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Title: The Photodrama : The philosophy of its principles, the nature of its plot, its dramatic construction and technique illumined by copious examples.... (2nd Edition)
Author: Phillips, Henry Albert
Language: English
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_THE AUTHORS’ HAND-BOOK SERIES_
THE PHOTODRAMA
THE PHILOSOPHY OF ITS PRINCIPLES, THE NATURE
OF ITS PLOT, ITS DRAMATIC CONSTRUCTION
AND TECHNIQUE ILLUMINED BY
COPIOUS EXAMPLES
TOGETHER WITH
A COMPLETE PHOTOPLAY AND A GLOSSARY
MAKING THE WORK
A PRACTICAL TREATISE
BY
HENRY ALBERT PHILLIPS
Author of “The Plot of the Short Story,” “Art in Short Story
Narration,”
Formerly of Staff of Pathé Frères, Successful Contestant in
Vitagraph-Sun Contest
INTRODUCTION BY
J. STUART BLACKTON
Pioneer Manufacturer and Producer and Secretary of The Vitagraph
Company of America
(_SECOND EDITION_)
THE STANHOPE-DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY
LARCHMONT, NEW YORK, U. S. A.
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY
HENRY ALBERT PHILLIPS
(_Published September, 1914_)
The William G. Hewitt Press
Brooklyn, New York
TO
ALL LITERARY WORKERS
WHO STRIVE TO ELEVATE AND DIGNIFY
THE PHOTODRAMA
I DEDICATE
THIS LITTLE VOLUME
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
INTRODUCTION ix
FOREWORD xv
PART I.--THE PRINCIPLES OF THE PHOTODRAMA.
I.--A NEW MEDIUM OF ARTISTIC EXPRESSION 27
The Premise of All Art; the Battle of New
Standards; the Drama of the Eye; Not “Moving
Pictures”; All the World’s the Stage; a
Field Without Limitations.
II.--DIFFERENTIATION 32
How Photodrama Differs from Stage Drama
in Construction, Technique and Expression;
Also from Fiction Construction and Narration
in General and the Short Story and Novel
in Particular.
III.--PARTS OF THE PHOTOPLAY AND THEIR
PURPOSES 39
Title; Synopsis; Cast of Characters; Author’s
Remarks; Scenario; the Scene; the Setting.
IV.--VARIOUS DEVICES--THEIR USE AND MISUSE 48
The Caption; the Insert; the Close-View; the
Vision; Dialog; Breaking Up Long Scenes;
Preserving the Illusion.
V.--VISUALIZATION 65
Its Relation to Action; Importance of Vocabulary;
Literature; to Register; Interpretation;
in Terms of Emotion; the Part of Imagination.
VI.--CHARACTERIZATION 75
Identity and Personality; Characteristics and
Idiosyncrasies; Description and Delineation;
Establishing Relationship; Motives; Expression;
Contrasts.
VII.--THEME, TREATMENT AND THE CENSOR 87
Morals and Ethics; Crime; National Board of
Censorship; Taste; Inspiration and Influence.
VIII.--RULES OF THE GAME 97
Duration and Number of Scenes; Perpetual
Motion; the “Now” Element; Effective Form;
Natural Laws; Scene Principle.
IX.--BROMIDES WORTH REPEATING 107
The Virtue of Economy; Producing Policies;
Period and Costumes; Animals; Copyright and
Carbon Copies; Relation of Author’s Work to
His Audience; to the Manufacturer; to His
Manuscript.
PART II.--THE PLOT OF THE PHOTODRAMA.
I.--WHAT PLOT MATERIAL IS 119
The Plot Germ; the Premise Advanced; Ancient
Theme and Original Treatment.
II.--WHERE TO GET PLOT GERMS 124
Observation; Reading; Employment of Facts;
the Daily Newspaper; Dangers; Propriety;
Originality; the “True Story”; Importance of
Notes; Titles; Plot Classification.
III.--BEGINNING WITH THE END 132
Seeking the Climax; When to Begin the Photoplay;
Ever-Forward Movement; the Live Beginning.
IV.--DEVELOPMENT AND CONTINUITY 138
Each Scene Contributes to the Climax; Element
of Time and Chronological Sequence; Problems
of Continuity; the Central Theme; the Return;
Instantaneous Sequence; Time Indicatives.
V.--THE CLIMAX AND COMPLETED PLOT 146
Sequence and Consequence; Logical Cause and
Complete Solution; Sustained Climax; All
Expectations Fulfilled.
PART III.--DRAMATIC CONSTRUCTION OF THE
PHOTOPLAY.
I.--DRAMA AND PHOTODRAMA 150
Definition; Principles; Structure is Everything;
the Dramatic Idea; Emotion is the Secret;
Desire the Motive Power; Drama and Melodrama.
II.--DRAMATIC EXPRESSION 155
The Laws of Movement and Action; Character
and Motive; Relation to Audience and Character;
Dramatic versus Dynamic; Realism;
Romanticism and Idealism.
III.--SEQUENCE AND SUSPENSE 161
Cause and Effect; Effects Due to Arrangement;
the Raw Coincidence; Suspense Motors; Battle
of Opposing Motives; Motive as Well as Idea.
IV.--THE POTENTIAL SITUATION 166
Contrast; Situation’s Relation to Audience;
Harvesting Situations; Peril and Death; Climax
and Punch.
V.--UNITY PLUS HARMONY EQUALS EFFECT 175
Questions in the Mind of the Audience;
Reason; Truth; Struggle; Solution; the Title;
Harmony Values.
PART IV.-FORMS AND TYPES OF THE PHOTOPLAY.
I.-- 185
Drama and Melodrama; Tragedy; Comedy;
Other Forms; “Split Reel”; Short Play; Long
Play; Spectacle; Adaptations; Play Divisions.
II.--A SPECIMEN PHOTOPLAY 192
The Effectiveness of Typography; “The Salt of
Vengeance,”--a Short Play Drama.
GLOSSARY 212
The Most Used Terms Defined, with Many
Suggestions for Revision and Alternative Terms.
INTRODUCTION
As one of the pioneers in the most wonderful art-science of the
age--the motion picture industry--the writer feels doubly qualified
perhaps to throw some light upon a subject equally interesting to
author and producer.
A few years ago to the uninitiated “moving pictures” spelt little more
than pantomime, buffoonery or sensational catch-penny device. To-day,
there are few who maintain this view, and they are the unenlightened;
for to the vast majority of those familiar with the art and interested
in its progress, the word has become symbolic of things important and
far-reaching.
Literature is literally the basic foundation upon which the already
gigantic edifice of picturedom has risen.
Ten or twelve years ago picture manuscripts were unknown--office
boys, clerks, camera operators, any one with an “idea” furnished the
material from which motion pictures were produced. Plot was unknown,
technique did not exist, and literary and constructive quality was
conspicuous by its absence. The art, however, developed rapidly. It
was found possible to do more than portray outdoor scenes of moving
trains and other objects, or simple pantomimes with exaggerated
gesture _à la Française_. Methods were discovered and evolved whereby
powerfully dramatic scenes could be reproduced, subtilty of expression
in either serious or humorous vein could be communicated to numberless
people--their emotions played upon, laughter or tears evoked at
will--in other words, the Silent Drama was born.
Classic and standard literature was then reproduced in photodrama.
Shakespeare, Dickens, Thackeray, Scott and Hugo became known to
millions of people whose previous acquaintance with their famous works
was either very slight or non-existent. It was at this stage, when
literature was combined with other arts allied in picture production,
that the real impetus was given and the triumphant onward march of the
world’s greatest educator and entertainer commenced.
To-day, millions are invested in great industrial plants for the
creation and manufacture of the wordless drama; thousands of people
rely upon it as their sole maintenance and profession. Millions upon
millions of men, women and children all over the world look upon this
form of entertainment as their principal recreation and, incidentally,
are being unconsciously educated to understand and appreciate the
higher forms of art.
Bernard Shaw says: “The great artist is he who goes a step beyond the
demand and, by supplying works of a higher beauty and a higher interest
than have yet been perceived, succeeds after a brief struggle in adding
this extension of sense to the heritage of the race.”
There is no doubt that the works of higher beauty and interest
accomplished by the real artists in the motion picture profession have
been widely productive of the “extension of sense” above quoted.
All this brings us to the practical purpose of this discussion--the
dissemination among those who write of the intelligence that a new and
fruitful field is open for the works of their pens. The short-story
writer who gets from one hundred to five hundred dollars for magazine
stories can get a similar amount from the picture manufacturers; the
authors of international fame, who make thousands in royalties, can
make thousands more from picture royalties--and in every case without
interfering with their magazine or book rights. In fact, the greatest
advertising a novel could receive would be a preliminary exhibition all
over the world in pictures.
Many of the best modern authors have already gone into this field and
many more will. For the day has arrived when, in addition to producing
well-known plays and successful books, there is a need for big original
features, especially written for pictorial presentation.
The motion picture has narrowed the field of the playwright, but there
is another and broader pasture awaiting both the play and fiction
writer when he has mastered the technique of the “life portrayal.”
It is the writer’s belief that a gripping, compelling story, hitherto
unknown and unpublished, _properly picturized_ and bearing the name of
one of the best known writers of modern fiction, would be a greater
success artistically and financially than a revived popular play or
“best seller.” The words “properly picturized” emphasized above are
significant.
The motion picture manufacturer stands to the author in the position
of publisher--he needs you--you need him. There are good and bad
publishers. You, whose name is an asset, would not deal with a
publisher of questionable methods; ergo, when seeking out a market
for your work, deal with none but the highest class and best and
old-established motion picture concerns.
Picturedom is looked upon by many as the New Eldorado. Many misguided
fools are rushing in where experienced angels fear to tread. Many
theatrical concerns are now “going into the moving picture business,”
and they blithely announce their intention to uplift the motion picture
and show the public some real stage productions done in pictures. The
few that have come to light so far have been very sad affairs, as is
but natural. The average theatrical man makes about the same brand of
pictures as the average picture producer made five years ago. To quote
again the invaluable Shaw, “Vital art work comes always from a cross
between art and life.”
The art of the picture is to convey an impression of absolute realism
in a manner artistic. The theatrical stage manager has been proven to
be utterly useless in picture production until he has unlearned all
traditions of the stage and acquired an entirely new technique. It is
unfortunate that many stock-jobbing, security-selling schemes are being
offered to investigators and the public under the magic “movie” name.
Many royalties are being promised that will never be paid and of many
of these cardboard houses great will be the fall thereof. “A word to
the wise is sometimes money in pocket.”
All summed up in a paragraph, the answer is, without a _story_ motion
pictures would be what they were styled at their inception--a novelty
or a fad. So literature is indissolubly linked with the future and
success of the greatest of the allied arts. The “life portrayal” or
“thought visualized” is perhaps better than all “literature realized.”
J. STUART BLACKTON.
_The coarse passion of the Crowd constitutes “What the public wants”
in the way of productions; the refined emotion of the artist must
discipline, guide and gratify it by his appealing creations._
FOREWORD
Writers of fiction and dramatic literature have been less apt to
respond to the call of a new literary vocation, than a world-wide
public has been ready to flock to the appeal of a new dramatic art.
A wonderful event has come to pass in the annals of dramatic literature
thru the development of cinematography. So wonderful indeed was this
new addition to the art of effective dramatic expression, that even
after a decade of existence, scarcely a dozen successful writers of
literature had realized its potentiality and had allied themselves with
the new drama.
The public’s first recognition of cinematography was as a novel
diversion. People flocked to see these presentations that crudely
reproduced not merely static likenesses, but moving realities, just
as they had appeared before the camera. In those early days only the
elemental reproduction of moving objects was attempted. The photography
was miserable; the presentation itself a blurred, eye-racking ordeal.
Luckily for the waning novelty, the possibilities for the trick picture
were suddenly realized and cinematography took on a new lease of
life. But once the wonder, amazement and speculation that surrounded
the unnatural phenomena of these animated photographs wore off, they
became deadly monotonous for the mature mind. Once again cinematography
hovered near the abyss of oblivion.
Something significant, however, had transpired: the trick picture had
blundered, as it were, into the realms of misadventure and laughter.
Slap-stick farce supplemented and finally succeeded the trick picture.
