible
in real life, there is now a tendency toward serials more true to life
and more dependent for their success upon plots that will stand the
acid test of logical reasoning. The very fact that each separate
episode, with its various situations in the working out of the
mystery, had to be depended upon to draw the crowds back again to see
the next episode, was taken as sufficient excuse for the introduction
of situations that would make the wildest exploits of "Diamond Dick"
or "Old King Brady" read like the Sunday-school stories of a
generation ago.
The Wharton serial, "The Eagle's Eye," already referred to, was the
first in which historical facts were reproduced in their logical
order, held together and made more interesting by a veneer of fiction.
The fictional head of the Criminology Club and the daring woman Secret
Service operative seemed almost to be secondary characters compared to
the much-talked-about agents of the Imperial German Government whose
nefarious acts made so much trouble for the American detectives and
Secret Service agents headed by ex-Chief Flynn, under whose
supervision the serial was made.
The future holds out immense possibilities for producers and writers
of thoroughly good photoplay serials. Whereas in the past many serials
were to be seen only in the second-rate houses, on account of the fact
that their impossibly thrilling situations and weird plots appealed
only to the juvenile and less intelligent spectators, now with the
improvement in the _stories_ of serial pictures has come an increase
in the spectators who follow them up, and a consequent introduction of
serials into theatres where at one time nothing of the kind would have
been tolerated.
In conclusion, it may be said that for purposes of plot-study the
photoplay serial can hardly be surpassed. Good, bad or indifferent,
every photoplay serial reveals a sheer ingenuity of plotting that is a
genuine inspiration to the writer of often better material. And a
careful following-up and study of a _good_ serial is a liberal
photoplay-writing education in itself.
_18. Final Points_
More and more, in those--all too few--studios where full scripts are
desired, the directors of ability and intelligence are welcoming the
help extended by the author--if the author himself is known to be a
finished workman. Elsewhere we have quoted Mr. Bannister Merwin, who,
long before he became one himself, held that the director was
rightfully an interpreter--a reader of and builder from the blue
print--of the author. Mr. Merwin was also one of the first
photoplaywrights to submit what might be called a fully elaborated
script--one in which every scene was so carefully worked out that the
_motive_ behind every action of every character was made absolutely
plain. Notwithstanding the greater length of such a scenario, or
continuity, its advantages are emphatic, and directors are, as has
been said, approving it more and more as they learn that the author's
intention is to assist--to insure a proper interpretation of his
thought--and not merely to try to teach the director his business. The
script that opens up a way into the very heart of the character so
that the actors and the director may be guided in interpreting it, is
certainly vastly superior, in that regard at least, to the scenario
which concerns itself chiefly with external action. Motives and the
whole inner life of the man, set down clearly and briefly, are in the
last degree valuable in showing what a character really is and _why_
he does what he does.
_Conciseness._--But this desirable sort of scenario elaboration
MUST NOT lead to over-expansion. Brevity and conciseness are
not necessarily one, any more than are fullness and prolixity. Be
concise--cut close to the line; having started your action by setting
forth a basic incident at once interesting and plausible, keep the
wheels of your story in motion, letting it accumulate speed as it runs
on, and never slow down until after the climax has been passed. Keep
your eye--your "picture eye"--on your characters as they move about
and carry out the actions which you have planned to have them perform;
but describe those actions, as well as the motives which actuate them,
in just as few words as possible. Do not trifle with the tendency to
be wordy, or even to introduce too many scenes.
The time is rapidly coming when the production of a photoplay will
mean the earnest and intelligent coöperation of the author, editor,
and director. But there is a very decided difference between including
in the paragraphs of action everything really necessary to the proper
understanding of the motives actuating the different characters and
the indiscriminate introduction of extraneous details that neither
assist in telling the story nor help in making it interesting.
_Over-Condensation._--On the other side of the golden middle-ground
lies the weakness of too great brevity, and this is the very fault
that some otherwise good writers at times permit themselves to
display. Their plots are strong, and their work is so well and
favorably known that their scripts are accepted; but because they have
over-condensed it becomes necessary for the editor or director to add
to the business of a certain character, or possibly to devise
explanatory inserts. Too little is worse than too much. In many cases
it is the writer's failure to include a few words describing a bit of
by-play or a short piece of business that makes the scenario faulty,
even though it may find a grudging acceptance.
_The Number of Words._--The question has frequently been asked by
amateur writers: "How many words are there in a full-reel
photoplay--what is the average number of words to a scene?" and so on.
No such consideration as the number of words in a script enters into
the production of a motion-picture drama. "Photoplays are put on,"
said one prominent producer, "with a stop-watch in one hand and a
yard-stick in the other." It is the number of feet of film used, and
not the number of words contained in the scenario, with which the
director is concerned. There can be absolutely no set rule--in from
ten to fifteen words you may say all that is necessary in the
description of a scene that will use up three hundred feet of film.
Another scene which consumes one hundred feet may require five times
as many words, or more, to make perfectly clear to the director a
short but very important bit of business. If you leave out the
non-essentials, you will save on the number of words, but you should
never hesitate to tell all that is necessary in order to make clear
the motives and actions of your characters.
_Simple, Clear English._--The scenario is really nothing more than the
synopsis rewritten in detail and divided into scenes. Observe that the
paragraphs of action are written in the present tense to help YOU keep
the action simple and vivid and PRESENT. Absolutely nothing is to be
gained by attempted "fine writing," yet it is true that the best-paid
writers today are for the most part the ones who are giving attention
to clearness and precision of detail and description when writing the
third division of their scripts. But description does not mean
hifaluting word painting--_it means clear, concise setting forth of
exactly what a thing is_.
_The Uselessness of Dialogue._--Dialogue, naturally, is out of place
in the scenario. If Frank asks Ethel where she hid the letter, and she
replies by opening a volume which she takes from the bookcase and
taking it out, that is all that is necessary. Do not write a line of
dialogue which tells just what Frank says to her, except as may be
required for an occasional cut-in leader. Neither is it necessary to
say what words of hers accompany the action of taking the letter from
the book where it has been concealed. Yet there is one way in which
dialogue may serve a useful purpose in writing the scenario. If by
writing a single phrase you can tell the _editor_ and the _director_
as much as you could by writing several lines of action, there is no
reason why you should not use the line--not as dialogue, however, but
as stage directions.[20]
[Footnote 20: Note the introduction of occasional bits of dialogue in
the "action" portion of the O. Henry story in Chapter XX.]
_Exterior Backgrounds Valuable._--In planning your scenario remember
that for scenes that do not positively demand indoor settings it is
best to provide an exterior background, or location. No matter how
well provided with scenery a studio may be there is always a certain
amount of time lost in erecting sets. Even though the director does
not take the scenes in the order in which they are written, he will be
able to save a great deal of time if, between the scene that is done
in the library and the one enacted in the court-room, he can take his
people out and get three or four, or even more, scenes in the open
air, where the setting is ready for him. Carefully plan every scene
_before you write it_, and see, for instance, if Dick could not
propose to Stella in the garden, or on a bench in the park, just as
well as he could in the drawing room or in the ball-room. Help
yourself to more sales by helping the director to easier work.
_Human Interest._--In the Biograph photoplay, "Three Friends,"
previously referred to in this chapter, there was one short scene that
was especially effective--one of those human-interest bits that are
characteristic of photoplays that sell. After the arrival of the two
men, and the reconciliation between the foreman and the young woman's
husband, the former hurries the latter off to the factory, promising
to "give him back his job." The third friend hangs behind, and,
realizing that the wife is without money to buy food, hands her a
banknote. She hesitates to take it; but he, noticing the revolver
which she now holds, takes it from her and thrusts the money into her
hand in its place, indicating that he is only buying the "gun" from
her. The woman smiles gratefully, and the kind-hearted friend hurries
out after the other two men.
It will pay the student to remember all the little human touches of
this kind that he sees in the photoplays of others, and, while by no
means copying them, try to work into his own stories bits of similar
value.
Human interest must be woven in the plot, and not thrown in in chunks.
As for how to do it, "Each mind," says Emerson, "has its own method. A
true man never acquires after college rules." But of one thing make
sure: Plan your human appeal from the start, so that the actual climax
may loom up distinctly from the time you write your very first scene.
As Jean Paul has said, "The end we aim at must be known before the
way."
In conclusion, we offer a short catechism that the writer will do well
to consult before sending out his script:
Is my plot really fresh?
Could it be called a colorable imitation of any magazine story, book,
or play?
Is it strong enough?
Is it logical?
Does it suit the time of year?
Is the plot not only possible but _probable?_
Is the material desired by the producer to whom I am sending it?
Does the company make that style of story?
Are the points properly brought out, that others may see them as I do?
Can I make it better by altering it?
Will it pass the Censors?
Even if it does, will it offend even one spectator?
Do the synopsis and scenario match properly, or have I hinted at
action in my synopsis which is not adequately worked out in the
continuity? On the other hand, does the synopsis tell everything that
happens in the scenario?
Is it impracticable for the camera?
Have I introduced scenes that would cost too much to produce?
Is the cast too small?
Is it too large?
Finally, some anonymous writer has said: "Don't let go of your script
until you are positive that you have made every detail clear, that
your layout of scenes has told the story in self-explanatory action,
and that you have answered every prospective 'Why?'"
CHAPTER XI
THE SCENE-PLOT AND ITS PURPOSE
It has been said in an earlier chapter that it is optional with the
writer whether to submit a scene-plot with his complete script;
nevertheless, we believe that it is advisable.
_1. Why Prepare a Scene-Plot_
The reason is a plain one: Until the writer has become known as a
professional, it is the spirit in which the scene-plot is sent rather
than its actual value to either editor or director that counts in his
favor. It indicates his willingness to help both these busy men so far
as lies in his power; further, it shows that he is willing to do at
the beginning of his career that which he would never for a moment
think of leaving undone after his complete scripts are once in demand;
but, most of all, it shows that he has enough confidence in his work
to believe that--provided the story is acceptable--it will be produced
essentially as he has planned it.
Naturally, it often happens that the director adds scenes to those
planned by the author, and even oftener some of the author's scenes
are cut out; in either case, however, so much of the scene-plot as
remains unchanged will have its value. The author may feel that the
director's alterations are unwarranted, but that functionary rarely
makes additions or cuts unless he works an improvement.
The writer sends the scene-plot along so that, in case no drastic
changes are necessary, the director may have all ready his list of
scenes arranged in proper chronological order. From these he will
prepare his regular scene-plot diagram, which the carpenters and
mechanics will use in building the scenery, and by which the stage
hands and property men will be guided in setting the scenes and
placing the furniture and other "props."
_2. The Scene-Plot Explained_
Let us now explain the difference between the _only kind of scene-plot
with which the photoplaywright is concerned_ and that which the
director means when he uses the same term.