Cinematography as an entertainment acquired a tremendous commercial
impetus immediately. In less than a year the puling infant became
a healthy youngster, and the five-cent theater began to take its
rightful place as “the poor man’s playhouse.”
Thus we have arrived at the beginnings of a need for a literature
to provide for the screen portrayals. What had previously been the
device of a moment or the conception of an hour, on the part of some
ingenious--or ingenuous--director, together with the combined aid of
all concerned, now became a matter of serious consideration in order
more nearly to meet and to co-operate with the mechanical requirements
of length of film, speed of operation and duration of projection. All
products were “home-spun” and in no way belied their crude sources. In
a very short while it was discovered that there were surprisingly few
funny ideas and situations in real life. The comedy personalities of
clever actors were worked to death trying to put something new into
old, frowsy and threadbare saws.
But a world-old, child-young desire had been awakened. The now vast
audiences wanted to be told a story--logical, dramatic, gripping,
living! They did not quite realize--as they never do--what they were
clamoring for, and the producers had paused aghast, as tho conscious
of the new and Silent Drama that stood at that moment on the threshold
of cinematography.
The first cinematograph stories were humorous. Most of them were
pathetic--which is the case when any but a story teller tries to tell a
funny story. The serious story was attempted with even worse results.
The arrogance of the trained writer of fiction or of drama and the
price of the producer were still beyond conciliation.
The first borrowings may have come in taking excerpts from history to
make the modest spectacles that gave a new note to cinematography.
Suffice it to say, that soon familiar masterpieces of fiction and
dramatic literature began to appear. The moment that the exhaustless
stores of literature were opened to the needs of cinematography we may
say that the photodrama really had its inception. In the voracious
search for a story, borrowing became more general, descending from the
greater to the lesser lights. At first, borrowings were looked upon
by both authors and publishers almost good-naturedly. Not until the
intrinsic commercial value of literary work, from a photodramatic point
of view, became obvious was the virtue of the copyright called into
effect.
Several successful suits by publishers brought the fear of the
copyright into the producers’ hearts. The scenario editor and the
photoplaywright became a power from that time on.
All said and done, a large percentage of the photoplaywrights
developed in the mechanico-commercial atmosphere of the early days of
cinematography were bound to be limited in their range of vision, in
their conception of artistic drama and in their ideas of the needs
of the ever-widening audiences. From the five-cent show, with its
audiences of crude farce- and melodrama-loving people of small or
limited education, had sprung the million-dollar theaters, including
the rich and poor, the learned and the ignorant, the young and the old
in their vast, changing throng of patrons, demanding something always
better.
Is it any wonder--with the heads of the companies becoming wealthy
magnates by the hour--that many of them gave little thought to
anything else but the income end of their wonderful business,
forgetting the output almost to the point of killing the goose that
laid the golden egg? Many of these men had not the slightest conception
what the word drama meant; altho their employees had grown up with the
business, yet they knew nothing of those more cultured professions of
literature and drama. Drama to them meant only the production of so
many feet of “pictures.”
On the other hand, the consummate handlers of plots, the trained
writers of fiction and dramatic literature, who had made writing their
profession and had given years of their life to demonstrating their
ability to make men laugh and cry and wait, by means of dramatic
pictures on page or stage--they had stood aloof. The studio-bred
photoplaywright smiled indulgently as tho an insuperable barrier
separated these literary mastodons from their preserves; the writers
scanned the field arrogantly as tho viewing the common herd. Neither
was giving the other his due.
It is true, many well-known writers have failed as photoplay
technicians; but it is even more true that most photoplaywrights would
fail as writers of fiction or stage drama.
Thus we arrive at our point: photoplay writing is a new profession,
for the simple reason that the photodrama is a new form of dramatic
expression, tho in many ways like, yet in even more ways differing
from, either fiction or stage drama.
The studio-bred photoplaywright needs just as much to study and to
learn the valued art of choosing, developing and completing the
dramatic idea artistically, as the writer of fiction or stage drama
needs to master the difficult and effective technique of the photoplay.
The photodrama is more sophisticated than either the writer of
other forms of literature, who dabbles with it, or the studio-bred
photoplaywright, who struggles with it, at first suspects. Each new
test of illusion that is put to it has been met effectively, maintained
realistically and completed convincingly--providing it has had the
artistic co-operation of director, actors and appropriate scenic
effects.
It was but a natural consequence that years of dearth of play material
and practical apprenticeship should have brought to the surface many
promising photodramatists from among the studios. While there have been
a limited number of plays effective from a purely artistic standpoint,
and depending thruout on emotional situations, there have been
thousands upon thousands of productions, startling because of dynamic
spectacles, with scarcely a dramatic suggestion outside of outlandish
peril. The clash of souls is lost sight of in the orchestral crash
of falling buildings; the climax in the struggle of a heroic spirit
is hidden behind locomotives coming head-on and smashing themselves
into junk; the pathetic twilight closing over some wonderful character
depiction is lost in the glare of a bona-fide fire advertised to cost
thousands of dollars. These are melodramatic sensations, not drama.
Just as the average person can seldom appreciate a startling sensation
except for the first time, so we find producers, directors and
audiences clamoring for something new and surpassing all that has gone
before, resenting repetition or spectacles that are keyed below the
highest pitched sensation they have already witnessed. One visit to the
circus a year suffices most people; tho few of us are contented with
a weekly attendance at the theater with the promise of a good drama.
Dramatic revivals are always welcome.
And so we see the feverish daily change of program, and films that
flare for a day and then, like the reams of cheap reading trash of the
hour, are literally thrown into the waste-basket and justly perish.
Many problems have been met with wonderful facility in this new art.
The actor, for instance, has had to mould himself to new requirements,
demanding of him oftentimes a more exquisite art than the spoken drama
comprehends. A vast number of actors have acquired something near
perfection.
A power has risen in the production of the photoplay, however, that has
often hampered the progress of the new drama. All authority, in too
many instances, has been given to the director. Even tho the meaning
of the word classic was as remote from his understanding as the study
of astronomy, yet all manuscripts were subject to his interpretation,
alteration and elimination, from “Lucile” to “Lear.” Too often actors
en masse have had no further intimation of what they were doing than
the vociferous bellowings of a director beyond the camera. Thus was the
writer deprived of his most necessary ally in the interpretation of
his finer dramatic ideas. If many directors cannot “see,” and possibly
perceive every scene and situation of a manuscript with all their five
senses, they have been known to return it to the author as “impossible
for production.” In true drama our five senses--in photodrama but one,
sight--merely act as the agent of the emotions, the real participant in
the drama.
The photodrama is bound to be taken seriously in the end. We have
theaters, we have actors, manufacturing plants, we have a world-wide
audience--but no vital drama worth mentioning yet. When we are supplied
with good plays the millennium of the photodrama will begin, which, in
its universality, will eclipse anything known in the realms of artistic
expression. The photodrama needs thinkers, not tinkers. There must come
writers with ideas as well as methods. The future has room only for
swayers of world-wide emotion, and not mere footage producers. The
trained writer has only a slight advantage over the untrained writer,
because he must reject all his well-grounded rules of fiction and
dramatic technique. The novice has a better chance in photoplay writing
than in any other field of expression, providing he is mentally and
temperamentally equipped to take it up.
Photoplay writing is bound to become a dignified profession despite
the obloquy that seemed to rest upon it for so long. But the
photoplaywright must elevate himself thru his artistic product and
thru a demand for recognition of meritorious work by appropriate
compensation and also by credit of his name to appear on the screen as
author of his plays.
It is to further these high aims in the realization that the photodrama
needs students earnest in their desire to become honest artisans and
true artists--that this book has been written by an ardent student of
the new art.
HENRY ALBERT PHILLIPS.
May 18, 1914.
PART I
THE PRINCIPLES OF THE PHOTODRAMA
_The writer of the Silent Drama must portray emotions that may be felt
by all mankind, and create heartbeats that may be heard round the
world._
CHAPTER I
A NEW MEDIUM OF ARTISTIC EXPRESSION
THE PREMISE OF ALL ART; THE BATTLE OF NEW STANDARDS; THE DRAMA OF THE
EYE; NOT “MOVING PICTURES”; ALL THE WORLD’S THE STAGE; A FIELD WITHOUT
LIMITATIONS.
In all expressions of true art we find the portrayal of a message from
the soul, mind and emotions of one man to those of his fellows. The
message may be graven in stone, wrought in iron, blended in color,
soaring in song, poured thru a pen, or spoken from the stage. If it be
art none may pass by without a portion of it entering his soul and
enriching his experience.
There is one essential condition, however, that precedes all
participation in, and mutual enjoyment of, art--only true believers
may enter the shrine of complete illusion. The observer, the reader,
the listener, the participator in a work of art, must concentrate the
attention of his body, mind and soul upon the emotional message it
contains, regardless of the artificial mediums employed in giving it
material existence. For art consists simply in an endeavor to express
thru an outward and visible symbol some inward and spiritual truth, or
struggle.
All new and unfamiliar forms of art, therefore, are subject to
superficial criticism, if not ridicule, on the part of the uninitiated,
who either fail, or refuse, to see the underlying truth interpreted by
a work of art. Upon being shown one of the splendid marbles of Angelo
they see but a piece of chiseled stone and not the wonderful vision
that inspired the artist. To them one of Turner’s symphonies of color
is but a daubed canvas.
But once let appreciation of art values become part of a people’s
understanding, and the glories of a new and more wonderful world is
opened to them, which brings us to the conclusion that there is a
division of opinion regarding even the Fine Arts--some of which are
patronized by the few, others are participated in by the many. Among
the latter we find the devotees of fiction and dramatic literature
far outnumbering all others. The reason, without doubt, for the wider
popular approval of these two mediums of artistic expression lies
in their portrayal of a segment of life with all the vicissitudes,
settings, characters and contributing elements that lead to its
dramatic climax, as opposed to the single static incident that the
artist has limned in stone or wood or on canvas.
Stage drama takes even a step in advance of fiction literature in its
approximation of realistic illusion. The characters of the play become
the breathing, living, walking and talking persons conceived by the
playwright and anticipated by the audience. Audiences laugh and weep,
rejoice and sigh, despite themselves, wherever good stage drama is
offered.
Thus we come to the inception and introduction of a new medium of
artistic expression that is destined to be numbered among the Fine
Arts. While the Photodrama is closely allied and dependent upon
both Fiction and Dramatic Literature, yet it has a construction, an
expression, and a production so uniquely its own that it is even more
unlike than like its allied sources. The Photodrama is notable, too, in
being science’s first contribution to the Fine Arts.
The Photodrama has had to fight its battle of the new standards.
The day was when we scoffed at the possibility of a mere animated
photograph making an artistic appeal to us sufficient to stir our
emotions. The conquest of the lighter emotions is already a reality, as
any one may learn who will take the trouble to step into a photoplay
theater while a good comedy is being run. But the supreme test of
the appeal of art--the drama that loosens the treasured tears of a
self-conscious, conservative audience--is still the unattained, but
attainable, goal of the new profession.
Too often the message of fiction or stage drama is limited, by the
printed or spoken word, to the understanding of one’s own people; but
the drama of the screen is told in terms of world-wide action, spelt in
a tremor of world-old emotion, and writ in the simple language of the
human heart--regardless of culture or color, clime or creed. He who has
eyes to see may readily understand.
_In Photodrama, as in real life, we are never permitted to reverse the
hand of Time and relive the deeds of yesterday--except we pass thru
the gateway of visions and dreams._
CHAPTER II
DIFFERENTIATION
HOW PHOTODRAMA DIFFERS FROM STAGE DRAMA IN CONSTRUCTION, TECHNIQUE AND
EXPRESSION; ALSO FROM FICTION CONSTRUCTION AND NARRATION IN GENERAL
AND THE SHORT STORY AND THE NOVEL IN PARTICULAR.
The very first impulse that comes to the photoplaywright, as a true
exponent of literary art, must be stifled--he cannot clothe his message
in glowing words that will ravish the ear and please the eye of an
esthetic public. Rather, he must construct a silent, technically
wordless picture. He must smother his vocabulary under a mass of
technique. He must hide the light of his diction under a bushel of
“business.”
Nevertheless, there must be the message to radiate, the story to tell,
the gratifying material for entertainment. Granted an idea worth
artistic exploitation, there remains the exercise of one of the most
difficult processes known to literary or dramatic construction.
A photoplay is composed primarily of mechanical units, technically
termed reels. A full reel consists of 1,000 feet of film and occupies
approximately twenty minutes to display its contents upon the screen.
By contents, we mean to include everything that is projected:
trade-mark frame of manufacturer, including title of play and name of
the author; cast of characters, with Board of Censorship notice at the
end. The foregoing take approximately two minutes of valuable time
and are merely incidental to the play. They concern the writer only
in so far as they act as limitations. The essential photodrama itself
includes portrayal of dramatic action of the characters; printed words
contained in captions and inserted dialog; close-views for the purpose
of emphasis; inserted printed matter bearing upon the unfolding of the
story.
We find a distinct advantage in the construction of the short stage
play over that of the short photoplay in the fact that the former
permits us approximately as long a time for its single scene as we are
allowed for the entire photoplay composed of from 25 to 60 scenes!
Again, the short stage play is merely episodical in an intensive
sense, developing a single dramatic situation to an immediate and
effective climax; while the short photoplay is usually expansive in
character, comparable to the wider boundaries of the short story in
selecting a supreme dramatic moment in the life or lives of characters
and portraying even the remote cumulative incidents that began,
contributed to and compelled the climax, and possibly containing many
situations, tho of lesser power than the climax itself. Aside from
the incidental employment of a mob now and then, we may say that a
vital characteristic of the short stage play is economy, often two and
seldom more than five characters appearing in the play. Because of its
multiplicity of scenes, however, the short photoplay normally includes
the employment of many extra characters who establish and naturalize
settings, and seldom employs less than five important characters, for
the reason that frequent change of scene is necessary to photoplay
development and effect.
(_EXAMPLE 1._) _In a short photoplay it may be necessary for our
hero to visit his club, to gamble and to lose the money that he is
holding in trust. While he and the villain, his opponent in the game,
are the two principal characters, it is essential to introduce many
others to make the club-setting natural. We might call these “setting
characters.”_
(_EXAMPLE 2._) _We must always take into consideration those scenes
that act as a foil for those in which our principal characters appear
in their important situations. Photoplay scenes without the prop of
dramatic dialog begin to lose power after being sustained for two or
three minutes. New power is provided by reverting to another scene
that has a direct cumulative bearing upon the scene in hand. With but
two characters, or only a small group that must be kept together for
effect, quick changes would keep the characters moving unnaturally
fast._
An examination of the three-act, or long, stage play and a comparison
with either short or long photoplay, likewise disclose some advantages
in favor of the stage drama. Each act of the long play allows the
playwright approximately forty minutes in which to attain a desired
effect, or about one hour and twenty minutes of combined action in all.
By means of the condensed method and rapid action of photoplay drama,
we may often get a three-act play into a single reel of photoplay
action, while a solid evening’s entertainment may include several short
plays, and one long one, equivalent in itself to a meaty drama.
The great advantage of photodrama over stage drama, however, lies in
the playwright’s privilege to fill in all essential action of the
most infinitesimal character in exactly the order and degree of its
occurrence, so that the spectator gets everything first-hand and not
thru hearsay. Furthermore, the photoplay begins at the beginning of
things essential.
(_EXAMPLE 3._) _Stage drama, thru the use of a few well-chosen
phrases, will often make clear to the audience the relationship
between characters and the cause for the struggle that is the basis
of the play. Photoplay construction takes us back to the causal act,
tho it may have happened months before the opening of the bigger
situations._
The great problem that confronts the photoplaywright is how to make his
story convincing without words, how to interpret every emotion into
pure action. He must learn the truth of that axiom which states that
“actions speak louder than words.”
With fiction construction and expression, the photoplay has much in
common. The short photoplay, as we have pointed out, is expanded
to practically the same degree as the short story, while the
multiple-reel, or long photoplay, has within its scope the complete
and satisfactory dramatization of the novel or many-volumed literary
work, thus enriching the dramatic field with new forms of surpassing
material which must forever have been denied millions of people who
abhor reading even the glorious treasures of fiction literature.
The two fields--of fiction writing and photoplay writing--diverge
into opposite directions the moment we discuss the narration of one
and the visualization of the other. In fiction narration, we resort
unequivocally to words to express our inmost vision and weave our
story; in the photoplay our words merely indicate the line of action.
The effectiveness to be gained thru descriptive writing is barred to
us; we must confine our description to a line at the head of each
scene. Fine paragraphs on introspection, or mental agony, or deep
feeling are helpless, unless they have their counterpart in vivid
action. Artistic narration is a handicap; expressive vocabulary is
essential. We must express ourselves, then, in terms of action rather
than in periods of rhetoric.
But does not the absence of the spoken word make it easier to give
expression to the universal language of the heart? All motives and
emotions must be made to appear on the surface. Even sounds must be
silently, yet effectively, portrayed. The music artist peoples the
imagination of his audience with a glorious phantasmagoria. There is
a music of vision that delights the beholder of motion and action,
typifying life, health and sanity. We have only to give photoplay art
its premise and we may find it ranked among the muses. In artistic
photodrama we perceive with the ears of the heart and the soul, gifted,
it would seem, with a new soul organ. The day of the skilled spectator
must follow the dawn of the art of the ideal interpreter.
_Here we do not want that mechanics of motion which labors and creaks,
revealing the machine; but rather that poetry of silent action which
translates itself emotionally into visualized motive and visible
drama._
CHAPTER III
PARTS OF THE PHOTOPLAY AND THEIR PURPOSES
TITLE; SYNOPSIS; CAST OF CHARACTERS; AUTHOR’S REMARKS; SCENARIO;
SCENE; SCENE-PLOT.
We find the presentation of the photoplay in manuscript differing
widely from that of both fiction and stage drama, in that it represents
a mechanical point of view. Whereas the entire fiction manuscript
is submitted verbatim as it will appear before the reader, and the
stage play manuscript contains every word as it will be heard by
the audience, the photoplay manuscript contains only a few lines of
captions and possibly several inserts which alone of the actual
manuscript will appear on the screen.
The first item that appears on the manuscript, the title, is coming
more and more to be regarded from its literary and story-fulfilling
point of view. We must ever bear it in mind, however, chiefly as a
commercial asset. First, will it attract and reach the pocketbook of
the hesitating public and add a drawing power to the poster displayed
in front of the theater? Second, will it successfully compete with
the ever-increasing number of releases brought to the attention of
the exhibitor to choose for his daily or weekly change of program?
Third--and in a lesser degree--will it appeal to the photoplay editor
because of its promise of high-class literary or dramatic material? It
is possible in nine cases out of ten to combine all these desirable
features, but not without careful thought.
The synopsis of the photoplay is something more than a mere synopsis,
it is an abridgment, a condensation of the scene contents. To write
a perfect synopsis requires the exercise of rare literary skill. By
this is not meant rhetorical flow, but the power of such a choice and
command of words that enables the writer to reduce possibly several
thousand words of instructive scenario to a few hundred words of
suggestive synopsis without missing a single essential point. There
must be a style of telling the photoplay story that is terse, crisp
and suggestive. There is a studio convention that seems to have
limited the length of the synopsis to 250 words. It is unfair to make
a hard-and-fast rule governing the synopsis, for the reason that most
aspirants get an erroneous impression. Experience demonstrates that
most clean-cut, vivid plots may be perfectly delineated in a synopsis
of even less than 100 words. On the other hand, the power of the
slight play made great thru pure dramatic artistry would suffer from
a too brief synopsis. The refined emotional play free from all the
coarser strain of exaggerated melodrama and sensational spectacle would
sacrifice its finer points if it did not touch upon them and reveal
their beauty in the synopsis. Employ as few words as you can to amplify
and completely tell the abridged story of your play!
The synopsis is designed primarily for the convenience of the
editor or reader who takes up your manuscript with a view to its
acceptability. The synopsis is its recommendation. If it does not tell
him all its dramatic possibilities in a brief space, its opportunity
is lost, for the editor seldom has time or inclination to peruse the
scenario. Should the manuscript meet with acceptance, the synopsis is
thereafter used as a guide for the director.
(_EXAMPLE 4._) _Showing how little side-lights are thrown on
character, and shades of emotion may be revealed in the synopsis:
“Frail, piquant Rosalie, with whom Malcolm is in love, is often piqued
because he never comes to the point in anything.... Malcolm prefers to
sit on the porch and dream of his coming deed.... Douglas is a doer of
things and immediately carries out the music in his heart in appealing
words.”_
The cast of characters should mention individual characteristics if
possible and clearly show the relationships at a glance. The cast is
for the convenience of the director in computing the number of players
necessary, in selecting actors for the parts according to their talents
and personal characteristics.
(_EXAMPLE 5._) _MALCOLM FRENCH.... (Lead).... In love with Rosalie;
Artist, Dreamer._
_ROSALIE.... (Ingénue-lead).... Piquant, impatient, frail,
flirtatious._
Characters that appear singly should be mentioned singly; those
appearing in groups, or mobs, described en masse, so that the director
may form at a glance a comprehensive idea of outlay in characters,
costumes and possible character props.
There should be a distinct part of each photoplay manuscript known as
“Author’s Remarks.” These should be brief and contain such helpful
suggestions as a mention of the period of the play, its locale, where
ideal locations may be found near particular studios, the need of
extraordinary properties and where they might be obtained (possibly
the author might have in his possession a coin, MS., or oddity), maybe
the suggestion of specific actors whom you have in mind for important
parts. Confine these remarks to 50 words or less.
The part of the manuscript next to appear is the scenario, or
enumeration of scenes, including the respective action taking place
in each. After numbering the scene, a single line is devoted to the
description of the scene of setting. This is the only space permitted
the writer for description, and one or two words are supposed to
suffice unless he wishes a certain arrangement of setting that will
have dramatic bearing on the development of the action.
(_EXAMPLE 6._) _Scene 3--FRONT OF SHOP (Window plainly lettered: J.
CADWALLADER--ANTIQUE JEWELS)._
Despite the fact that it is the same in name as a division of stage
drama, a photoplay scene is by no means identical with a stage play
scene. An apt parallel may be drawn by saying that while a stage
scene is all that is seen and acted in one setting without dropping
the curtain, a photoplay scene is all of the setting and action that
is photographed without stopping or changing the position of the
camera. If the position of the camera is changed an inch, or if we
should return to the same scene a score of times, viewing it from the
identical point, it must bear another scene number and be treated as a
new scene. There is one exception to this rule. When a scene is broken
by an insert or a close-view we “continue” the scene, for the reason
that the scene is not interrupted at all in the taking, the film being
cut to insert either close-view or other inserted matter.
(_EXAMPLE 7._) _Scene 24.--INTERIOR PAWN-BROKER’S. Broker takes
necklace from case, examines it, eyeing Douglas all the while,
examines jewels with jeweler’s glass, then turns, with shake of head:
INSERT 4.... “I DON’T RECEIVE STOLEN GOODS. GET OUT OR I’LL CALL THE
POLICE!” Scene 24--(Continued). Douglas slinks out with a scowl._
It is presupposed that every scene set down in the manuscript is
absolutely necessary, and by necessary we mean essential to the
cumulative advancement of the play. The contents of the scene itself
consists of the writer’s process of visualizing his story thru
appropriate directions for the movement of the characters and a
description of the resultant action, vividly, tersely and suggestively
_told in the present tense_. The same economical care should be
practised in the selection of only essential material and the rejection
of unessential details as one observes in the construction of the short
story. While the writer is supposed to tell only what is to be done
and not to presume even to suggest how, yet there are many subtile
emotions the perfect interpretation of which he may have in mind. A
happy suggestion may often save the busy and hurried actor or director
time, and express exactly what the writer has in mind instead of making
it necessary to guess at his thoughts.
As the writer plans the effect to be produced by his completed play, so
he must keep in mind a desired effect to be accomplished by each scene.
The length of a scene is determined precisely by it attaining the
single effect for which it was created. Thus a scene has a unity of its
own which is comparable with that of the complete play: Introduction,
or establishment of relationship sufficient for the audience to grasp
the significance of the action; rising development; pronounced climax,
which is the signal for its termination--for a scene never has a
denouément. The succeeding scene always carries the play a step forward
or higher.