Practically all directors have had experience as theatrical producers,
or stage directors, or stage managers, before entering the
moving-picture field. What is known as a scene-plot in regular
theatrical work is a list of the various scenes, or sets, showing
where the different "hanging pieces" (drops, cut-drops, fog drops,
foliage, fancy, kitchen, or other borders) are hung, and how all the
various pieces of scenery that are handled on the floor of the stage,
as wood and rock wings, "set" pieces, "flats," and "runs," are to be
arranged or set. Almost every stage carpenter has, in addition to
this list, a supply of printed diagrams showing the exact position on
the stage of everything handled by the "grips," or scene-shifters, as
well as the proper arrangement on the set of the furniture and larger
props. Both the list and the diagram are usually printed on one sheet,
and this, known as the scene-plot, is sent ahead to the stage managers
of the theatres in the next towns to be played. At the same time, a
"property plot," being simply a list, act by act, of the various props
not carried by the company, is sent to the property man of the house.
Now, the principal difference between the regular and the
moving-picture stage is that, in making photoplays, _natural_
exteriors are used, in almost every case. Consequently, landscape and
other exterior drops are almost unknown in moving-picture work. As
actual drops they _are_ unknown; when such painted backgrounds are
used, they are usually painted on canvas or a sort of heavy cardboard,
which is stretched over or tacked to a solid framework. So that even
in making out his working scene-plot diagram, a director finds that
there are many technical terms which he constantly used in his
theatrical work but seldom or never employs in his capacity of
photoplay producer. Nevertheless, he still uses a scene-plot diagram,
drawing it himself on regular printed forms.
As may be gathered from the foregoing, the scene-plot diagram for a
photoplay setting is entirely different from the diagram of the
setting for a scene on the regular stage. The former shows, printed,
the comparative shape and dimensions of the "stage," and gives, in
figures, the depth of the stage and the distance from the camera to
the "working line," below which (toward the camera) an actor must not
step if he wishes his feet, therefore his whole body, to show in the
picture.
To say "the depth of the stage" is to say that the printed diagram is
marked off in a scale of feet from the camera's focus. The figures at
the right side of the sheet indicate the distance in feet from the
camera, while those at the left show the width of the field, or range
of the camera lens, at different distances. Only that portion of each
piece of furniture which is marked a solid black in the diagram is
supposed to show in the picture. Thus half of a table may be "in" and
half "out" of a picture, or scene. This diagram-form is made out by
the director for virtually every set that shows an interior scene, and
he frequently draws one also for exteriors, where a building, or even
what appears in the picture to be a complete, permanent structure, is
set up by the carpenters and mechanics out of doors. Such a scene-plot
diagram is reproduced at the end of this chapter.
The scene-plot which you as a photoplay author are called upon to
prepare, however, is simply a list of the scenes used in working out
your scenario. Here you must distinguish between "scene" and "set" (or
setting) in photoplay writing. We know that the scene is changed every
time that the camera is moved. One scene or ten may be taken, or
"done," in the same set--that is, a half-dozen scenes might be taken
successively in a business office without changing the set at all.
Therefore, although you have two hundred _scenes_ in your five-reel
scenario, only twenty _sets_ may be needed in which to play them.
_3. How Scenes and Sets Are Photographed_
We know that a scene is ended when the cameraman stops "grinding;" we
understand, also, that a change of setting is brought about by moving
the camera, even though, in the case of taking two exterior scenes,
the camera is only moved enough to take in a new "stage" three or four
feet to either side of that shown in the last scene.
The word "scene" seems to be a stumbling block for some beginners.
Take for example the setting showing the bedroom in the ranch house,
as listed in the scene-plot of "Without Reward," and given in this
chapter. In doing the five scenes that take place in that room, Scene
4 would be taken, the camera would be stopped, and, in some studios, a
large white card with the figure "9" painted on it in black would be
held a few feet in front of the lens. About a foot of film would then
be exposed, which would thus register the number _of the next scene_
to be taken in the same set.[21] Then Scene 9 would be done. This
scene being ended, the numbering-of-the-scene process would be
repeated, the next scene being number 17. Then, in turn, would come
scenes 28 and 30--or, rather, although listed on the scene-plot as two
scenes, 28 and 30 would really be photographed as one unbroken scene,
for, as a glance at the scene-plot will show, Scene 29 is a bust
scene, which means that the film would be cut at the proper place
after the scene had been taken, thus dividing it into two scenes,
separated by Scene 29 in the finished photoplay.
[Footnote 21: Different studios have different methods for recording
the number of the next scene to be taken. Some use the numbered card
system--as explained in the body of the text--in which a stand, or
tripod, having a rack on top with cards numbered from 1 to 50, and
other cards marked "Retake," etc., is placed on the working line
between each scene. In other studios the film itself is marked with
the number of the scene, just as one writes the name of a picture on
the film when using an "Autographic Kodak" camera.]
[Illustration: The Reception of King Robert of Sicily by His Brother,
the Pope--a Historical Photoplay Produced in the Essanay Studio,
Chicago]
[Illustration: Same Set, with Players Getting Ready for Action. The
Three Poplar Trees are Real, while the Rest of the Background is a
Painted Drop]
Now, since Scene 30 is the last to be taken in the bedroom setting,
let us suppose that the setting showing the interior of the sheriff's
office is standing on the studio floor right next to the bedroom set.
The camera is merely shifted over and set up as required to take the
two scenes (24 and 26) done successively in that set, and the same
process is gone through that was followed in making the five scenes in
the bedroom.
This, then, is the one thing that the photoplaywright must remember:
All the _scenes_ that are to take place in one _setting_ or location
are made before the camera is moved an inch, and, in one way or
another, according to the particular studio, the film is marked after
each scene so as to show the number of the scene coming next. The
reason is plain: because scenes 28 and 30 (which are subsequently
divided by the bust picture) and scenes 4, 9 and 17, are all done in
the same set, if the camera were not stopped and the film marked
before each new scene with the number of that scene, the operators in
the cutting room, where the different parts of the film are assembled,
would--unless guided by the director--mistake _all_ that part of the
film showing the bedroom setting for one unbroken scene.
_4. How Scene-Plots Are Handled by Directors_
The scene-plot for the writer's story, "Without Reward," just referred
to, follows:
Exterior of Sheriff's office, main street of town, 1, 23.
Dr. Turner's office, 2.
Exterior, Freeman and Doctor riding to ranch, 3.
Bedroom in ranch house, 4, 9, 17, 28, 30.
Corner of ranch house, looking toward stable, 5, 7, 16, 22,
27, 31.
Exterior, supposedly at distance from, but within sight of,
Ranch, 6.
Kitchen of ranch house, 8, 10, 32.
At door of stable, 11.
Foothill trail, 12.
Rocky part of hillside, showing entrance to cave in side of
cliff, 13, 15.
Interior of cave, 14.
Exterior, Steve riding to town, 18.
Road on outskirts of town, 19.
Same road, farther on, 20.
Exterior of Dr. Turner's house, 21.
Interior of Sheriff's office, 24, 26.
Rear of Sheriff's office, showing corner of building and
side wall, 25.
Bust of Jess's right hand, holding photograph, 29.
Here, it will be seen, there are four interior and thirteen exterior
sets, or backgrounds. Scene 14, the interior of the cave, was counted
as an exterior when giving the number of interior and exterior sets
following the title in writing the synopsis. This was because,
although in the picture it would appear to be taken inside a rocky
cave, the chances are that it would really be made in some recess of a
rocky cliff-side, where there would be enough light to make the
photography distinct, without allowing the rays of the sun to cast any
shadows that would make it seem unnatural, since the cave was
supposedly dimly illumined from the daylight outside. At any rate, it
would not be a studio setting--whether the stage was an indoor or an
open-air one--so it would be classed as an exterior.
After the cameraman had taken Scene 3, which shows Freeman and the
Doctor riding to the ranch, he could probably find a suitable
background for the scene showing Steve riding toward the town, by
merely turning his camera half way around. Thus Scene 18 might be
taken after Scene 3; after which, by again moving the camera only a
short distance, a suitable spot might be found in which to take Scene
12. Scenes 19 and 20 were intended to be taken on a fairly well-kept
piece of roadway, supposedly on the outskirts of the town, and it
might be necessary to travel some distance to find the desired spot.
So it will be seen that the order in which the scenes are written has
nothing to do with the order in which they will be taken. Scene 29,
so called, is really a part of Scene 28, being simply a bust of the
girl's hand holding a photograph. The words written on the back of
this picture have an important bearing on the action which follows;
therefore it is important that they should be read by the spectators.
So, the much enlarged bust picture is introduced, in which, as has
been explained in the preceding chapter, the hand with the photograph
is held so close to the camera that when the picture is shown on the
screen the writing is easily read. In writing out the scene-plot,
never omit mentioning the bust picture, if one is used, and give it a
number as if it were a distinct interior or exterior, but when giving
the total number of interior and total number of exterior settings
(which follows your title in writing the synopsis), do not include it
as being either one or the other. It is not even necessary to say "One
bust picture." On the other hand, close-ups are regarded as regular
interior or exterior scenes, and must be counted as such and so
mentioned when giving the number of scenes, as described.
_5. How the Director Provides the Sets_
The director having gone over the author's scene-plot to aid him in
preparing his own diagrams of the various settings, it is merely
necessary, so far as the exteriors are concerned, to go out himself,
or send out his assistant, to pick the natural settings required. In
fact, in most modern studios, an elaborate card index system of
listing locations, sometimes situated miles from the studio, is
maintained. Unless an exterior scene calls for a log cabin, church
front, or some building of special construction other than such real
buildings as may be easily found in the neighborhood of, or within a
reasonably short distance from, the producing plant, he does not have
to draw a special diagram-plot for the scene. Even when a new building
is needed, it is only necessary to instruct the carpenters to build,
say, a log cabin of a certain size on the location he points out, with
a door, windows, etc., as determined by him for the requirements of
the scene.
With the interior scenes it is different. The sets for these are
planned by the director to obtain the very best stage- and scenic
effects possible from the standpoints of architecture, lighting, and
arrangement of properties.
_6. The Director_
A first-class company will employ from four to ten, or even twelve,
directors. Frequently a new director is recruited from among the
actors in the stock company. "Director" and "producer" mean
practically the same thing in photoplay parlance; a man will _direct_
the acting of the players while engaged in _producing_ a picture. As a
rule, if a man is known as a "dramatic" director, he adheres to that
kind of work, just as a first-class comedy man will seldom touch any
other kind of production.
There is always a certain amount of friendly competition among the
directors in any studio, since they constantly vie with each other in
obtaining the most artistic settings for the various scenes of their
respective stories.