(_EXAMPLE 8._) _Scene 52--ON THE BALCONY. Malcolm singing with his
whole soul in his expression. Scene 53--JEWEL ROOM. Douglas still
kneeling before the cabinet, suddenly pauses, his face contorted with
painful memory._
Much confusion would be eliminated, and clearness and precision
affected, if there were a change in terminology calling scenes “acts,”
for they are distinct units of action and definite and complete acts in
the development of the play. The scene, as its etymology indicates, has
primarily to do with the scenery or setting. The same scene is repeated
over and over again, tho it always bears a new number. The same act is
never repeated (except in facsimile in the vision scene), so that the
consecutive numbering of acts from beginning to end of play would have
a specific value, just as the consecutive numbering of repeated scenes
is decidedly confusing.
_SPECIAL NOTE.--In Part IV of this volume will be found one complete
photoplay, embodying all points discussed in these chapters, and from
which, in the main, illustrative examples have been chosen. A Glossary
contains a modified definition of all technical terms employed._
_Artifice is the edged tool of Art which, when wielded skilfully,
may carve lines of life in a piece of clay and bring fame to the
artificer; when handled clumsily it is sure to mar the material and
may injure the hand of the artisan._
CHAPTER IV
VARIOUS DEVICES--THEIR USE AND MISUSE
THE CAPTION; THE INSERT; THE CLOSE-VIEW; THE VISION; DIALOG; BREAKING
UP LONG SCENES; PRESERVING THE ILLUSION.
Do not seek to write photoplays that are sufficient in themselves and
do not need the aid of tricks of the trade, devices or artifices. Such
plays must need be crude because, even tho perfect in plot, they are
bound to appear cut-and-dried, clipped and cured, and wanting in all
those little human touches which by piercing the emotions and gaining
the sympathies of the audience, do more than win the approbation of
the mind. The impression that the perfect play is the one which can
dispense with any of the legitimate devices, no doubt comes from
a misconception of the precise potentialities of these artifices.
It is true, if they do not serve as a means to an end; an integral
part of the play; units in the development of the story; then they
not only may, but should, be dispensed with, by all means. We employ
nothing--property, actor, scene, spectacle, spoken word, insert,
incident or device--in the perfect photoplay that has not a bearing on
the climax of the play.
The caption--variously miscalled leader, sub-title, etc.--is the most
necessary, the most difficult and the most powerful of the illusory
agents employed in screening the dramatic story. Its importance to the
writer may be reckoned from the fact that it is one of the few small
parts of the photoplay that is supplied by the author and shown intact
to the audience. The caption is an action-title and, like the chapter
headings of a novel, portions and savors the great bulk of the story
and collectively gives its gist.
(_EXAMPLE 10._) _Take, for instance, the captions of “The Coming
of the Real Prince” (Reliance), and we have the big moments in
the play that made it impossible for the audience to lose its
vital significance: (1) ANNIE’S WIDOWED MOTHER, LEFT PENNILESS,
OPENS A BOARDING HOUSE; (2) THE DRUDGE; (3) ANNIE FINDS SOLACE IN
“CINDERELLA”; (4) THE DREAM OF PRINCE CHARMING AND THE WONDROUS CITY
BEGINS; (5) “NO, BUD, I HAVE GIVEN MY HEART TO A WONDERFUL PRINCE;”
(6) THE COMING OF THE PRINCE; (7) THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY THEY GO FOR
A STROLL IN THE ENCHANTED FOREST; (8) THE FAIRY TREASURE--HIDDEN BY
ANNIE’S MISERLY FATHER; (9) THE PRINCE SEES AN EASY OPPORTUNITY TO
FILCH TWO TREASURES; (10) THE FLIGHT TO THE WONDROUS CITY OF DREAMS;
(11) THE MAGIC AWAKENING OF MOTHER-LOVE; (12) “FOR THE PRINCE WAS A
MIGHTY GOOD FELLOW!” (13) THE GLORY OF THE PRINCE’S DOMAIN BEGINS TO
FADE; (14) “YOU WOULDN’T HAVE ME, MOTHER, SO I DREAMED OF A PRINCE!”
(15) THE COMING OF THE REAL PRINCE... And there’s the complete story,
which any one with imagination can readily fill out._
A play screened without captions or inserts would be wanting in all
the little human, intimate and sympathetic touches that warm the heart
and pitch the emotions of the audience. The figures that flitted thru
the play, unintroduced, would be identified by the spectator as this
or that actor, and not as Tess, or Mr. Barnes, or Sherlock Holmes--all
_characters_ of delightful memory. Pantomime sufficiently powerful to
suggest every relationship; costume and accompaniments obvious enough
to establish every environment; and action violent enough to interpret
every emotion without the aid of captioned or inserted matter, belong
to the elemental days of photodrama.
First of all, the caption should never be employed to tell of an action
that is to follow in the scene, for a caption should never be used if
it is possible to translate its essence into action:
(_EXAMPLE 11._) _For instance, in the following scene: Scene 56. JEWEL
ROOM--Douglas has just finished forcing open the door of the jewel
cabinet and holds the necklace in his trembling hand ... it would have
been superfluous to have captioned, DOUGLAS STEALS THE NECKLACE._
Too often important points are unsuccessfully left to the imagination
of the audience because they have been so clear in the mind of the
writer. Frequently these points are essential to preserve an unbroken
continuity, yet too subtle to be conveyed by action, deduction,
suggestion, inference, implication or relationships.
(_EXAMPLE 12._) (a) _To economise, by getting right into the pith of
the story: ANNIE’S WIDOWED MOTHER, LEFT PENNILESS, OPENS A BOARDING
HOUSE ... introduces us to Annie and her mother, tells that her father
has died, they are penniless, they must work, the place we find them
in later is their boarding house._ (b) _To indicate a lapse of time
and tell what worth-while has happened: THE SPRING COMES--AND WITH
IT HER PRINCE ... the previous scene had been in the winter, Annie
has been dreaming of her prince and we might not have identified the
weak, flashy young man as such; the caption is, also, a link in the
suspense._ (c) _To communicate a mental or psychological process: THE
DREAM OF PRINCE CHARMING AND THE WONDROUS CITY BEGINS.... contains the
very essence of the climax and reveals the psychological trend of the
entire play._
We must bear in mind that there is something more important than
sequence of visible action, and that is unbroken continuity or perfect
cohesion of story unity--of which every intelligent audience is ever
conscious--that knows no such thing as gaps, breaks or retrogressive
movement. The caption is the bridge that spans these and supports,
quickens and gratifies the imagination in addition.
The caption can be made to fulfill its most artistic function by
combining all the essential qualities, already referred to, and also
by serving as the action-title for a complete sequence of dramatic
action. Thus one caption may cover all the scenes in a sequence, each
caption adding a link in the development of the story and all together
giving the gist of the story itself (as illustrated by Example 10).
Thus the caption becomes a distinctive aid in building the dramatic
plot, a contributory force in its expression, and a gratifying parallel
to lead, guide and fulfill the action for the audience. Captions are
not labels, but means of suggesting beyond the visible action and of
furnishing deeper motives than those on the surface. There are beauty
and harmony captions which often add a poetic touch, or an emotional
tone, and intensify the dramatic effect.
(_EXAMPLE 13._) _THE FLIGHT TO THE WONDROUS CITY OF DREAMS ... but
we must take care that the poetic title is not a part of the harshly
realistic play, for we are seeking integral harmony. For example, in
HELL--SECOND-HAND, we find captions to suit the theme: 10 MINUTES THIS
SIDE OF ETERNITY! ... THE LIFE-BLOOD RED FLAG._
An insert is filmed matter which is inserted in the appropriate place
in a scene, the film being cut for this purpose. This matter must
appear and be known as an insert to the writer and manufacturer only;
to the audience, it becomes the normal, logical and only natural
phenomena that could be presented under the circumstances and sustains
and strengthens the illusion of reality. From the point of view of
the screen, an “insert” would suggest something stuck in, or a patch;
therefore it must never be recognized as such except in the workshop.
Technically speaking, all inserted matter is inserts. From a mechanical
point of view, the film must be cut in order that captions, printed
or inscribed matter, close-views, visions, spoken lines, etc., may
be inserted. But we should ignore the manufacturer’s construction
and consider inserted matter only as an essential to the perfect
visualization of our dramatic story.
The letter, telegram and newspaper insert are dangerous expedients to
employ too frequently in the artistic photoplay. They are so easy to
stick into a play that, like slang, they become a ready makeshift for
the lazy mind, with results that are damaging to dignity.
We cannot repeat too often that everything employed in the photoplay is
done so with a specific purpose, for a progressive effect, and for no
other reason. Likewise, it must bear some cumulative and contributory
relation to the climax. Thus inserts and captions must be something
more than mere explanatory matter by becoming important contributory
data.
The insert is a great factor for economy, and when properly used in
this respect may contribute to heightened effects thru suggestive
condensation.
(_EXAMPLE 14._) _The following letter insert not only saves many scenes
but teems with revelation: “Dearest--You simply can’t stand it any
longer. Come with me to the city at daybreak. Meet me in the office.”
What it has told fills the gap; what it promises because of this
audacious proposal makes the play._
The telegram is similar in character, only it allows still greater
condensation:
(_EXAMPLE 15._) _“Meet me in the office at daybreak.” It serves as a
further amplification of the same example, tho there is an obvious
inconsistency in conveying such startling intelligence by wire._
The employment of the newspaper heading and paragraph is a decided
novelty in conveying artistic data. The seeming awkwardness of the
medium must be overshadowed by a simple and convincing naturalness on
the part of the character in obtaining information from this source
that strengthens its plea as dramatic material:
(_EXAMPLE 16._) _LIBRARY--Nelson enters with tray containing letters
and papers. Shelburne opens paper, reads, pauses, laughs_:
_INSERT O ... (News item heading)_
_WEALTHY SOCIETY WOMAN LEARNS SHE HAS MARRIED BOGUS BARON_
_Scene (Continued)_
_Shelburne thoughtful. Mary steals in and places her hand over his
eyes. The fact disclosed in the item wiped out all the past that stood
between Mary and Shelburne. The library scene was made more natural by
the reading of the paper and what followed was inevitable. Neither the
sense of the scene nor any conceivable action alone could have told
adequately what really transpired. An insert alone filled the purpose._
Perhaps the most effective use of the insert is to establish the
premise of the plot, to cover the causes leading up to the opening of
the play and possibly the relationship of the characters:
(_EXAMPLE 17._) “_Dear George:--As I write this I am preparing to run
off with the Baron Komiskey. To be frank, I’ve gotten tired of not
seeing you take any interest in anything. Forgive your former fiancée_,
_PETRONELLA_.”
_In which we see the characters of both Petronella and George laid
bare, besides furnishing a motive for George’s change of character and
future actions. This insert breaks the first scene._
The theory of breaking scenes with inserts has been discussed and has
grounds for objections from an optical point of view only. The argument
advanced against their use is based on the persistence of vision with
which the eye retains for a considerable period the image of that which
has passed before it, obscuring that which follows. This theory would
become seriously operative when applied to inserts should we look
upon them as extraneous matter--as for example the vaudeville acts
that intervene between the parts of the long photoplays produced in
many of the variety theaters. But, far from it, the ideal insert is
contributory dramatic material that rather precludes a possibility of
gaps, jumps or discontinuity of dramatic sequence. The perfect insert
emphasizes an otherwise too modest period of action. Optical delusion
is a negligible quantity in the face of dramatic illusion, which sweeps
everything mechanical before it.
To speak of inserts as _explanatory matter_ is objectionable, because
of the natural inference that the story is to be interrupted and the
audience button-holed while a formal explanation is inserted. Unless
an insert becomes essential _interpretive material_, quickening the
movement of the play and heightening the interest in the story,
something must be wrong with the construction. Inserts should be
classed with all other forms of essential interpretive material, such
as expressive action, gestures and attitudes; logical characters and
effective settings; and should be mercilessly dispensed with unless
they fulfill a specific mission in carrying the story forward toward an
inevitable climax.
The term, close-view, makes a finer distinction, signifying that an
object or a portion of it is magnified, or that a close-view of a
segment of the action is seen on the screen at close range by itself.
(_EXAMPLE 18._) _“.... Annie reads letter, a great joy breaking over
her face: INSERT LETTER.... “Dearest--Come with me to the city at
daybreak.”_
_In which the letter is presented for our perusal with the same care
that it would be inserted in a story at the proper moment. It is part
of the story._
In the same manner a calling card, an inscription on a grave-stone,
a monogram on a ring, a miniature photograph, may be brought, as it
were, close to our eyes. The illusion is ingeniously preserved by the
presence of the character’s trembling or tracing fingers following the
emotion in his soul.
The close-view, however, may take a step farther than merely
photographing an inanimate object; it may dramatically emphasize a
segment of exquisite action.
(_EXAMPLE 19._) _INSERT CLOSE-VIEW of title page of “Cinderella,”
Annie’s trembling hand tracing first word .... INSERT CLOSE-VIEW of
Annie’s face, she closes her eyes, her lips move with a smile of
ecstasy._
The close-view is indispensable for acute emphasis; for peculiar
dramatic effect; for discernment of some essential object too small
to be sufficiently noted or noticed otherwise; for the display of the
finer and more subtle emotions; for the revealment of some otherwise
hidden object or action important in unfolding the scene and developing
the action. The last named takes the same latitude as fiction in
bringing in essential data beyond the discernment of the human eye. The
optical process, too, of looking at distant objects thru a strong glass
is effectively reproduced by the close-view. A rather bizarre use is
made of the same device by showing a sectional view of some inclosure:
(_EXAMPLE 20._) _The hero may be eavesdropping on the villain and be
concealed in a box or a barrel; this fact is disclosed by means of the
sectional view. Or a man crawling thru a tunnel and shaking the earth
beneath the scene of action._
The close-view has no equal for breaking dangerously long scenes in a
manner so natural and potential that oftentimes it makes a brilliant
presentation of something that would in all probability have become
tedious.
The vision insert is treated more particularly later on, under other
captions. Suffice it to say, that the vision insert simulates
the more subtle mental processes of thought and fantasy--such as
reflection, introspection, dreams and hallucination--that have a
simultaneous dramatic bearing on the conduct of the character and on
the psychological development of the story.
(_EXAMPLE 21._) _CAPTION .... AFTER FIVE YEARS WITHOUT HER._
_Scene 31. Simply marked grave in cemetery._
_Malcolm discovered kneeling, closes his eyes. Fade to_
_INSERT VISION .... Reproducing scene 20 in part (great rock above
beach, etc.). Fade to_
_INSERT VISION CLOSE-VIEW .... Malcolm looking intently at Florence,
whose eyes disclose her tender love for him. Fade to_
_Scene 31 (Continued) Malcolm has opened his eyes, arms opened as tho
to take Florence._
A helpful distinction between the simple insert and the close-view
insert--tho they are both close-views, as a matter of fact--is to
designate all static and inanimate matter that is neither alive nor
in motion, as simple inserts; and that which is properly part of the
action and has life, motion and expression, as close-view inserts.
(_EXAMPLE 22._) _Letters, telegrams, news excerpts, printed, carved,
engraved matter, miniatures or other likenesses reproduced, and
objects incapable of automatic effort are simply inserts. Close-views
of a hand, face, or other part of the anatomy under the stress of
emotion, or merely revealing a contributive peculiarity, remote
objects with their contingent action brought near, and fragments of
action isolated for emphasis, are close-view inserts._
The question of the employment of dialog at all in the photodrama
has been widely discussed. It would seem to hinge on the meaning of
the word “dialog.” If the word is used in its strict sense of “a
conversation between two or more persons,” then we may eliminate it
from the photoplay without further question. The photoplay is no
place for conversations. But there are occasions upon which the apt
employment of a spoken line of dialog has no equivalent or substitute.
It becomes one of the fine contributory elements that establishes
and preserves the illusion. The effective use of the spoken line is
usually as an insert, being timed to appear simultaneously with the
representation of its utterance:
(_EXAMPLE 23._) _To be precise, the insert follows its actual
utterance:_
_Scene 23. Vine-covered arbor._
_Follows business both pathetic and ludicrous of Bud proposing: Annie
smiles, shakes head._
_INSERT SPOKEN LINE .... “NO, BUD, I HAVE ALREADY GIVEN MY HEART TO A
WONDERFUL PRINCE!”_
_Scene 23. (Continued) Bud broken up but manly._
The spoken line is occasionally used also as a caption, giving voice to
the climacteric sentiment or situation in a single scene, or series of
scenes, that follows:
(_EXAMPLE 24._) _CAPTION 6 .... “TO BE HANGED BY THE NECK UNTIL DEAD!”
is followed by a courtroom scene. The nature of the proceeding is
obvious. The judge rises and pronounces the conventional sentence
of death that gives dramatic significance to the entire sequence of
action that follows._
The spoken line has a poignant directness in it that is scarcely
equaled by any other piece of business. The mental process should be
so cunningly imitated that the enthralled spectator hears the words he
craved just as distinctly as tho they had beat upon the drums of his
ears instead of the drums of his soul. The words pierce the spectator
with personal sympathy, or antagonism, and fairly thunder thru the
silence. Like all other inserted matter and devices, the spoken line
must not be used if it can be dispensed with to the artistic betterment
of the play. It must come naturally and bridge a possible gap. It must
be used as a supplement to, not a substitute for, effective action.
Visualized action takes first and foremost place in the photoplay; all
other matters are harmonious trappings and devices or illusion that
decorate creaking mechanics with esthetic realities.
Inserted matter, unless artistically used, becomes theatric instead of
dramatic. It becomes a sign of weakness and appears in the same light
as clumsy explanations in stories written by inexperienced writers.
The perfect photoplay leaves no doubts, offers no explanations, starts
nothing it can not finish--it is all action, _action_, ACTION! And by
action we mean technically visualized interpretation of whatsoever
nature that convincingly contributes to the perfect illusion of
emotionally seeing a dramatic story.
_Visualisation consists in giving tangible form to Inspiration;
clothing Thoughts in flesh; creating living matter from Ideas;
transmuting Emotions into thrilling substance; and peopling the
imaginations of millions with the glorious company of Dreams come
true, Desire gratified, Justice fulfilled, Brotherhood universal and
Love triumphant!_
CHAPTER V
VISUALIZATION
ITS RELATION TO ACTION; IMPORTANCE OF VOCABULARY; LITERATURE; TO
REGISTER; INTERPRETATION; IN TERMS OF EMOTION; THE PART OF IMAGINATION.
Technique and rules, idea and action are as chaff on the threshing
floor of the photodrama compared to visualization, which is the
precious kernel to be sought. Visualization is both the key and the
keynote of all photoplay-writing.
Hitherto, too much emphasis has been laid on the importance of action,
with but a half-formed idea of the true technical definition of the
term, which is “the connected series of events upon which a piece
depends; the main subject or story, as distinguished from an incidental
action or episode.” Too often has the novice had in mind the violent,
whirling, feverish and physical action, familiarized by the “going
into action” of the battlefield. Such action is always dynamic and
spectacular, but not necessarily dramatic or interpretive. Everything
is on the surface. It is all a matter of primal passion and primeval
emotion. It is the stuff that melodramas are made of. But the deeper,
more powerful and moving emotions of a civilized people are not
surfacial. Their true interpretation is not expressible in immediate
violent action. Culture and civilization are recognized and realized
thru their repression of passion. Even the savage and the dumb beast
have their refined emotions, expressed most vividly thru unwonted
inertness or carefully concealed cunning.
(_EXAMPLE 25._) _The eternal mother-heart broods in dark corners over
its dead offspring; it softly croons over and gently caresses its
babe; deepest hate is manifested by the savage or sage thru cunning,
soft-footed revenge and veiled thrust._
There are two sides to the technical difficulties that confront the
photoplaywright. Given the conception of an idea worth while, he must
first have the power to visualize its phenomena to himself; he must
then be able to represent its dramatic development visibly in terms of
action and symbols of emotion. The power to visualize a story to one’s
self can neither be taught nor learned; its exercise lies in the gift
of imagination. The ability to represent this story in a form that
may be readily interpreted depends on a practical assimilation and a
working knowledge of dramatic construction and photoplay technique.
It resolves itself into the task of telling the story indirectly with
“business,” instead of by direct discourse.
A careful examination of the conditions of photoplay acceptance has
revealed a curious and valuable piece of information. An unusually
large percentage of the manuscripts received by producing companies
contain good ideas, but they are very often rendered unacceptable
because of imperfect and unilluminating expression. The editor, the
director and the actor must understand from your scenario _exactly_
what action, interpretation and suggestion your words are intended to
convey. Many big ideas, striking situations and splendid scenes never
see the light of the screen because of the photoplaywright’s poverty of
expression.
A broad vocabulary hesitates at no flight of inspiration, no matter
how transcending; it falters at no wave of emotion, no matter how
profound; it pauses at no thought, no matter how beautiful. “Beyond
words,” “inexpressible” and “indescribable” are confessions of literary
and dramatic weakness that disappoint editors and bring manuscripts
back by return mail. There are human words to express every impression
that the human mind records. The language of the heart, of the soul and
of the photoplay is the language of the dictionary. Familiarity with
words begets fluency and accuracy in their use. There is but one word
to express one situation under a given condition; do not be content
until you find it. That diligence alone will make the finished and
successful writer. Given inspiration, the right words to express it
will carry it to production, perhaps fame.
Perfect visualization, then, demands an exquisite command of language
capable of nicely interpreting the finest shades of pathos, the deepest
wells of passion, the most delicate waves of emotion, and a thousand
grades of feeling.
Passing from the literary construction of the manuscript and play, we
must become familiar with the mode of translating ideas, which must be
clearly indicated by the writer. The three possible modes are by means
of psychological action, suggestive attitude and mimetic expression.
These are the elements of the new mimetic art of the photodrama just
as the notes and keys are to music; words and sentences to literature;
pigments and brushes to painting.
The secret of visualization lies in the nice employment of symbols
of emotion. The danger lies in over-emphasis, which the writer can
forestall by using an indirect or relative method, which means a
constant exercise of repression.
(_EXAMPLE 26._) _A girl is made to show pity for a sister-woman who is
weeping because of some fell blow. She does not go over and embrace
her; that would show sympathy and participation. Pity comes into her
face, her poise of the head, her wistful attitude. And if sympathy,
she would probably stand with hand half-raised in helplessness if the
woman was bereaved. If some lighter grief, she would gently caress the
other and smile encouragement. Gentleness is poignant!_
It is the thoughtful addition of the little human touches and scenes
that makes the great plays and gives appropriate expression to great
ideas.
(_EXAMPLE 27._) _In scene 8, of “The Coming of the Real Prince,” we
see Annie being driven from the kitchen by her unfeeling mother. The
gist of the story would have been clear without dilating on this
sequence. But the tragedy in Annie’s heart that was responsible for
the play needed further visualising, so we see Annie passing up the
back stairs with a broken-hearted look in her eyes; we see her cast
herself upon her miserable cot and sob as tho her heart would break._
(_EXAMPLE 28._) _In scene 22, of the same play, we see the very depths
of Annie’s soul visualized. First in the caption: THE DREAM OF PRINCE
CHARMING AND THE WONDROUS CITY BEGINS. Annie, in grotesque position
in bed beside battered lamp, reading “Cinderella.” Close-view shows
her face, with lips moving, an ecstatic smile lightening her features.
We return to the scene and see the book slip from her fingers, and in
her dreaming sleep her hands clasp on her breast; she raises her hand
as tho she saw someone approaching. A vision-scene pictures Prince
Charming in doublet and hose. Returning to the scene again we find
Annie wakened, with her hand over her eyes as tho what she saw was too
brilliant to look upon._
The photoplay is silent only technically. In order that convincing
illusion be accomplished, there must be a successful registration of
all such sounds as affect the characters and action in the normal and
natural development of the play. We are interested only in such sounds
as have a direct bearing on the matter that holds the attention of
the audience. In other words, it must--like all other interpretive
matter--be _contributory_.