_7. Writing the Scene-Plot_
The actual writing of the scene-plot should come after the scenario
has been completed. One way of doing it is to go over the scenario and
write out the various settings, and then give the numbers of the
scenes played in each. This, however, is a very roundabout and
tiresome method. The best and simplest way is to keep a slip of paper,
similar to the one on which you make note of the characters when
writing the cast, and jot down the settings as you come to them,
adding the number of the scene. In this way as you work on the
scenario you have before you a list of every setting used, and can see
at a glance what scenes are played in each different setting. Then
when your scenario is finished you have simply to slip a fresh sheet
of paper into your typewriter and make a neat copy of the complete
scene-plot. As a safeguard, it is better, before recopying, to check
up so as to make sure that you have every scene accounted for, by
counting from "one" to whatever may be the number of your last scene.
In writing the scene-plot it is only necessary to give a list of the
exterior and the interior settings; at the same time, it is sometimes
advisable, especially in the case of exterior scenes, to add a few
words that will help the director to understand just what the setting
is intended to be without having to refer to the scenario, where such
details would naturally appear.
The following example is selected from the scene-plot of "Sun, Sand
and Solitude," a scene-plot diagram from which we reproduce on a
succeeding page. The theme of this story is the discontent of a young
wife, caused by seeing, month in and month out, the sun-baked
stretches of the Arizona desert.
Exterior, showing desert, 17. For this scene, select an
extremely barren and unpleasing bit of desert landscape.
Another exterior, 24. A stretch of desert landscape; if
anything, more barren and solitary than 17.
Another exterior, 28. While still typical desert landscape,
it is much less barren and desolate than either 17 or 24.
There is no law of writing, and no studio rule, to compel you to do
any of these little things to help a busy editor or an earnest
director, but, just because they are busy men, why not try to help
them? So long as the "help" is not overdone, and is intelligent,
clear, and concise, it is sure to help your script toward an
acceptance.
[Illustration: [diagram]]
The scene-plot diagram reproduced on the opposite page is
the author's original diagram for the "Living room of ranch
house" setting in his photoplay, "Sun, Sand and Solitude."
With a little study of this diagram the reader will be able
to judge just how the scene would appear in the picture on
the screen. Of course, it is neither customary nor necessary
to send such a diagram as this when you are submitting your
script. There is a possibility, however, that the producer
might use the author's diagram as a guide in preparing that
particular setting, should the photoplaywright send one
similar to the one here reproduced.
The dotted lines show the dimensions of the enlarged stage
for special very large sets. Since the line _E_ represents
the background of this enlarged stage, it will be seen that
it is almost twice as wide as the background for the
interior setting here shown. By "background" is meant the
space on the diagram between _B_ and _D_, not the "desert
backing," which, if the scene were taken inside the studio,
would be simply a painted background, taking the place of
the "drop" which would be used on the regular stage. It will
be noticed that, although there are a couple of steps
leading to the veranda, there is only one post indicated on
the diagram. This, of course, is because a post at the other
side of the steps is unnecessary, that point being "masked"
by the piece of scenery representing the back wall of the
room. The open door shows a portion of the veranda railing
and the post on the left of the steps. As the scenario
shows, Dean is carried up these steps, and into the bedroom
on the left, after he has been thrown from his horse. To the
right of the door, and looking out upon the veranda, is a
bay window, forming a window-seat. Attention is called to
the fact that what is so frequently called a "bay window"
is, properly, a "bow window," the three sides of a bay
window being at right angles to each other. The sideboard at
the right of the stage is absolutely essential to the climax
of the plot, though only half of it--enough to show the
upper left-hand drawer distinctly--need appear in the
picture.
CHAPTER XII
THE USE AND ABUSE OF LEADERS, LETTERS AND OTHER INSERTS
A full reel contains approximately one thousand feet of film. The
ordinary five-reel feature is therefore somewhat less than five
thousand feet in length. With far less stress laid upon the admonition
to "Make your leaders and inserts brief" than formerly, the writer
still must keep in mind the fact that the major portion of a
five-thousand-foot film must be devoted to _scenes_--to action which
the spectator merely watches--and that the inserts, of whatever
nature, must never be allowed to crowd this action-part of the
picture.
At the same time, any story with the average amount of
plot-complication can be told--the action-portion, that is, can be
fully worked out--in from 3,800 to slightly over 4,000 feet; which
means that something less than one thousand feet of film may be, and
frequently is, given up to the various inserts.
This matter of footage is one which demands the attention of both
director and cameraman. On the side of the motion-picture camera is an
indicator, by which is computed the exact number of feet exposed each
time the cameraman turns the handle. At the conclusion of each scene
the director cries "Cut!" The cameraman stops turning, looks at the
indicator, and announces "Seventy-five!" or whatever the number of
feet used. In some cases it is necessary to take the scene again,
altering the "business" slightly or hurrying the action a little to
reduce the footage consumed in a certain scene. A point worth noting
is that the director can seldom figure in advance the exact amount of
footage a certain scene will require--even after it has been rehearsed
and timed several times; whereas he _can_ always tell the exact number
of feet he must give to each of the various inserts, because "insert
footage" is reckoned in advance, a certain number of feet being
allowed for each word.
Photoplay audiences have gradually been educated up to an appreciation
of sub-titles, or leaders, when they are all that they ought to be (a
point which we shall presently discuss); and less attention is paid to
the rather selfish cry of the illiterates in the audience who insist
that "they came to look at pictures, and not to read a book." As one
of the most prominent theatre managers in San Francisco recently said
in the _Motion Picture News_: "In many pictures the big scene is 'put
over' by a sub-title. The wording of a sub-title in a big situation
can make or break a picture, and it is therefore false economy to
allow this work to be done by any person other than one with real
literary talent, who is thoroughly conversant with the art of
expression."
We have already pointed out that in most studios the work of writing
leaders and inserts is now attended to by one specialist--the
"sub-title editor," as he is usually called. Just as much care is put
into the preparation of everything in the nature of an insert as
attends the making of the scenes of the picture.
_1. Why Inserts Are Used_
Before the advent of pictures of five and more reels, with their
consequent greater room for inserted matter in addition to the
necessary scenes, the general opinion was that the perfect photoplay
had no leaders and needed none. Certainly, such a picture would be
ideal if a photoplay were to be a motion picture and nothing more than
that, since it would be so perfectly acted and so self-explanatory
that no inserted explanation of any kind would be necessary.
Practically, however, the only photoplay that can be made without the
aid of at least a few leaders or other inserts--that is, that can be
nothing but pictured action--is one on the order of the Vitagraph
Company's one-reel release of several years ago, "Jealousy," in which
the entire picture was made in a single set. In it Miss Florence
Turner was the only actor, telling the whole story clearly,
coherently, and with strong dramatic force, and making every phase of
the plot clear, the only outside assistance she received being the
momentary appearance of two other hands than her own--a man's and a
woman's--through the curtains covering the doorway. This, of course,
was pure pantomime, and most artistically performed; the woman's every
thought, so to say, was portrayed, and understood by the spectator as
if the play were accompanied by a printed synopsis of the story.
But it would seem to be impossible to produce a photoplay having
changes of scene, plot complications, from six to a dozen or more
characters, and lapses of action-time between the different scenes,
without employing any inserts. Even in a small group of scenes it is
often extremely difficult to make a certain important point in the
action "register"--that is, show the spectator what is in the minds of
the characters as the scene is worked out. In such a case, even though
the scenario as planned by the author does not contain an insert at
that point, the director may deem it advisable to introduce one to
make the situation clear. The use of inserts, then, is necessary.
_2. The Over-Use of Inserts_
The over-use of them, on the contrary, is not only entirely
unnecessary but a positive drawback to the director, and frequently
one of the reasons why an unavailable manuscript is returned to the
writer. A good rule is to employ inserts only when it is impossible to
progress and still make every point of your plot clear and effective
without their aid. This need for an insert of some sort at a given
point may be inherent in the material and therefore desirable as well
as needful, but do not admit such a necessity without serious thought.
Ingenuity accomplishes wonders. Remember, the use of a leader is in
most cases a frank confession that you are incapable of "putting over"
a point in the development of your plot solely by the action in the
scenes--you must call in outside assistance, as it were. A scenario
written by a novice often contains many leaders which he considers
necessary to tell his story, yet the same plot in the hands of a
trained writer could be made into a photoplay with many less
sub-titles. Like fire, the leader is a good servant but a bad master.
Once you discover that you are getting into the habit of introducing
an explanatory insert before almost every scene, it is time to remodel
your idea of what constitutes proper technique.
But when a leader can be used to advantage, do not hesitate to insert
it--it has a distinct value and that value must not be despised. True,
_any_ leader halts the action because it destroys the illusion to some
extent, and diverts the attention from the picture to the explanatory
words. But it is also true that it puts the mind of the spectator in a
mood to accept and appreciate the action which is to follow.
Therefore, use the leader, or any other insert--_discreetly_.
We have repeatedly advised the would-be photoplaywright to study the
pictures as he sees them on the screen, and to gain therefrom a
knowledge of what is required by the manufacturers. At this point,
however, we would warn writers _not_ to copy the example of certain
companies whose pictures are nearly always overloaded with sub-titles
which appear to have been introduced for no other reason than to
afford the sub-title editor an opportunity to do some clever writing.
Many critics have asserted--not entirely without cause--that the type
of photoplay comedy-dramas originated by Douglas Fairbanks are less
than one-half action, the rest being merely clever but often
unessential sub-titling. While this criticism is rather severe, it
cannot be denied that certain stories of the kind mentioned,
featuring this star and others, have been far too dependent for their
appeal to the spectator upon the humorous, epigrammatic sayings of the
characters. True, it is usually after leaving the theatre, and
reviewing the picture in retrospect, that the spectator realizes
that the accent has been too definitely on the sub-titling and
not enough upon the action, but when he does realize it, he feels
disappointed--and watches the next release featuring the same star to
see if it will be repeated. More than ever before, in this day of
feature photoplays, there is a constant opportunity to use leaders and
other inserts with telling effect. The point simply is that with more
leeway than the writer has ever been given before, you should learn to
take advantage of every shining opportunity to work in a really
effective sub-title, while constantly guarding against the temptation
to introduce one on the slightest excuse.
Let such inserts as you do use be phrased in clear, terse language.
The old example in the schoolbook, that it is simpler and therefore
better to say, "A leather apron" than, "An apron of leather," holds
good with inserts, and especially leaders. Short, clean-cut sentences
strike the eye and penetrate the mind the most quickly and
effectively. If you doubt this, look at a good advertisement. So do
not only dispense with every needless insert, but cut out from each
insert every needless word.
_3. The Danger of Over-Compression_
In cutting, do not go too far. Use enough words to be clear and
definite. Vagueness is an abomination and confusing pronouns make an
author as ridiculous as his scene is unintelligible. Remember that the
leader is shown on the screen for only a moment, and it is for you to
assist the spectator by making your leader so plain "not that it _may_
be understood," as Quintilian used to say, "but that it _must_ be
understood."