In indicating that the character hears a particular sound, we say
that he “registers” it. The term register has been used too generally
in photoplay construction to indicate what actors shall do under the
stress of every emotion.
(_EXAMPLE 29._) _For instance, “Annie registers anger,” or “hate,”
“that she will not consent to something,” “that she is displeased.”
A character who registers anything taking place in his own heart or
soul becomes merely an actor--he is pretending. Characters do not
pretend--they ARE. They do not register their feelings--they FEEL them
with results unquestionably natural._
Sounds are recorded then thru reflex action, or registration, just
as they actually reflect against the drums of the ear, telling the
hearer that vibrations have been produced affecting the ear. Sounds
are visualized by showing the appropriate affect on the character or
characters.
(_EXAMPLE 30._) _We might have a deaf old father and his daughter. Her
forbidden lover is behind a stone wall. He whispers softly several
times before she is conscious of his call. She turns, joyously, and
the two pantomime behind the old man’s back._
Sounds are even more effectively visualized thru the employment of one
or more correlative scenes.
(_EXAMPLE 31._) _In one case we see someone in the act of calling; in
the next we see the call registered. The intervening distance may be
gauged by the amount of energy expended by the character. Or we may
see a man escaping from peril, he stumbles and falls. The next scene
shows the captors registering the noise of his fall._
In the elemental days of the cinematograph, it seemed improbable that
music could ever be effectively registered. The visualization of
strains of music, however, has met with most successful accomplishment.
It is effected thru a careful imitation of the auricular and mental
process of recording sound, combined with the use of symbols of emotion.
(EXAMPLE 32.) _“The Lost Melody” (Vitagraph) is a play the plot of
which is based on visualized sound. A strain of music sung and heard
by a man under most virtuous circumstances is repeated when he is on
the point of committing a crime, and it saves his soul.... In one
scene we see the four leading characters walking along and singing
each his love song, with his soul in his face; next we see the dancers
at the club pausing and listening, some of the rapture of the singers
faintly transmitted to their faces; in the roadway an automobile party
stops, they put their hands behind their ears and listen, two keeping
time, the other two put the spirit of the song in action and steal a
lover’s kiss._
(_EXAMPLE 33._) _Five years later the song is sung to save Douglas.
The mental process of receptivity is imitated. We see Malcolm on the
terrace singing; a close-view is then screened of a line of the music
and words; then we see Douglas pausing in his act of robbing his best
friend, registering in alarm; then what he suddenly sees in his mind
and heart is visioned, being the scene of that wonderful night years
ago._
Thus the silent drama may become vibrant with emotional music and
resonant with tongues that need no interpreter, for all nations
understand the universal language of the heart. The most sublime
characters and valiant deeds, ravishing color and mellifluous voices,
are in our soul; sublime sympathy is in our world-old heart; profound
understanding is in our God-given reason, and this multi-glorious human
marvel is gratified to the utmost in having its humanity called into
active being.
_The leading characters must become the center of all action; the
supernumeraries are nothing more or less than animated portions of the
set itself._
CHAPTER VI
CHARACTERIZATION
IDENTITY AND PERSONALITY; CHARACTERISTICS AND IDIOSYNCRASIES;
DESCRIPTION AND DELINEATION; ESTABLISHING RELATIONSHIP; MOTIVES;
EXPRESSION; CONTRASTS.
If we will view characters and characterization as elements of
interpretive and contributory matter, along with inserts, setting
and action, it should aid us in building perfect climaxes. This view
would protect us from that error resulting from the leading characters
seizing the bit in their teeth, so to speak, and running amuck with
the story. Characters are subservient to climax. We have no use for
any manifestations of their character outside of the needs of properly
developing the big moment of the story. Character is the most
effective means to our photoplay end.
Photoplay actors in particular should become exquisite interpreters
of character. Directors should be skillful managers and directors of
interpretation and other mechanical detail. The photoplaywright alone
should be the originator and creator of ideas and an expert in their
expression. But, because photoplaywriting has been in a crude elemental
state, and the new mimetic art of photoplayacting has had to be slowly
and thoughtfully developed, abuses have crept in. Too often the
director becomes the self-appointed creator, interpreter and adapter,
withholding complete knowledge of the play from the actors and remaking
the author’s artistic ideas according to the mold of his own mental and
emotional understanding, and the mechanical and material equipment he
has at his command, or deems essential. Still, we cannot too harshly
blame the officious director until the photoplaywright has become an
indubitable master of expressive and comprehensive “business.”
Photodrama differs radically from the short story, in that there are
at least two leading characters, instead of a single predominating,
all-absorbing character. Such a character would be capable of little
else than the development of itself thru introspection, reminiscence
and possibly ambition, which would result in a character study. A
character study is next to impossible in photodrama. An internal
struggle of one being with himself can sustain but a few scenes at
most. There must be two, or more, souls (and bodies) struggling to
accomplish, overthrow or maintain a certain end.
We find in the photoplay, then, two leads, or leading characters,
at least; while there may be often three or four. All the important
action surrounds these characters. We see the characters in their
characterizations standing out clearly as symbols of the motives
and forces in the play. The hero and the heroine battle for, and
accomplish, the gratifying conclusion; the villain and his accomplices
employ their villainous designs in an unprincipled effort to overthrow
the good, wholesome and happy elements. Obstacles thrown in the path of
one side constitute suspense, and in their removal form a situation.
After the leads, there may be an economical number of supernumeraries
to carry the action along with logical environment and natural
life-likeness.
(_EXAMPLE 34._) _A courtroom, a busy street, the floor of the stock
exchange, or any other setting wherein other characters should appear
to naturalize it, must be appropriately peopled. These characters are
animated portions of setting and contribute to harmony._
The early identity, or differentiation between the leads themselves,
and between the minor characters is of vast moment and importance. The
moment a character appears, or is discovered in a scene, his identity
must be disclosed, and his relationship to the other characters and the
action made known.
There are three ways of establishing identity: (a) thru personality,
which discloses strength or weakness of character and the manner in
which it dominates or is subservient to others with whom it comes
in contact; (b) by means of idiosyncrasies, or marked personal
oddities, deformities, or deportment; (c) vocational garb, national
characteristics, uniform or peculiarity of personal ensemble.
(_EXAMPLE 35._) (_a_) _The line, “Mother weeping and Annie supporting
her,” in Scene 1 of “The Coming of the Real Prince,” foretells a
certain strength and weakness that manifests itself thru the two
characters._ (_b_) _A character exhibits a continual frown, or sniffs,
or winks, or limps, or has a scar or deformity._ (_c_) _As a soldier,
policeman, a character would wear his uniform, or a foreigner might
wear all or part of his native costume, etc._
Strong personalities flourish in the serious drama, while the leads in
comedy are usually distinguished by peculiarities. Each human being
has his normal characteristics that differentiate him from the rest
of his fellows; this must become well marked in photodrama, tho not
exaggerated to the point of becoming a personal oddity. They must be
clearly brought out and maintained in a dignified manner thruout the
play. In the serious play, character is but a means of developing a
moving _personality_, and personality is but the outward symbol of the
internal truths of the story. Personality is motive visualized.
Your few words describing your characters and indicating their actions
must be suggestive enough to enable the combined efforts of director
and actor to delineate truthfully the personality that is part of
your dramatic vision. Nothing stands still in the photoplay; therefore
characters must be delineated in terms of emotion--repressed or
active--or described in words of action--commonplace or dramatic. The
audience should be informed unmistakably who and what your characters
are _thru what they do_. The motives of the leading characters must
come to the surface at once in order to ignite the audience’s interest
with the dramatic spark. There must be sufficient insinuation in _what_
your characters do, to reveal _why_ they do it. Altho a character,
during the action of the play, may develop from weakness to strength,
yet each bit of action has a determining character of its own, that is
either weak or strong.
The immediate and unmistakable identity of your characters is essential
to knowing your characters; the early and clear establishment of
relationship between characters is essential to grasping your story. A
profound study of the subject yields the conclusion that the simplest,
most economical, quickest and most effective means of revealing the
identity and establishing the relationship of the character is the
caption. Without the caption we must resort to the inartistically
obvious and more or less clumsy devices, such as doors labeled “Private
Office of John Smith”; trade-signs, as “Solomon Isaacs, Pawnbroker,” or
have the actors overgesture their parts in a laborious effort to tell
the audience who and what they are.
(_EXAMPLE 36._) _A perusal of six produced plays discloses the
unanimous use of the caption for the combined purposes of identity and
relationship. These captions usually appear early in the play--before
the second or third scene: (1) GEORGIA WANTS TO BE A LEADER OF HER
SEX AND NOT A DRUDGE; (2) ANNIE’S WIDOWED MOTHER LEFT PENNILESS;
(3) COLONEL FARRINGTON FORCES HIS DAUGHTER ON MARSTON, HIS SUPPOSED
BENEFACTOR; (4) MALCOLM DECIDES TO WAIT AND MAKE HIS PROPOSAL TO
ROSALIE AN ARTISTIC OCCASION; (5) SHELBURNE, HARD HIT, TURNS AGAINST
HIS IRRESPONSIBLE LIFE; (6) ARCHER DURAND AND HIS WIFE ARRIVE IN THE
MINING DISTRICT HALF STARVED._
The letter insert can be employed with equal effectiveness. The
characters once introduced effectively, their future actions are easily
understood--providing they are logical and natural. The relationships,
as they are established by the first appearances of the characters,
form the premise of the plot and the argument of the story that are
readily followed, if the scenes are well-knit and the story interesting.
In conjunction with the caption or letter, then, something occurs
immediately to grasp the attention and offer insight into characters,
their relationships and motives. Furthermore, both vocation and
character may be indicated by environment, make-up, costume, tools,
manner and culture. Contrasts in action, appearance and conduct between
characters is always effective in clarifying characterization. Where
there are no voices and many characters, great care must be exercised
to differentiate. The sooner the writer realizes the difficulties that
beset actor and director in differentiating character, the quicker he
will begin to economize on the number he employs and to strengthen
personalities. It is an axiom of photodrama that the bigger the idea,
_the fewer the characters_! Thus it is seen that too many important
characters make too great a demand on the audience.
In order that the character may exhibit the motive underlying the
action, the writer must visualize it, and the actor must realize it.
There must be mimetic harmony, sympathy and naturalness.
We are cautioned by some savants never to tell the actor _how_ to act
a line, but tell them only _what_ to do. We disagree. Providing the
writer has become an expert in the writing of business and dramatic
expression, he can scarcely infringe on the director’s right, the
actor’s profession, or injure the prospects of his play by offering
an analysis of the construction of the characters he himself has
created. Co-operation is too often lacking from the fact that the
actor seldom knows exactly what he is trying to do. The director
extricates a jumbled part from the inseparable whole of the play,
recites it extempore for the actor and drills the requisite action
into him. How, then, can the actor be expected to interpret things
and put them in that were in the mind of the writer? He must guess
at the harmony of the composition, surmise the relationships, and
consequently lose all the nice touches that the true artist would
incorporate in the well-made play. It is the actor’s sole business
and art to interpret ideas. He is the living motive of the play and
the most important symbol in the expression of its inner truth. When
will actors learn their lines in order to catch the very soul of your
play, instead of yah-yahing at each other when a visualized exchange
of words is necessary? But the writer will have to write the essential
words--perhaps that’s the rub?
Violent action will always excite and thrill the mind; but it takes
passive repression to move the soul. The body that suffers, writhes
and flings itself about; the hurt soul shrinks back and lies stunned.
The prick of a pin will make a strong man jump spasmodically a foot
in the air; a sharp word will make the noblest soul sink deep into
gloom. We actors, directors and playwrights are seeking the artistic
expression of the life of the soul; the existence and agency of the
body are merely means to that end. We should be striving to capture the
soft lights and shadows of mental impressionism; and not be struggling
to imprison the bold sunlight and harsh lines of physical photography.
Deep emotion and its characterization lies not in the bold step
forward, but in the shrinking half-step backward; not in the brazen
eye, but in the shy, drooping eye-lid; not in the defiant word, but
in the silent, quivering lip; not in the blow of the fist, but in the
gentle, stroking hand; not in the violent embrace, but in the tender
caress; not in the sudden turn on the heel, but in the shrug of the
shoulders--one is a matter of physical mechanics, the other emotional
art. If emotional art is put first in our endeavors, all the range of
physical mechanics will follow logically, but secondarily.
Our writers have been frightened away from suggestive artistic detail,
and have fallen upon the evil way of bald physical mechanics that leave
nothing to the imagination. The gentle gesture, the poise of the head,
the trembling lip, the downcast eye, of the story vision are usurped
by the over-emphasized action. Decisive action is essential in the
photoplay, but the producer’s version is too often another story.
Characters should tend to personify and visualize the tender twilights
of pathos; the soft shadows of pain and sorrow; the gentle glow of
goodness and nobility; the serene surface of happiness. They should
build the lives of the audience anew; inspire them to noble deeds; let
them touch the hem of the garment of sublimity and teach them life’s
lessons of humility, forbearance and faith.
_The playwright should never take advantage of his audience’s moral
weakness to display “strong” scenes of character depravity; but rather
he should employ a character’s weakness to strengthen his audience’s
morality._
CHAPTER VII
THEME, TREATMENT AND THE CENSOR
MORALS AND ETHICS; CRIME; NATIONAL BOARD OF CENSORSHIP; TASTE;
INSPIRATION AND INFLUENCE.
What shall we write about, and how shall we write it?
Here the playwright must pause and look his fellow men, his friends,
his parents, his children, his wife, and his conscience square in
the eye. They are one and all his intimate audience. They will be
influenced by his product, be pleased or offended in its production,
and thru it see his heart with all its strength and weakness laid bare.
Broadly, our theme shall be Life--Life in all its aspects: the
gorgeous and the threadbare; the noble and the sordid; the happy and
the sorrowful; the righteous and the sinful; the healthy and the
ailing; the youthful and the aged; the strong and the weak. But it
must be the _life that we know_--not necessarily thru experience, but
possibly thru study, observation or intuition.
Choice of theme is a matter requiring, chiefly, a respectful observance
of the general popular demand and the particular needs of the studios,
unless you are genius enough to initiate and lead the popular tastes.
But the subject of treatment is one requiring a far more delicate
exercise of judgment. Any conceivable theme may be spoiled by an
indiscreet or injudicious viewpoint.
The playwright conveys powerful personalities to his characters, but
remains passively impersonal himself. He immovably records truth, never
interposing himself, his opinions or his bias. His characters pursue
their own lives; they are neither automatons nor marionettes; they live
according to their individual natures and have provokingly free wills.
The photoplaywright has but to remain on the side of right and
justice, good citizenship and decency. He communicates nothing thru the
symbols of his play that he would hesitate, refrain or be ashamed of
telling those nearest, dearest and most sacred to him. Public audiences
are daily made up of millions of people, who are highly impressionable,
of tender age and of simple susceptibilities. Providing our play is
effective, it contains a very positive influence, that means either
a rise or a fall in moral values in every community wherein it is
exhibited. The playwright must be the figure of justice that shows no
mercy to the wrongdoer; the sword of retribution he carries in one
hand, in the other he holds the scales of just rewards. There simply
must be a moral ending.
It is more essential that the villain be vanquished, than punished.
Our story is not vengeance, but is usually concerned with the victory
of the good element--or hero--and the incidental adventures of
circumventing the villain and misfortune. Stories in which the good
element is overcome by the bad, thus placing a premium on the bad,
are unmoral. Stories or plays showing the delights to be gained from
illicit pleasures or pursuits, followed or not by adequate punishment
or retribution, are immoral.
(_EXAMPLE 37._) _Thus the so-called “white slave,” “drug terror” and
underworld plays, reeking with depravity, leering with lasciviousness
and groveling in intemperance, are actually immoral. Their symbols
of vice are all-powerful, and any symbols of virtue introduced are
usually wishy-washy in comparison. The hero or heroine is usually a
weak character, instead of a strong one. We see vice exercising a
baneful influence, robbing its victim of will, health and life. Vice
conquers. We do not need “examples” of what not to do. We should be
inspired by the nobility of good, and not cowed by the fear of evil.
The countless throngs that crowd the exhibition of these so-called
plays for the most part are craning to get a view of gleaming flesh
quivering in pools of forbidden passion, rather than seeking a glimpse
of a tortured soul--neither one being an edifying entertainment._
At first thought, it would seem as tho crime were the most frequent
factor among the sources of dramatic construction. As a matter of fact,
accomplished crime does figure powerfully in more than two-thirds of
all dramatic productions, including the highest class. Active vice, the
venial and deadly sins and potential crime occur even more frequently
thruout the course of our dramatic development. It would seem as tho we
should have no little difficulty in making our good characters walk the
straight and narrow path among such a network of pitfalls.
But even the writer of the most moral plays should glory in the
omnipresence of sin and crime, tho never glorify it. Good would be
colorless as dramatic material, were it not for evil. Evil is the
foil for goodness; it is the contrast that delivers goodness from
monotony; evil is the shadow that gives the highlight of goodness its
chiaroscuro; it is the salt that saves it from saccharinity. When
evil, misfortune, or bereavement oppose us, they oftentime bring to
the surface and develop our otherwise hidden virtues, making them
illuminate the lives of others and add a ray of undying nobility to the
world’s fiction experience.
(_EXAMPLE 38._) _Five produced plays selected at random reveal the
following facts in relation to the employment of crime: (1) THE COMING
OF THE REAL PRINCE--An immoral, flashy man of the city attempts to
seduce an innocent, visionary country girl. He is thwarted by the
rousing of dead mother-love and of a sublime nobility in a country
yokel; (2) THE LOST MELODY--The memory of his sweet, innocent dead
wife, brought back to him thru hearing a forgotten melody, stays a
man’s hand from robbing his best friend; (3) UNTO THE CHILDREN--A
boy inherits the vice of gambling from his father, but it is burnt
forever out of his nature, by the sublime heroism and sacrifice of his
mother at the critical moment; (4) THE STRUGGLE--The brutal assault
of strikers on a strike-breaker, brings the capitalist and laborers
face to face on a common plane of pity and nobility; (5) BRANDED FOR
LIFE--An ex-convict, striving in vain for reinstatement in the eyes of
society, is enabled thru a noble and inspiring sacrifice to win the
respect of all men._
A play will exert influence in the same proportion as it is
artistically effective; which is as much as to say, the greater the
artist the greater his power for good or evil. To become over-zealous
in presenting morality leads to propaganda; to be too realistic
and careless in the portrayal of immorality leads into the mire of
obscenity. True art has nothing to do with morality, for or against;
it is intrinsically noble, uplifting and inspiring. Whether the life
of the artist is exemplary or not is a matter of his own conscience;
the life of his character creations must keep within the bounds
of decency, be amenable to the laws of the country and subject to
the rewards and punishments gratifying to the best impulses of the
wholesome minded.
Tragedy is an exception, in that we often see a good character
overwhelmed by circumstances, environment and nature. But tragedy
should conform to inspiration, in that we behold the doomed character
revealing unguessed sublimity in the unequal struggle.
Together with this question of treatment comes that of, “How real do
we want our realism?” It is answered indirectly by saying that just
so much of any of life’s experiences as we may disclose or relate in
promiscuous company, in the presence of innocent--not necessarily
puritanic--understandings and quick perceptions, may be delineated on
the screen. Each age has its own broadnesses and limitations in this
respect, of which every refined and intelligent person is cognizant.
Drama is not dependent upon frank discussions of revolting or
lascivious subjects; entertainment is its prime function. A searching
analysis of either vice or virtue is contrary to the principles of
dramatic action.
The actual commission of crime is not as important as the cause and
effect of it. Morbid curiosity is the only excuse for the sight of
a deed of murder, suicide, or other vicious crime. _How_ a crime is
committed is an element of criminology, not drama.
We have to thank the National Board of Censorship for the exclusion
of actual deeds of crime. This censoring body, unfortunately, has
been composed almost wholly of persons who are theoretically the very
antipodes of crime and naturally intolerant to its employment at all.
Time may bring us a less biased exercise and a broader view of their
powers.
(_EXAMPLE 39._) _Criminal deeds are easily and effectively handled in
photoplay. For instance, murder--we see the culprit and the victim in
separate scenes: a man at his desk in one scene; the murderer breaking
into the office, in another. Another scene brings us to the instant
BEFORE the deed--the weapon poised, or culprit and victim in mortal
combat. We may here interpose a scene of someone registering a pistol
shot, or hearing the scuffle. In another scene we return to the crime
and find it has just been committed. Any crime may be effectively
delineated in this manner._
In the matter of casting characters, no character can properly be cast
a villain unless his actions comprehend a conscious knowledge of guilt.
Our hero oftentimes commits a crime or misdemeanor unwittingly, or in
that stage of his character development before the elements of the
story itself change him from weak to strong. The thoroly bad character
must remain bad, just as he would in life; the good character may be
bad temporarily and become bettered, but we must make him suffer from
his misdeeds. In other words, our characters become _living people_
who are endowed with human traits of which their every action is the
natural outcome.
Good taste in the selection and treatment of theme brings us back
again to the same admonition of exercising the simple quality of being
well-bred. Just as we would not think of startling a drawing-room
assembly by forcing our personal bias upon it, so we must select our
dramatic matter in a serious, humane and delicate manner. There are
potent commercial reasons, as well as the dogma of good taste, for not
caricaturing races, ridiculing creeds, satirizing politics and making
fun of physical deformities and mental infirmities.
Occasion, occupation and environment each has it own propriety and
convention that must carefully be observed by the photoplaywright.
This is not a matter of delicacy so much as it is one of producing
conviction thru naturalness.
(_EXAMPLE 40._) _The seashore is an occasion for women wearing
extremely abbreviated costumes that would be improper in the street;
the occupation of the doctor is one that permits women to enter his
quarters alone with propriety; the environment of the Orient makes it
a convention for women to smoke and guests to sit on the floor._
In summing up this most important phase of the photodrama, we may say
briefly: Let your sympathies ever be found with the purest, best and
noblest there is in life; make your story show your condemnation of
the low and evil. But don’t be a prude or a preacher! Do not permit
yourself to be accused of trying to teach better things, but let your
work _inspire_ them!
_Technique is the Training School of all organised knowledge; Art is
its Life: Technique is a matter of Rules and a space of study; Art is
one of principles and eternity._
CHAPTER VIII
RULES OF THE GAME
DURATION AND NUMBER OF SCENES; PERPETUAL MOTION; THE “NOW” ELEMENT;
EFFECTIVE FORM; NATURAL LAWS; SCENE PRINCIPLE.
In no literary effort is technique more important or essential than in
the construction of the photoplay. There are arbitrary rules that must
be followed and conventions that cannot be ignored. We must cater to
the manufacturer’s possibilities; we must conform to fixed mechanical
limitations; we interpret our art thru “business”; we must gather the
world-wide vision within the narrow focus of the camera’s eye. Our
play-form and technique must be sufficiently potent, suggestive and
revealing to enable competent co-operators to discern, interpret and
manufacture an effective concrete and vividly _alive_ reproduction
of our abstract vision, so that it may be readily recognized and
emotionally realized by independent audiences the world over.
The photoplaywright is the only literary craftsman who does not carve,
model and perfect with his own handiwork the actual presentment of his
creation offered to the public. And, greatest obstacle of all--our
photoplaywright must accomplish his eloquent task by remaining
technically silent! We come to the inevitable conclusion that
construction and technique are equal in importance--if not superior--to
idea or conception of the writer.
The matter of bare photoplay form is but the slightest move in the
direction of perfect effect. It is the subject of _effective_ photoplay
form and how to produce the effects that really count.
We may set down as one of the first principles of photodrama, that
the playwright must make his rule of construction: People go to the
theater to _see_ a deed and not to read or hear _about_ it. There are
several ways of construing a breach of this principle. The first is
that of telling the story indirectly by means of captions and inserts,
instead of directly thru consecutive action. This is the method of the
poor plotter and shallow artificer who sticks in a caption or insert
whenever he encounters an obstacle, oftentimes skipping the climacteric
situations and showing the trifling details.
(_EXAMPLE 41._) _AFTER THE RIOT JOE KEPT IN BED WITH BROKEN ARM ....