It is quite as possible to use too few inserts, especially leaders, as
it is to use so few words in them as to mar their meaning. Young
writers are often more eager to follow the advice of their mentors
than they are bold to use their own common-sense; and having had the
importance of brevity well pounded in, they produce scripts with the
double fault of not having enough action to make the plot clear, and
not enough inserts to help out the action.
As an example of this tendency toward over-compression, take the
script of one amateur writer. It contained a scene in which Mary, the
heroine, constantly abused by a drunken step-father, steals out of the
house at night as if about to start for some other town where she can
make her own living and be free from the step-father's abuse. In Scene
7, Mary, carrying a suit case, leaves the farm-house where she had
always lived. Scene 8 shows her "plodding wearily" along the road
leading to town. Then in Scene 9 we are back in the kitchen at the
farm-house. "The room is deserted. (Everyone supposed to be in bed.)
The door opens and Mary enters, carrying suit case, which she puts
down just inside the door. She staggers to the rocking chair and drops
wearily into it, as if completely fatigued." And so on.
On reading the script, one's natural supposition is that Mary has
thought it over while "plodding wearily" toward town, and, remembering
the comfortable bed which awaits her at the old home--even though the
next morning will bring more ill treatment at the hands of the
step-father--has returned to make the best of it. After reading three
more scenes, however, we learn that Mary had not only reached the
town, but had gone so far as "the big city," from which she had
returned after a fruitless search for work. Scene 9 is really supposed
to take place two weeks after Scene 8!
Now, laying aside the fact that no scenes are introduced to show what
happened to her after she went to the city, the script does not even
give a scene showing her boarding a train to go, so there is nothing
even to hint that Scene 9 did not take place on the same night that
Mary left home.
The point of all this is that, had this script been accepted at all,
and even had not the producer chosen to introduce any scenes showing
Mary in the city, a leader of some kind between Scenes 8 and 9 would
have been absolutely necessary. This, of course, was an amateur
script, and the whole story was impossible from the standpoint of
logic and the sequence of events; but in more than one picture that
has been shown on the screen we have noticed the omission of a leader
at a point in the action where one was very necessary, as a
consequence of which the spectator was left--for the space of two or
three scenes at least--to guess at what was what.
It is worth remembering that you are not an accomplished
photoplaywright until you can produce a story that is thoroughly
understandable _all the way through_ by action and inserts. You are a
clever writer, undoubtedly, if you can produce a "leaderless" script.
But it is no indication of cleverness merely to _leave out_ a
leader--only to find, when your story is produced, that the director
has found it necessary to add what you have simply cut out or never
put in. He is a foolish and short-sighted writer indeed who gives any
director such an opportunity to doubt his knowledge of photoplay
technique.
In this connection, let us quote Mr. Frank E. Woods, who, besides
being well known as a critic, photoplaywright, director and supervisor
of productions under Mr. David W. Griffith, is an acknowledged expert
in editing motion pictures.
"Many a picture," says Mr. Woods, "has been ruined by inadequate
sub-titles. The makers of the picture have assumed that because _they_
understood the meaning of every action, the spectators should also
understand, forgetting that the spectators will view the picture for
the first time. The moment a spectator becomes confused and loses the
sense of what he is seeing on the screen, his interest is gone. While
he is wondering 'What are they talking about now?' or 'Who is the chap
in the long coat?' or 'How did he get from the house in the woods?'
the film is being reeled off merrily and the spectator has lost the
thread of the story. Going to the other extreme and inserting
sub-titles where the meaning is perfectly obvious, or telling in
sub-titles that which is to be pictured immediately after, should also
be avoided, although pictures are sometimes criticized for having too
many titles when in fact the keen-eyed critic is the only one who
finds them too many. The average spectator is none too alert.... The
sub-title should be in complete harmony with the story and should
never divert interest from the story. It should never be obtrusive. It
should be there only because it belongs there. Therefore all
sub-titles should be couched in language that harmonizes with the
story. Every word should be weighed. Nothing should ever shock the
spectator out of his interest in the picture by its incongruity,
extravagance or inanity. Too much in a sub-title is as bad as too
little--like seasoning in a pudding. The function of the sub-title is
to supplement and correct the action of the picture, to cover lapses
in the continuity, and to supply the finer shades of meaning which the
actor has been unable to express in pantomime."[22]
[Footnote 22: "Editing a Motion Picture," by Frank E. Woods, in _The
Moving Picture World_.]
In passing, let us note one point of considerable moment.
Notwithstanding the fact that many pictures are shown in which a
leader immediately follows the title, it is much better not to arrange
it so. Let your title be followed by a scene--by action--even though
the scene be a short one. Then, if necessary, introduce your first
leader. If when the photoplay opens the title is flashed upon the
screen, and immediately a leader is shown, there is a chance that,
having taken in the title almost at a glance, the spectator may
momentarily divert his gaze and so miss your first leader, only
turning his eyes toward the screen again when he notices that a scene
is being shown. Again, even though he may be watching closely, the
spectator is seldom quite so attentive to an explanatory insert which
is shown before the opening scene as he is to one introduced later,
when he has already become interested.
Most critics are also agreed that the use of leaders introducing the
principal characters (usually accompanied by a few feet of film in
which the character named is also pictured, perhaps in the act of
bowing to the audience, or in some pose characteristic of the part he
plays) is a mistake, when such "introducing" is done before the first
scene of the story has been shown. Undoubtedly _anything_ coming
before the first scene is really out of place--so far as its being
part of the story is concerned. Again Mr. Sargent stated a fact when
he said that "What goes before the first real scene of a story is no
more a part of that story than the design-head is a part of the
fiction story. No magazine editor expects the author to be his own
artist and supply an illustrated title. Start your story with the
first scene of action, and let the director supply the preliminary
scenes [close-ups of the principals] and leaders to suit himself."
As a matter of fact, though, the very best reason for not introducing
from three to six or eight characters before the opening scene is that
by the time the story has advanced a little many of the spectators
have forgotten "who is who," whereas they have a much better
opportunity to fix a character's name and occupation--so to speak--in
their minds if that character is briefly but properly introduced at
the point of his first entrance into the action of the play. Only the
fact that we were already familiar with the faces of the contemporary
historical characters shown in such features as Ambassador Gerard's
"My Four Years in Germany" made it possible for us to keep track,
during the first few scenes in which each one appeared, of the persons
shown. No one could possibly have memorized the "panoramic" leader
giving the cast, with its thirty or more names of characters and
players.
_4. Four Special Functions of Leaders_
Properly used, leaders can accomplish four results very
satisfactorily: (a) Mark the passage of time; (b) clear up a point of
the action which could not otherwise be made to "register;" (c)
"break" a scene; and (d) prepare the mind of the spectator to enter
into the scene in the right spirit.
_(a) Marking the passage of time._ In the amateur script previously
discussed, we found the need for this use of the leader. The
introduction, between scenes 8 and 9, of a leader telling the
spectator that the events in Scene 9 were supposed to happen "Two
weeks later" than those taking place in Scene 8, would have gone a
long way toward clearing up the plot of the story. In this case, of
course, it would have been necessary to add to the statement
concerning the passage of time another statement as to what had
happened in the interval, the complete leader reading: "Two weeks
later, Mary returns home after failing to get work in the city." Or,
better still: "After two weeks of fruitless search for work in the
city, Mary returns to her old home."
Try to get away from the monotonous use of the "Next day," "The next
day," and "Two years later," style of leader. Say: "The following
afternoon," "After five years," "Later in the evening," or "Six months
have passed." Even though you find when your story is produced that
the director has seen fit to omit altogether the leader that you
"wrote in" at a certain point of the action, you have the satisfaction
of knowing that, _had_ he used one there, he could not have improved
upon the one you wrote.
_(b) Clearing up a point in the action_ is too obvious a use of the
leader to require much discussion. Some things mere actions cannot
express, and some explanations must be verbally made because pantomime
suggestion is inadequate. To take their proper place in the photoplay
all such leaders should be more than merely explanatory: they should
have genuine dramatic value--just as much as an important speech would
have in a "legitimate" dramatic production. In the pictured drama the
leader really fills in a significant part of the plot which could not
be portrayed by wordless action.
Miss Lois Weber, a well-known photoplay author who has also produced
some very fine feature photoplays, says in _The Moving Picture World_:
"Often the right words in a leader or other insert are the means of
creating an atmosphere that will heighten the effect of a scene, just
as a tearful conversation or soliloquy, at a stage death-bed will move
the audience to tears where the same scene enacted in silence would
leave it dry-eyed. Naturally, the wrong words may have the opposite
effect, but that is no argument against the leader; it only argues
that the wrong person wrote it."
_(c) "Breaking" a scene_ with a leader may be explained by an
illustration, which at the same time will serve to exemplify how the
mind experiences a more or less unconscious _(d) preparation for the
ensuing scene_.
Suppose you have a comedy scene showing a bathtub gradually filling
with water because the faucet was left open. In the time required to
fill the bath and cause it to overflow, five or six hundred feet of
film would be used up if the scene were not changed. Instead of this
waste of film, you could, after registering the fact that the running
water was rapidly filling the bath, introduce a leader: "Ten minutes
later--the tide rises."
Such a leader prepares the spectator for the funny scene that is to
follow; and when the next scene is shown, in which the water is
overflowing the bath and turning the bathroom into a miniature lake,
the spectator realizes what has happened in the ten minutes which,
according to your leader, has elapsed since the last scene was shown.
Or, in your story, a lumberman may be injured by having a tree that he
is chopping down fall on him. To show the whole process of felling a
good-sized tree would take too long--it would consume too much
footage, and be monotonous to the spectator. Also, it is the effect
and not how it is obtained that makes a picture of this kind
successful. For these reasons the man should be shown as he starts to
chop down the tree. Then after he has made some perceptible progress
you might introduce a leader. "The accident;" and, following the
leader, show the man pinned to the ground by the fallen tree; then
proceed with the succeeding action. You may be sure that the audience
will understand that the man has been knocked down by and pinned under
the tree as it fell; it is only necessary to show these two scenes.
A leader, however, should never be employed to "break" a scene unless
there is absolutely no chance to introduce in its stead a short
_scene_, the showing of which will help the progress of the plot; or
unless a leader will serve the double purpose of breaking the scene
and supplying the audience with an explanation that is important just
at that time.
Taking the two examples just given, in which a leader is used to break
the scene, there is scarcely any doubt that, were you writing these
scenes in scenario form, you might easily substitute scenes that would
help the action of the story and allow you to dispense with the
leaders altogether. For instance, you could show the scene in which
the absent-minded man leaves the water running into the bath and goes
out of the room. Then, show a scene in his bedroom, where he is
contentedly removing the studs from his shirt. Suddenly he remembers
that he has left the water running. With an expression of dismay, he
jumps up and runs out of the room. Flash back to the bathroom scene.
The tub has overflowed and the room is filling with water. As the
excited man opens the door, the flood pours out into the hall. The
short scene in the bedroom makes the leader unnecessary. Better
fifteen feet of film showing the bedroom scene than five feet of
leader.
Again, after the lumberman had started to chop down the tree, you
might flash a short scene showing a couple of other men at work in
another part of the forest. All at once they both stop work and
register that they have heard something that startles them. One speaks
excitedly to the other, and both run out of the picture. You then show
the scene with the man lying beneath the fallen tree. Presently the
two men who heard his cries for help come running up to him.
_5. Cut-in Leaders_
One very effective form of the leader is the cut-in, described in
Chapter X. It takes the form of the speech of one of the characters,
being written in quotation marks. This device of throwing on the
screen the supposed words of a certain character at the moment of
action enables the photoplaywright to tell all that is necessary much
better than he could by a long statement of what is going on--a point
that is well worth remembering. Directors are now using the
explanatory cut-in leader as much as possible, to the exclusion of the
ordinary one which merely states facts. This does not mean that they
are trying to substitute "dialogue" leaders, but that wherever the
newer form can be used to advantage it is less objected to by the
audience than is the bald statement-sub-title--doubtless because it is
in line with the illusion of reality in using the player's words, and
is not merely an insertion by the director or the author, as other
inserts evidently are.
For the reason that all leaders more or less interrupt the action of a
scene, some directors prefer decidedly not to use cut-ins more than is
necessary, their argument being that for a few seconds following the
right-in-the-middle-of-the-scene leader, the mind of the spectator is
engaged with the import of what he has just read on the screen, and
the action immediately following the leader is at least partially
overlooked.
Yet a cut-in leader is usually one that suddenly discloses an
important point of the plot. It may be that one of the characters,
when the scene is about half through, unexpectedly makes a statement
which amounts to a confession of some crime. We read on the screen,
"Judge, she said that to save me. That is my revolver!" No sooner has
the cut-in been shown, and the action resumed, than the eyes of every
spectator are fastened upon the face of the character in the scene
who should, by all logical reasoning, be most affected by that
confession. If a scene is important enough to require a cut-in leader,
it is reasonable to suppose that it has the full attention of the
spectator after the first few seconds of action. This being so, it
would seem that the spectator is far less likely to miss a point of
the action _immediately following a cut-in_ than he is to miss what
occurs at the beginning of a scene, following an ordinary
between-the-scenes leader. It is a fact that a few directors drag the
action of a scene for the first few seconds following an ordinary
leader for the purpose of again centering the attention of the
beholder on the action itself, before developing--_in_ action--another
point of the plot.
We have already referred to "panoramic" leaders giving long casts of
characters, the leader moving upwards on the screen instead of
sidewise as in panoramic _scenes_. Today, the panoramic sub-title, as
well as the panoramic letter or other insert, is quite common,
especially in feature pictures. Those directors who, notwithstanding
all, still favor the use of introductory matter before the first
scene, frequently resort to long panoramic sub-titles as a means of
making the spectator familiar with the theme of the story before
starting to tell it, just as Kipling has so frequently introduced an
introductory paragraph of the same nature in his short fiction. To our
way of thinking, a thematic sub-title of this kind, used before the
opening scene, is far less out of place than the ordinary introductory
titles merely having to do with the characters, because it really
does help prepare the spectator for the _kind_ of story he is about to
view.
Then, again, it may be added that the present-day length of leaders
greatly modifies what we say--as a sound guiding principle--in Section
7 of Chapter XVII. A great many excellent detective-story films have
been produced, either from original synopses or as adaptations of the
work of fiction writers. In these, there has been no hesitation on the
part of the director and sub-title editor to use just as many words in
a leader as might be necessary to make every point of the story
entirely clear and interesting. Paramount's "The Devil Stone," showing
the train of tragic events that followed the stealing by a wicked
Norse queen of the great emerald belonging to a certain Breton priest,
was one example of an intensely interesting detective story in which
sub-titles supplied much more than a third of the story--and supplied
it, apparently, quite unobtrusively. Here, again, only common sense
and experience can show you what to do.
Before leaving the subject of leaders let us say once more that you
must seek to find the golden middle ground between the leader that is
too flowery in its language and the other that is too stilted and
prosaic. Again, in connection with the length of leaders, study the
two following from Universal's feature, "The Kaiser, the Beast of
Berlin," the first of which contains only seven words, while the
second contains fifty-five.
Joy died, Hope fled. Desolation became supreme.
Then came the Master crime. An unoffending people was ground
into extinction beneath an iron heel. A nation was
destroyed. The Crime against Belgium being completed to its
fullest, the Prussian stalked onwards with his twin
comrades, Frightfulness and Horror. A new blotch of
infamy--the _Lusitania_--was added to the Black Name of the
Beast.
Notice, also, that as is being done with many feature pictures of this
or similar type today, the producers have adhered throughout to the
past tense in wording their sub-titles.
_6. The Use of Letters, News Items and Similar Inserts_
The great thing in using inserts other than leaders is to be able to
tell what would be most effective in scoring a point of the plot at an
important place in the story. You may start to "write in" a letter and
then suddenly get the idea that the same point might be better
explained if a newspaper paragraph were used. But no matter what other
kind of insert you employ, it will doubtless seem to be more a part of
the action than will a plain leader. For this reason it is best,
whenever possible, to use a letter, telegram, news item, or some
similar insert, in place of a leader. A carefully worded letter
introduced at just the right time will sometimes tell the audience as
much concerning the complications of the plot as would five or six
scenes.
Letters should be short and to the point, but they should also tell as
much as possible of _what can not be told in action_. Better a single
letter of thirty-five words which tells everything than two or three
notes of a line or two each that only suggest what the writer means.
Some of the so-called "letters" which are seen on the screen are
simply ridiculous on account of their very brevity. If it is a mere
note that is dashed off and sent to one of the characters, or a note
left where it will be found by someone after the writer has gone away,
its brevity is allowable; but when a "letter" is written by a man to
an old friend of his--a friend who, he is told, is living in a distant
city, when for years he has supposed him to be dead--and contains but
seventeen words, it is likely to make the spectator doubt the strength
of the former friendship.
It is not always necessary actually to write a long letter; but it is
best in such instances to _suggest_ that a long letter has been
written. This may be accomplished in two ways: You may either show a
paragraph in the body of the letter, with a line or two just before
and just after it, thus:
On screen, letter.
and it was from him that I learned the truth.
I'll leave for Wheeling on the first train tomorrow, and
hope to clasp your hand again before Monday night.
Honestly, old man, it seems too, etc.
or you may write out the ending of the letter in such a way as to
suggest that much more has been said in the forepart of the message,
thus:
On screen, letter, folded down to show only this:
so I'll leave for Wheeling on the first train tomorrow, and
hope to clasp your hand again before Monday night.
Honestly, old man, it seems too good to be true. I won't be
able to believe that what Morgan told me _is_ true until I
see you with my own eyes.
Until then, believe me to be
As ever, your sincere friend,
Stephen Loring.
To illustrate the way a letter will consume footage, we reproduce one
for which fifteen feet were allowed.
Lord Cornwallis:
Am now within forty miles of Charlottesville. Thomas
Jefferson and the entire Virginia Assembly will be my
prisoners today.
Tarleton.
As we know, a letter will sometimes be written by a character in one
scene, but the spectators will not learn its exact contents--though
they may know just about what he is writing--until a scene or two
later, when the letter is delivered to and read by the one to whom it
is addressed. On the other hand, we sometimes see an actor write a
letter, immediately after which, as he reads it over, it is flashed on
the screen. Then, later, we see it delivered, but although the one
receiving it is seen to read it, it is not flashed upon the screen
again, because the beholder has so recently been shown what it
contains. But it sometimes happens that more than one letter enters
into the development of the plot at a certain point, and hence there
may be some slight confusion caused by the spectator's not knowing
which of two letters the player is supposed to be reading. It is to
avoid this confusion that directors generally flash a few feet of the
letter a second time, simply to identify it. Thus, if the letter that
Tom wrote to Nelly in Scene 6 is delivered to her together with one
from her friend Kate in Scene 8, you may write:
Postman hands Nelly two letters. She registers delight upon
noticing handwriting on one envelope. Opens it immediately
and reads:
On screen. Flash two or three feet of Tom's letter, same as in 6.
Back to scene.
Few spectators will object to the introduction of letters, telegrams,
newspaper items, and the like--provided there are not too many such
inserts--because these seem to fit into the picture as a part of the
action, and are not, like leaders, plainly artificial interpolations
by the author. It need hardly be pointed out, however, that letters
and other written messages must not be introduced except for logical
reasons. More than one case has been known in which the scenario
submitted to an editor specified that one character was to write and
hand to another a note which the second character was to read--the
note, of course, was to be shown on the screen--when the contents
were simply the words which, on the regular stage, the first actor
would speak to the other! Of course, no director would allow such a
thing to take place in his picture. In a situation where the story
could actually be advanced by showing the beholder what a certain
player was supposed to be saying to another, it would be only
necessary to introduce a cut-in leader, as previously described.
We have spoken of substituting a newspaper item for a letter. Wherever
this can be done, it is well to do it; the newspaper item, being
printed, is at least readable. One or two of the studios use letters
in which the handwriting is so poor that before all the spectators
have read the contents of the letter it has disappeared and the scene
has been resumed.
Let us suppose that Edith--not knowing that her friend Eleanor has
fallen in love with Jack Temple, whom they met at a resort the
previous summer--writes Eleanor a letter in which she says:
On screen, letter.
and I'll send it in my next letter.
By the way, I heard a report that Jack Temple--the fellow
that you thought was so bashful--was seriously injured in
the wreck of the Buffalo Express last week. I
Back to scene.
The expression on Eleanor's face, as she reads this, would be the same
as if she had picked up a newspaper and read:
at the time of the collision.
Among those reported injured are James T. Appley, Syracuse,
N.Y.; Lloyd W. Stern, Boston, Mass.; Mrs. Geo. P. Rowley,
Bangor, Me.; and John Temple, New York City.
Conductor Thomas Hammond told a _World_ reporter that as
soon as the report
Of course, at some point in the action previous to the scene in which
Eleanor reads this report in the newspaper, you will have made the
spectators familiar with the hero's name by means of a leader or some
other insert.
"Where the information is brief," says Mr. Sargent,[23] again, "it may
be better displayed as a newspaper headline. A two-column display head
is better shaped for use on the screen than the deeper single-column
head. A deal of information may be conveyed in a headline and the
spectator seems to read the item over the character's shoulder rather
than to have been interrupted by a leader."
[Footnote 23: Epes Winthrop Sargent, _Technique of the Photoplay_.]
Mr. William Lord Wright, author of "The Motion Picture Story," has
this to say on the subject:
"Nearly all photoplays now contain a flash of newspaper headline. It's
a good way of putting over the information essential to the plot, but
it is suggested that the headlines be properly written. Perhaps the
author of the playlet was a novice in writing headlines, or maybe the
director was a know-it-all. If not a newspaper man and a headliner, we
would advise the author who wishes to use headlines in his action to
get some newspaper man to write them for him. Some of the would-be
newspaper heads we have read on the screen lately are not impressive
or well written. Headlining is a difficult art."
If you have occasion to use a will, mortgage, or other legal document,
in telling your story, you will realize that the property man in every
studio has the blank forms on hand for anything that you may
introduce. It is therefore only necessary to show, say, the back of
the mortgage on the screen, with the names of the principals written
upon it. Then, later in the scene, or in some other scene, you can
show the body of the mortgage. But if you show the body of such a
document in Scene 10, after having shown the outside in Scene 4, it
would be well to flash the outside, or cover, again in 10, before
displaying the contents--for the purpose of identifying it, as in the
case of the letter.
In passing we may mention the letter or other document which is
actually written by the actor who is _supposed_ to write it. Such a
piece of writing, of course, must be, and is, not an "insert," but
rather a part of a close-up scene. It might appear in the scenario
thus:
27--Close-up of upper part of Allison's body, right hand writing in
pencil on one of Enderby's letterheads. He writes:
It took eleven years to get you, Enderby, as I swore I
would, some day. Now that I've kept my oath, I'm ready to
pay the price, and you will
It is comparatively seldom, however, that this kind of close-up is
made use of--usually because the actor or actress does not write a
sufficiently clear hand for satisfactory "screening." More often the
player will be seen starting to write the note, and then the close-up
of another hand, _supposedly_ that of the player, will be shown,
writing the words designed to be read by the spectator. In either
case, they are close-ups, but the wording must be given in full, just
as if you were writing an ordinary letter or other insert to be shown
on the screen _after_ it has been written. But do not confuse what we
have just said with the fact that, nowadays, nearly every letter that
is screened is shown in what is literally a _bust_ picture, the letter
or document being held in the hands of the player as he or she reads
it. This is merely an additional realistic touch added in the studio;
the writer supplies his insert in the regular way.
The proper use of leaders and other inserts is a part of the technique
of photoplay writing that is best learned by practise. Be sure to keep
a carbon copy of your script. Then, if your story is accepted and
produced, when you are watching it on the screen note the leaders
carefully, comparing them with the ones you originally wrote, and
profit by what you see. If the producer has seen fit to make changes
of any kind, there is a reason, and it is generally safe to assume
that it is a good one.
CHAPTER XIII
THE PHOTOPLAY STAGE AND ITS PHYSICAL LIMITATIONS
By "the photoplay stage" we mean all that sweep of view which is taken
in by the range of the camera, whether in the studios or out of doors.
At first this may appear to be of very wide area, but the scene-plot
diagram (see Chapter XI) will give a good idea of space-limitations in
staging the picture.
_1. Scope of the Stage_
To begin with, the actors must be constantly on the alert to avoid
"getting out of the picture" while the scene is being taken. Suppose
an actor is seated in a reclining chair that has been "set" where the
line _A_ cuts it in half, so to speak. If he is leaning forward, he
will be completely in the picture. But if he forgets himself and leans
back it is likely that the upper part of his body will not appear when
the film is developed. To avoid this, the V-shaped lines shown on the
scene-plot are actually marked on the floor, in some studios. A piece
of strong cord, or sometimes wire, is stretched tightly from _B_ to
_C_ and thence to _D_. Within this V-shaped space the complete set
must be made, and within these limits the entire scene is played. In
the case of a set requiring more than the ordinary amount of depth, a
larger stage is obtained by setting the back part of the scene (or
set), as shown by the dotted line _E_, and laying down a special pair
of V lines to cross the permanent ones on the studio floor. When the
camera is placed at the apex of this larger V, the picture is,
naturally, made many feet deeper, with a corresponding width of
background as the lines diverge.
_2. Number of Stages Used_
As a rule, there are at least four of these V-shaped stages side by
side on the floor of the studio in any of the big producing plants.
Thus four entirely different sets may adjoin each other; and, as was
pointed out in a previous chapter, a director may finish Scene 8 in
Set I and move directly to Set II, where the scene "done" may be 9, or
any later scene, depending very often upon whether the players will
have to make a change of costume or make-up. A careful director will
always try to avoid waits by having his scenes set up in the order
that will allow him to proceed with as few delays as possible.
In some studios, the fact that walls and ceiling are of glass permits
the taking of most scenes, on a bright day, without the aid of
artificial light. In the majority of studios, however, all scenes
taken indoors are produced with the aid of artificial light, daylight
being excluded. Natural lighting, in _indoor_ studios, has been found
to be rather unsatisfactory; artificial lighting, with constant
experimentation in an effort to produce better "effects," is what is
most used today.
_3. Stage Lighting_
The Cooper-Hewitt system of interior lighting is probably the most
used in the various Eastern and West-coast studios. Everyone--at any
rate, everyone living in the city--is familiar with the peculiar
lights used in many photographers' studios. These Cooper-Hewitt lights
seem to be merely large glass tubes that shed a ghastly blue-green
tinge over everything, and under which photographers may take pictures
regardless of exterior light-conditions. In addition to the
Cooper-Hewitt lights, in a studio equipped with that system, there
are, of course, various other kinds of special lights used in
obtaining certain unusual effects.
In other studios, a brilliant white light is used, rows of overhead
lights being supplemented by tiers, or "banks," of side-lights, so
that there is no shadow on any part of the set unless it is the
specific purpose of the director to _have_ a shadow in a certain
place.
One of the big producing plants has two studios--one in which both
daylight and artificial light are used, and another, at the top of the
building, with glass walls, and a ceiling which constitutes the roof
of the building, where every scene is taken with natural light. On a
bright day the latter studio is used; if there is no sunlight at all,
the downstairs studio is kept busy. On the immense floor of the
daylight studio, as many as eight different ordinary sets may be
erected side by side at one time.
During the past five or six years, and especially since the Pacific
Coast has become a great photoplay-producing centre, more and more
"interior" scenes are made on outdoor stages. This method of taking
the scenes in a picture has now been reduced to a fine art. The
outdoor stages, not needing the artificial lighting systems, have
their various overhead and side screens, so that scenes may be
photographed regardless of the natural light-conditions.
Frequently the director will put up a special outdoor stage
overlooking the sea, or a beautiful garden or landscape, on which to
build a certain interior setting planned to have that outlook. Indeed,
today, the artificial background for any interior having windows or
open doors is unusual. In Jacksonville, Florida, and other southern
cities, as well as in California, the outdoor stage is the most used.
The outdoor stage is especially useful in taking, let us say, a scene
showing the interior of a house supposedly during a heavy storm, with
the rain beating against the windows and being dashed in at the door
when it is opened. On the exterior stage, such a scene can be taken at
almost any hour of the day, and with the screens to dim and diffuse
the rays of the sun, and the skillful use of an ordinary hose in the
hands of the property-man or assistant director, a very realistic
storm scene can be secured. Many extremely realistic rainstorm effects
can also be arranged for exterior scenes, and as for lightning--sheet,
forked, or any other variety--it is one of the easiest things to
"get" imaginable. The mere scratching of the negative film with a pin,
throughout the number of frames covering the flash of the lightning,
the scratching, of course, being in the shape the lightning is to
take, makes it possible to have thrillingly natural stabs of fork and
chain lightning just where it is needed in any scene. You need never
hesitate to call for a lightning storm if your story warrants one at a
certain point.
A practical point in favor of the outdoor stages is that there is a
tremendous saving in the company's bill for lighting. Besides the
cost, the outdoor "interiors" are as satisfactory in every way as
those made beneath the artificial lights.
It is unnecessary to point out to anyone who has visited the picture
theatres that outdoor scenes taken at night are now as common as
exteriors photographed at mid-day. Everything from camp-fire effects
to night battle-scenes has been accomplished with wonderful results.
Interior effects of firelight, moonlight, candle-light, etc, are
easily procured, and are usually most convincing and sometimes
exceedingly beautiful, when taken in conjunction with the setting.
_4. Rehearsals of Scenes_
Different studios have different rules for preventing so much as the
possibility of there being some fault with the photography when a
certain scene is "done." In some studios the rule is to take every
scene at least twice, or even three times. When the films are
developed, the one which is not only clearest and sharpest
photographically, but which shows--even though by ever so small a
difference--the best action on the part of the players, is kept, and
from this the positives are printed. In other studios, each scene is
taken only once at first; and if the film proves to be faulty the
scene must be retaken, even though a day or so later. In every studio,
of course, each scene is rehearsed before being "done." Sometimes
running over the scene once or twice is sufficient, while other big
scenes may be rehearsed fifteen or twenty times. Not only to obtain
the best effects in action and grouping is a scene rehearsed many
times, but repeated goings over are often necessary in order to change
the action slightly, or to cut it down so that it will run only a
certain number of seconds, each sixty seconds representing,
approximately, as many feet of film.
_5. Respect for Stage Limitations_
At all times you must keep in mind the limitations of the photoplay
stage. If you have the picture eye, as described in Chapter X, you
will be able to see just what you can, and can not, write into a
picture so that it will register. If it does not register, it might
better not have been written. As Mr. Sargent once said, "Pretty nearly
everything is possible to the camera, but not all things are
practicable." In the same article, he gave a practical illustration of
camera limitation that should guide photoplay authors in determining
what not to write:
"Suppose you've written a chase scene. A band of horsemen dash through
the picture. The hero is wounded and falls from his horse, rolling to
the side of the road. The pursuers thunder past and then the heroine
comes in and rescues the hero. This is photographically possible, but
not practical. The dust and the smoke will create a haze that will dim
the end of the scene. It can be done by letting the hero lie while the
dust settles, the camera being stopped meanwhile, but unless the scene
is strong enough to repay this trouble the script will be passed over
in favor of one that can be made without so much fuss."
Almost every day, directors and cameramen--especially cameramen--risk
life and limb in an effort to secure some novel scenic effect as a
background for their pictures. It should be remembered, however, that
what the director may choose to do when it comes actually to taking
the scene has nothing to do with the scene as you write it--so far as
the actual background is concerned. Do not demand that the struggle
between the sheriff and the leader of the cattle rustlers must take
place upon just such and such a kind of precipice. You may be certain
that if the situation is a strong one the producer will spare neither
time nor pains to secure the most perfect setting it is possible for
him to obtain.
The moving picture camera, it is well to remember, is of no light
weight when set up on its massive tripod. The cameraman cannot place
it in position to take all the pictures that you might be able to take
with a snap-shot camera held between the hands. The body of the
camera, without the tripod, may be placed upon the overhead beams in a
studio in order to get some novel scenic effect below; or a special
platform may be built for camera and operator when the director is
determined to get a scene on the side of a cliff, where no neighboring
cliff or rocky platform was furnished by nature; but when the director
goes to such pains as these to obtain an effect there is a reason, and
generally the reason is an unusually strong story that justifies
special effort on the part of all concerned in its production.
Mr. William E. Fildew, one of the foremost screen cameramen, long
associated with director William Christy Cabanne, says in _The Moving
Picture World_:
"As to what constitutes the greatest difficulty in the making of
motion pictures, I should reply the insecurity of the tripod in the
making of outdoor scenes. Exteriors require the greatest amount of
attention from the cameraman because of the varying light and shade
and the mobility of the camera itself and its liability to accident.
The location chosen by the expert may be all that is desired, and
there may be a whole lot of trained performers, but you can't get a
trained camera. The tripod must be nursed like a contrary child. It
_must_ be firmly set." Mr. Fildew speaks of the difficulty he had, on
one occasion, when he was obliged to follow the progress of an express
train while operating his camera from an aëroplane, they being
constantly buffeted by pockets of wind, while flying for many miles at
a low altitude in order to keep within the desired focus. He cites
another case, when he was photographing the sea scenes for the Fine
Arts picture, "Daphne and the Pirates," the waters outside San
Francisco Bay being chosen for the locale. A pirate ship crew was to
board a merchant ship, and a big battle to follow on the latter's
deck. A heavy storm came up just as the two ships came together, and
Mr. Fildew, 120 feet up in the air, holding to a mast that swayed like
a pendulum, was compelled to go through with what was a most difficult
and dangerous piece of work, which, however, resulted in some
exceptionally fine scenes. In these instances, of course, it was a
matter of the director's planning almost everything just as he wanted
to take it; the point we insist upon is that it is better to write
certain difficult scenes more in the form of a suggestion than as if
it were absolutely necessary to take them just as you have visualized
them. Not a few successful writers try to think of two different ways
in which an important part of the story may be "put over." Thus, just
as an off-hand example, you might suggest that the running fight
between the bank robbers and the police may take place in a couple of
automobiles _or_ in an auto and a locomotive. Rest assured that the
director will provide the locomotive instead of the second automobile
if he can procure one.
Watch the pictures on the screen and you will see what effects are
produced; and it follows that if a thing can be done once it can be
done again. But will it be _worth while_ in the case of _your_ story?
This is a point that you must determine before venturing to specify
that particular effect. Do not be carried away by the fact that it
_is_ your work. Weigh the importance of that scene and compare it with
the dramatic value of the scenes which precede and follow it; if the
scene with the unusual and difficult effect is the big scene of an
unusually big and interesting story, write it in. The chances are that
the director will be only too glad to stage it according to your
original idea. But do not ask him to waste his time or the company's
money in producing a scene the expense and bother of obtaining which
is out of all proportion to the importance of the rest of the picture.
And do not forget that the camera, wonderful as it is, cannot and does
not do everything that it seems to do. In other words, do not mistake
an effect produced by trick photography for one that is merely the
result of exceptional care and work on the part of both cameraman and
director.
CHAPTER XIV
HOW TO GATHER IDEAS FOR PLOTS
_1. Watching the Pictures_
Unless you are already a successful fiction writer when you first
determine to write photoplays it is not going too far to assert that
you have never yet really watched a motion picture. You have
_witnessed_ many, but only the playwright and the theatrical man may
be said to _watch_ plays, whether on the stage or on the screen, with
every faculty alert and receptive, ready to pounce on any suggestion,
any bit of stage business, any scenic effect, or any situation, that
they may legitimately copy or enlarge upon for their respective uses.
This keen attitude is partly a matter of inborn dramatic instinct, but
it is even more a matter of training and habit--therefore cultivate
it.
Not only does the professional photoplaywright remain wide
awake when watching real photoplays, but he often finds as much
plot-suggestion in other classes of films as there is in the
story-pictures, for plot-germs fairly abound in scenics, vocationals,
microcinematographics, educationals, and topicals, as these several
sorts are called by the craft. A certain successful writer has sold no
less than thirty photoplays, all the plots of which sprang from
scenics and educationals. One, for example, was built upon an idea
picked up in watching a film picturing the making of tapioca in the
Philippines.
At the outstart you must admit to yourself that to see every release
of every company is impossible, and even if it were possible it would
be unnecessary. In the big cities, for example, it is often difficult
to locate a theatre that is exhibiting the particular picture you are
anxious to see, either on the date of its release or later. Nothing is
more common in a moving picture studio than to hear one actor say to
another: "Tonight such and such a theatre is showing such and such a
picture [one in which they have worked]; let's go over to see it." And
if the actor is anxious to study acting through watching the work of
himself and others on the screen, how much more should the writer be
willing and anxious to study the technique of the photoplay by paying
frequent visits to the picture theatres? Try, then, to see as many
photoplays as your time and means will permit, for purposes of study.
Nor do we recommend seeing only pictures that the critics have
praised, for it is possible, at times, to learn as much from a poor
picture as from a good one. You must teach yourself, as you watch the
screen, what to _leave out_, as well as what to put in; we may learn
much from the mistakes of others.
One point especially worthy of notice is that when you see a good
picture on the screen it may be one written by a successful
photoplaywright, and as such likely to repay close study to see how
the successful construct their stories. Or it may be a picture written
in the producing studio from the bare idea purchased from an
"outsider." In either case, look out for and carefully study the
pictured stories produced by writers who are "putting them over."
If you are taking up photoplay writing as a profession, or even as an
avocation, there is only one way to undertake it--be fully equipped to
succeed. It is not enough, as we said in an early chapter, to have had
previous training as a fiction writer; nor enough to have acquired a
knowledge of photoplay form and construction. You must be "up to the
minute" in your knowledge of the market for scripts. Therefore be in
touch with what writers, editors, and producers are doing. Do
everything in your power to avoid writing stories similar to others
that have been done within the past year or two, at least. It is not
merely a question of plagiarism, important as that is--it is a matter
of helping yourself to sell your script by not offering old ideas to
the editors. Fully one-half of the _good_ stories that go back to the
authors are returned because the companies have already done a similar
picture and do not wish to have exhibitors and their patrons declare
that "The Cosmopolitan Company must be writing over their old pictures
because they can't get new stuff."
_2. What to Look for in a Picture_
Besides avoiding the similar use of ideas that have been utilized by
others, it is most important in watching a picture to be able to see
what the one who wrote it did _not_ see--to be able to pick up an idea
that he _might_ have employed in working out his story, and from it
get the inspiration and plot-foundation for a photoplay of your own.
In addition to studying the action to see how certain effects are
produced, count the number of scenes and the number of leaders used in
the different makes of pictures. It will serve as a guide to what the
different makers want. In case you do not care to sit through a second
showing of the film, or do not want to risk missing part of the
picture by counting the scenes and leaders, make a practice of
carrying a few small cards, with a line drawn down the middle of each.
As the card is held in the hand, mark with a pencil a short stroke on
one side for every change of scene, and on the other side a stroke for
each leader, letter, or other insert--this will serve as a convenient
record-device.
_3. The Note-Book Habit_
To have the plot-instinct is a great blessing for the writer. Lacking
this, however, the most valuable asset he can possess is the note-book
habit. Carry one with you _constantly_. Jot down everything that may
be of help in framing and developing a plot, as well as in creating a
dramatic scene for a story. Remember that plots are not lying around
fully developed, awaiting only some observant eye to discover them,
but they almost always grow out of single ideas--plot-germs--which one
may recognize as incidents and situations in everyday life or in
unusual circumstances. Do not wait for the fully developed plot to
come to you, for the chances are that it will not. Jot down the single
idea and in time it may germinate and become a fully developed
plot--even though you may have to use hot-house methods and force its
growth.
[Illustration: William S. Hart, Leaning on the Camera, with part of
His Supporting Company and the Cameraman and His Assistant in a Scene
from "The Poppy Girl's Husband," an Artcraft Picture]
[Illustration: Harry Beaumont Directing Fight Scene Between Tom Moore,
Goldwyn Star, and the Villain, in "A Man and His Money"]
It seems incredible that any writer, knowing, as he must, that the
idea, the plot-germ, is what really makes the story, should neglect to
note it down the moment it comes to him; and yet there are those who
simply trust memory to retain an impression. In the photoplay
especially "the idea's the thing" for here you cannot depend on
description or on good writing to sell your story.
The rule of jotting down your thought on the instant does not apply
merely to ideas that come as inspirations, or thoughts suggested by
what you read or see, but it applies especially to the ideas that come
to you at the time you give yourself up to concentrated thinking in
play-production. A certain writer on the photoplay--we do not recall
who--once wrote a paragraph headed "When do you do your thinking?"
This critic found that he could think best when riding, say on a
street car. Others have discovered that ideas come to them most freely
when they are sitting in a theatre. One writer has learned that his
best plot-ideas come to him after he lies down for the night. For this
reason, a tabouret with pad and pencil always stands at his bedside,
and a special self-installed switch for the electric light is within
reach of his hand. Now, with his note-book always with him when he is
away from home, with note-books and card-indexes close at hand when he
_is_ at home, and with the means of instantly putting his thoughts on
paper if they come to him after he has gone to bed, he knows that he
is in a position to take advantage of every stray idea that may
contain a plot germ, or that may aid him in developing a story already
in course of construction.
If the beginner would only understand the importance of systematic
note-making, he would soon reduce by one-half the labor of unearthing
plots for his stories.
_4. The Borrowed Plot_
All is grist that comes to the mill of the writer who keeps a
note-book. Almost everything that he reads, sees, or hears, offers
some plot-suggestion, or suggests a better way of working out the plot
he has already partly developed. But, in taking plot-ideas from the
daily papers and writing stories suggested by the anecdotes and the
conversation of friends, proceed with great care, lest you make
trouble for yourself or for others. In a later chapter we show how
many cases of alleged plagiarism are simply the results of two people
taking the same idea from the same newspaper paragraph. The point here
made is that if you take an idea from a newspaper item there are three
courses open to you--one safe course, and two not safe. The unsafe
ways are, to recopy the story bodily, using in your story all the
facts set forth in the news item; or else to change it only enough to
insure its being "the same, yet not the same." If you adopt either of
these two foolish and dangerous methods, you are extremely likely to
find that you have either been forestalled by someone who wrote a
story on the subject before you did, or that your story, following
closely the original facts, has given offense to someone who was
concerned in the actual case. If you live in a small community, the
risk of thus offending is, of course, correspondingly greater.
The one safe way is to use the plot-germ, and _only_ the plot-germ,
taken from the item in the paper. If you can take the central idea and
remodel it so that the very reporter who wrote the original item would
not recognize it, you may legitimately claim to have produced an
original story. That is, moreover, what you _should_ do, leaving aside
all questions of your script's being accepted, and the possibility of
its being refused because of its similarity to one previously
purchased from some other writer.
The main incidents of a prominent court trial may supply you with an
idea for a strong, original story, but you should not think of
following the facts of the case just as they occurred in real life. To
_copy_ a story from a newspaper item and to _get_ a story from the
same source are two entirely different things. Press clippings, as an
author once remarked, "are not first aid to the feeble minded. They
are merely sign-posts that point the way to the initiated." And
another has said: "It is the art of seeing and appreciating just a
line or two in some newspaper item and working it up that makes
newspaper study pay."
The really practised writer realizes that the best plot-suggestions
are to be found in the shorter news items--the five-to-ten-line
fillers--and not in the big sensations of the day. But then, the
practised writer can find ideas anywhere.
One thing of which the beginner should beware is the practise of
writing stories from plots suggested by friends. As a rule, the young
writer, not yet having learned to think for himself, is quick to
accept these friendly suggestions. He is told the outline of an
unusually good story and straightway turns it into a photoplay. It is
accepted, but a short while after it has been released someone
recognizes in it a short-story that has appeared in a popular
magazine. It is not difficult to imagine the result--before very long
the film manufacturing company is compelled, whether by a sense of
justice or by law, to make settlement with the magazine company
holding the copyright on the original story, and the beginner finds
that he is decidedly _persona non grata_ with at least one
manufacturer. Should the matter become generally known, he is likely
to find himself barred by other companies also, as every editor has an
inborn dread of the plagiarist, even though he may have been innocent
of any thought of wrong doing.
_5. Keeping Well Informed_
The best means of avoiding unconscious plagiarism and the use of old
material is to keep informed as fully as you possibly can of what is
released week by week. You cannot be too well posted on what is going
on in the photoplay business-world. Your selling-average will be
higher as a result. The editor knows what is old and what is new, and
so must you, though doubtless not so perfectly. Every editor's office
is stocked with books, reference works, magazines, trade publications,
and files of newspaper clippings. These all contain something of
practical value in working up the bare ideas bought from contributors
or in writing his own story--for editors as well as producers often
write photoplays.
You can hardly go too far in making a study of the various
motion-picture trade journals, because, quite apart from the material
furnished by the different studio publicity departments--which
material, for a certain week, may be practically the same in all the
publicity mediums--each periodical may be depended upon to have at
frequent intervals if not in every issue some good special article
that will either help to instruct the writer or furnish a "tip" as to
the immediate needs of a certain company. While we make special
mention of _The Moving Picture World_ because of the fact that it has
had Mr. Sargent's department as a regular feature for over eight
years, we also recommend the student to keep regularly in touch with
what is published in the _Motion Picture News_ (New York), the _New
York Dramatic Mirror_, _Motography_ (Chicago), and--for the sake of
their critical reviews--any other trade periodicals he may be able to
procure. Apart from the trade journals, you can always be sure of
finding well-written special articles or regular departments of
interest to photoplaywrights in such monthly and semi-monthly
magazines as _Photoplay_ (Chicago), _Motion Picture Magazine_ and
_Motion Picture Classic_ (Brooklyn, N.Y.), _Picture-play Magazine_
(New York), and _Moving Picture Stories_ (New York). Many popular
magazines also print excellent photoplay material frequently and such
craft-periodicals as _The Writer's Monthly_ (Springfield, Mass.) are
always especially helpful to authors. All such tools of the writer's
trade you should get as regularly as you can--and _use_ them.
So long as you get your plot-ideas honestly, where you get them is
altogether your own matter. But get them you must, for, as A. Van
Buren Powell has said: "Everyone will grant that in photoplay writing
'The Idea's the thing.' The script of the beginner, carrying a
brand-new idea, will find acceptance where the most technical
technique in the world, disguising a revamped story, will fail to coax
the coy check from its lair."
_So, let your ideas be original._ Get your inspiration, your
plot-germ, from any source, but be sure that, before you claim the
story for your own, you have so changed and reconstructed the original
that it is absolutely yours.
Here is a paragraph by Mr. Eugene V. Brewster, in _Motion Picture
Magazine_, of which he is editor: "It is extremely difficult to think
out a plot that has not been done before. You may not have seen it
before, you may have invented the whole thing out of your brain, but
the probabilities are that the manufacturers have done the same thing,
with slight variations, time and time again, and that the same idea
has been submitted to them dozens of times. You may think you have
worked out something entirely new, but you should remember that the
regular writers employed by the manufacturers have been reading and
thinking for years in an effort to devise something new, and that they
have been trained to do this very thing."
True, it _is_ difficult to think out a plot that has not been done
before; but this very fact, instead of discouraging the writer, should
offer him the greater incentive to discover original ideas for his
stories. That the manufacturers are once in a while forced to make
over their old plays should convince the photoplaywright that they are
more than willing to buy new ones if they are the kind they are
looking for, and that he should study the market to see what the
manufacturers want, and then write the kind they _are_ looking for.
Lastly, we would say most emphatically that the staff-writers employed
by the different companies have absolutely no advantage over the
trained and intelligent free-lance author in the production of
original plays. It is just as hard to think up original plots if one
is on the salary list of one of the manufacturers as it is for you who
do your work at home and turn out only one script a month. The
important fact is, that the staff-writer would never have been offered
the position he holds had not the editor recognized his ability to
keep up a fairly steady output of plays with plots and technical
points of more than average merit. He was an original writer _before_
he became a member of the staff, _not because_ he is in the employ of
the producer.
The field is wide and growing, but nowhere is there room for
untrained, incompetent, hit-or-miss dabblers. The man who is in
earnest, who keeps in touch with what is going on in the trade, who
watches the pictures to gain ideas and inspiration, who studies the
life about him to find plot-suggestions and motives, and who, once
started, keeps at it--working, working, working--cannot fail to find
that his reward will justify the effort.
CHAPTER XV
WHAT YOU CANNOT WRITE
The caption of this chapter must be taken as a serious warning that
there are certain things which you cannot write into a script unless
you wish to insure its rejection. These specific warnings are based on
the experiences of amateurs who have had their scripts returned with
the brief and unsatisfactory statement that they were "not available
for present use," or that the "cost of production is too great."
_1. Asking the Impossible or the Impracticable_
It is a constant source of mingled amusement and dismay to editors to
read some of the impossible or impracticable things that amateur
photoplaywrights wish to have done in the course of the action of
their stories. Three things are responsible for this common fault in
photoplay plotting: the writer's very limited knowledge of the
limitations of the photoplay stage; an intense desire to be original;
and the fact that, having seen in the pictures themselves so many
evidences that the manufacturers do not let the question of expense
stand in the way of attaining spectacular and realistic effects, they
go blindly ahead and introduce scenes to take which would so
enormously run up the cost of producing the picture that the expense
involved would be out of all proportion to the value of the scene as a
part of the story.
Better to illustrate these points, we reproduce a paragraph from an
article by Mr. R.R. Nehls, manager of the American Film Manufacturing
Company:
"Ordinary judgment should tell a writer about what is possible in the
way of stage equipment to carry out a plot. We can provide almost
anything in reason, such as wireless instruments, automobiles, houses
of every description, cattle, etc., but we cannot wreck passenger
trains, dam up rivers, and burn up mansions merely to produce a single
picture. There is no rule to guide you in these matters save your own
common sense."
Now, the foregoing paragraph was written by Mr. Nehls some six years
ago. We include his opinion in this volume, however, because it is
absolutely necessary to consider expense when planning a story for the
screen. On the other hand, it must be said for the benefit of the new
and talented writer who really has or can evolve big situations for
his stories that never in the history of the motion picture have
manufacturers been so ready to do the big thing in a big way as they
are now. That is to say--and this whole statement should have your
most careful consideration--the only thing that a manufacturer
considers today is the question of whether or not a certain effect,
scenic, mechanical, or whatever it may be, is _worth_ the money which
would have to be spent to obtain it. It would be folly to say that
train wrecks, burning houses, destroyed bridges, and the like, are
"impossible" in a film story, after every patron of the picture houses
has seen on the screen everything from the wrecking by earthquake of a
whole village to the burning of a huge sailing vessel--have seen, in
very fact, almost everything that it is possible to see on the earth,
above the earth, or in the waters under it. We have indeed reached a
period of amazing spectacular effects, produced, in most cases, at
enormous cost. And yet today a far closer watch is kept on the cost
than ever before.
How are we to reconcile these two apparently conflicting statements?
The answer is simple: Nothing is too costly if it pays for itself--as
reckoned by the sale of prints when the picture is placed on the
market. If, for example, "The Birth of a Nation," "Civilization,"
"Cabiria," "Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea," and ever so many
other super-features that have been made since these were produced,
had cost twice as much as they actually did, they would still have
been exceedingly profitable ventures for the ones who put them out. If
you have the story to justify the big scenes and effects you will
unhesitatingly be provided with all the effects the story calls for.
Today, economy is practiced _after_ the story has been purchased; the
unusually good plot is not persistently returned because of the
expense attached to putting it into film form. Ways and means are
found within the studio to produce, for every thousand dollars paid
out, an effect--a result--such as to make it appear that from three to
five times that amount has been expended. Sometimes, indeed, an
effect produced at comparatively trifling expense, often by trick
photography or by "faking" or substituting for some expensive
property, is even _more effective_ than the real thing would have
been. As an example, the effect on the screen of a miniature--a
"fake"--Zeppelin falling through the clouds, a blazing mass, was
convincing, thrilling and easy to produce, whereas from the
spectator's point of view it would have been well nigh impossible to
make a satisfactory photograph of a real Zeppelin consumed by flames
and falling to destruction, even though it had been both possible and
financially worth while to burn a real dirigible.
Another thing to be remembered is that Mr. Nehls wrote his statement
at a time when one-reel pictures were the rule; and what would have
been considered enormously expensive for a single-reel story is not
thought so much of when it is to be included in a production of five
reels or over. A good rule, followed by many successful writers, is to
plan your story--estimating as well as you can according to what
unusual effects or settings, are called for--so that a five-reel
subject, say, will not call for more than five times the outlay
demanded by a single-reel picture. It is not an easy thing to do, we
will admit; but you can do your best to figure the expense in this
way. Many manufacturers are willing to pay out as much for a
thoroughly good five-reel picture as some others would pay for a
six-or seven-reel feature; if they do so in the case of _your_ story
so much the better for you, in the light of the additional credit you
will receive for having turned out an especially fine piece of work.
The point is: Don't be too ready to add to the expense merely because
it is a multiple-reel story. The test should be: Is the expensive
scene or effect absolutely essential to a proper unfolding of your
plot? If it is, include it; if not, leave it out or find as good a
substitute effect as you can. In any event, omit expensive scenes for
minor parts of your plot.
_2. Considering the Expense of Settings_