Audiences simply will not accept that broken arm as convincing unless
their reasons can vouch for the violence that led to it. But riots
are more easily skipped than successfully delineated. All climacteric
scenes must be shown and not merely referred to. We always take the
commonplace for granted; but never the extraordinary._
Next we deal with an offending heritage from short story fiction, the
story within a story or, as we shall here call it, a story within
a play. It should never be resorted to; it need never be done. It
breaks the thread of one story to insert another that in nearly every
case is stronger than the original, forming an anti-climax instead
of contributing to one. Its use means that the play has not been
carefully plotted, that it has not been begun early enough, or in the
right place, and that it is trying laboriously to explain something
that would not stand by itself.
(_EXAMPLE 42._) _In the Vitagraph’s “A Million Bid,” the quasi-hero
is picked up again after having been absent for more than a reel, and
sets in to tell what has happened to him while he has been away! Most
of it was entirely “another story,” but much of it might have been
effectually interwoven with the progressing action of the play. As it
was, it was most difficult to grasp the fact that we had been hauled
months back in point of time. In the mental melée we lost sight of
the main theme altogether, and most of us never quite got back to it.
All of us were befuddled to some extent. It was intended, no doubt,
that the audience should not know the identity of the narrator until
the heroine herself found it out, which would have made it worse in
thus having an entire stranger break into our story and consume nearly
one-third of the entire play!_
The most common form of a story within a play is the one in which the
hunter, or the veteran, or the old person blighted in love, or some
such character sits down, with a younger person usually, and in the
end there is a laborious effort to make the experience of the older
person play a part in the younger’s career. There may be exceptions to
a hard-and-fast rule of avoiding these devices, but usually it will be
found that there is a remedy in the principles of the photodrama itself
that say begin your action back at _the very beginning_ and _always go
forward._
The third pitfall, is that of trying to record speeches--dramatic
tho they be--by supposedly visualizing what the speaker is referring
to; of trying to tell the story of a crime, for instance, thru the
trial of the culprit, rather than by showing the events preceding and
causing the trial in their chronological order. Here, as in the former
instance, the vision is resorted to. The vision is apt to be employed
in dramatizing the detective story that is primed with a surprise in
the climax in which the method of its revealment is disclosed by going
back and showing the steps. Let it be a rare exception that makes
you ever turn backward; for neither time nor drama can do it without
violating a natural law.
To be explicit, the photoplay is a _now_ play! The now may be a
thousand years ago, but it must be relived again, now. All of which
should warn us to avoid long lapses of time, occurring especially in
the one-part play.
Nothing quite emphasizes the “now” quality of the photodrama as the
invariable practice of employing nothing but the _present tense_ in
writing the photoplay. Synopsis and scenario are seemingly conscious
of the things they are engaged in doing now. Past deeds and future
prophecies--employing their respective tenses--frequently occur in
captions and inserts, however.
(_EXAMPLE 43._) _From a letter: “I have never seen you take any
interest in anything.” Caption: “In fifty minutes your child will be
on the scrap heap, too!”_
The laws of natural movement and action should never be violated by
the characters themselves. Any character who is to appear in the next
scene must always be seen to _leave_ the present scene, disappearing
from view in that action, and again be seen to _come on_ the scene that
follows. It is unnecessary to accompany the character thru the various
and uninteresting steps between his leaving one scene and arrival on
the next. If something dramatic happens to him en route then we should
see it. Contrary to fiction construction, scene precedes character in
presentation. We are carried to the new scene and meet the character
at the door as it were, and the illusion is complete. A preliminary
fragment of action transpiring in the following scene, before the
appearance of the character, will lend a further contribution to
naturalness.
(_EXAMPLE 44._) _In scene 27, of “All Power for a Day,” we find Alice
hurriedly leaving the crowd when she has seen the face of the man she
hates. In scene 28, the room, in her boarding-house is shown, her
landlady--her enemy’s confederate--snooping for a bit among her things
before she enters._
Characters must not be left in one scene and be discovered in the next
following. They are not clothing dummies or marionettes, to be picked
up bodily and helplessly and placed in set poses for the inspection of
the audience. If another scene intervenes in which the same character
does not appear, then it is not necessary for him to “come and go,”
since we presume he has had time and freedom for the necessary action
while we were engaged with the alternate scene.
The scene principle in the photoplay is one of reflective power.
One scene reacts, rebounds, reflects, reverberates from the scene
that precedes it to the scene that follows it; all bear a cumulative
relation toward the climax.
(_EXAMPLE 45._) _In “The Master of the Lost Hills” we have six scenes
all different, yet showing the reflective power with tremendous force:
(1) Mary aims gun out of window and tells brother to step back or she
will shoot; (2) Brother hesitates in his advance; (3) Close-view of
Mary taking aim; (4) Just at edge of woods Mary’s desperate lover is
taking aim at her; (5) Portion of dense forest showing sheriff and
posse, who have come to rescue Mary, lost; (6) Exterior of shack shows
mob drawing closer._
Another scene principle that we have learned is that every time the
camera is shifted an iota we have a new scene. Theoretically, the eye
of the camera never moves, excepting in the disillusioning practice
of some operators to follow the movements of energetic characters by
“panoram-ing.”
Our rule for length, duration and number of scenes is governed by the
unalterable unit of the reel, or 1,000 feet of film. A short play--one
reel--may consist of from 25 to 50 scenes; according to the directness,
tone, treatment by the author and the method of the director. The
exciting play of comedy, adventure and peril moves along rapidly, with
short, quick scenes and many “returns,” just as in fiction we use
short sentences and employ words and phraseology that remind us of
and constantly revert to the hero’s imminent peril. The duration of a
scene is in direct ratio to the vital relationship of its action to the
climax.
(_EXAMPLE 46._) _In “The Salt of Vengeance” the grief-crazed father of
an injured child sets a bomb under the rails that will blow to atoms
the child of the man who is responsible for the injury. The lunatic
pens up the guilty man, taunts him with the swiftly approaching fate
of his precious child. This scene endures for several minutes. The
next is a mere “flash” of a speeding railroad train occupying several
seconds._
It is a natural law of drama that demands the establishment of identity
almost the moment that a character appears. This is especially
requisite in photodrama because of the rapid panorama of scenes that
hurry on and off, at the rate of 75 to 200 an hour. One moment’s doubt
on the part of the audience--so incredibly swift and fleeting is the
hurry of photoplay events--may mean the misunderstanding or losing of
a year of the hero’s life.
Learn and follow rules always with a willing mind; but never let them
lead you around by the nose. The man who cannot take a single step
without consulting his rules will become a wooden worker. “The way to
make rules really valuable is to thoroly learn them, then literally
forget them by perfectly practicing them.” Now and then we see
something in a play that is superior to rules and technique; something
that would have been cramped and crushed by rules. At present the
photodrama has many superficial rules and a technique that is often
archaic and lacks the element of futurity.
All said and done, we are not teaching technique, or laying down rules;
rather, we are trying to interpret the laws of human conduct, the
science of being natural and the art of entertaining effectively.
_Real success is not as likely to come to the man who grinds out a
play a day, year in and year out, as it is to him who writes “the play
of the day” once a year; film footage is not the measure of photoplay
fame._
CHAPTER IX
BROMIDES WORTH REPEATING
THE VIRTUE OF ECONOMY; PRODUCING POLICIES; PERIOD AND COSTUMES;
ANIMALS; COPYRIGHT AND CARBON COPIES; RELATION OF AUTHOR’S WORK TO HIS
AUDIENCE; TO THE MANUFACTURER; TO HIS MANUSCRIPT.
So many volumes have been written merely _describing_ the photoplay,
representing it primarily as a _manufactured article_ and larding the
treatises with an appalling number of “dont’s,” that the author of the
present work has made an especial effort constructively to analyze
photodrama, to embody it as a new and complete form of drama-literary
art, and show the student not only what to do but _how to do it_.
Hitherto, photoplay inception and construction have been carried on
chiefly with a view to facilitating its manufacture. It is about time
that we took the profit-yielding audiences into consideration by
supplying the artistic entertainment for which they are crying. The
manufacturing end is well able to take care of itself; the actor has
demonstrated in a vast number of instances that he is able “to deliver
the goods”--if he is supplied with them; a large number of directors
have demonstrated remarkable ability in assembling and directing the
material elements that perfectly interpret and visualize the story of
the playwright. _All that is needed is the trained writer_ in adequate
numbers to supply the infinite demand. By the trained writer, is meant
the man who needs the _artistic co-operation_ of editor, director,
actor and manufacturer, and not the mechanical collaboration with them.
It takes, then, a knowledge of the things that enable you to _do_ your
good idea effectively; a negligence of the don’ts will not make for
the flawless play, yet alone would not succeed in smothering the great
idea.
There are three relationships of the writer that will bear repeated
cautions and dont’s: (1) The Audience; (2) The Manufacturer--(a)
editor, (b) studio, (c) photography, (d) manufacture; and (3) The
Manuscript--(a) technique, (b) preparation, (c) sale. We shall discuss
these considerations in the order named.
1. THE AUDIENCE.--Your audience in general is world-wide. Because of
the brevity of the plays, the cheapness of admission to the theaters,
and the quick and universal appeal to the emotions our first and most
numerous patrons are the lower classes and especially the children. For
these reasons alone, suggestiveness, the portrayal of crime in such a
way as to show how it is done, or as to inspire its commission, are not
to be exploited. Taking sides with either the masses or the classes;
with labor or capital, or with the white race versus races of color, is
not only inartistic but dangerously incendiary. Politics are too local
as play material, as we must always bear in mind that our play is to
appear in Timbuctoo as well as in Tonopah. Religion is too delicate,
too cherished and too sacred a subject for anything but dignified and
unprejudiced treatment. Films that _in any way reflect_ upon the Roman
Catholic Church will be barred out of many Catholic countries. The
European market is a most profitable source of income to many American
manufacturers. In this connection we have but to remember that the
human heart has the same strength and struggle, the same weaknesses and
tragedies the world over. Difference of language, however, raises a few
minor pitfalls. For example, placards of warning, ransom, rewards and
other matter which play a part in the story thru the audience’s reading
it in the picture, should be eliminated. These points are easily
circumscribed--and made more effective--by the use of the insert. Just
as captions have to be made in the language of each exhibiting country,
so do the proper inserts.
2. MANUFACTURER. (a) _Editor_--Some reader will have to pass on your
manuscript, in all likelihood, before the editor sees it. In both
cases, the Synopsis becomes the gate of approval. They do not read
the Scenario at all unless the Synopsis is eminently promising. An
editor wants what he needs, rather than what he personally desires to
see presented. Your manuscript might contain the most pleasing and
producible play in the world, yet if it did not fit his existing needs
it would be poor policy to purchase it. Your manuscript is its own
appeal and needs no personal letter; it is advisable not to write one.
Your title is surely going to influence the editor strongly for or
against further perusal of the manuscript. The editor will naturally
be partial to the short Synopsis, but do not coddle this partiality by
making your Synopsis too bald. The editor does not accept a manuscript,
as a rule, until he has held a conference over it--possibly with the
managing-director of the company adapted to producing the type of story
in question. A careful observance of the rule of economy--economy of
supers and principals, of _interior sets_, of props, of difficult
scenes, of energy, time and expense--is bound to be appreciated.
(b) _Studio_--In the term studio, we may include director, actor, stage
carpenter, and interior lightings and effects. No one is more pleased
with a simple and powerful story than the director, and frequently no
one has quite as much to say about the acceptance of the manuscript
as this same highest-paid employee. It has often happened that even a
bought manuscript of undoubted merit has never seen the light of the
screen because there have been several difficult scenes to master,
either mechanically or emotionally. The manuscript must be concise and
quick in showing the director how many sets must be constructed or got
out, how many actors must be employed, what props and costumes must be
bought, rented or ordered. It is in this relation, that a scene plot
may be used to advantage, for it will enable the director to consider
the matter of suitable locations for exteriors. Unless he has child
actors available, the matter of juvenile leads may mean the rejection
of an otherwise desirable play. Military, costume or period plays
are sure to be frowned down unless it is the producing policy of the
manufacturer to put them on. Unless the producer has at his command
trained animals, either wild or tame, it will be a waste of postage to
send him plays the scenes or situations of which depend upon animal
acting. Several manufacturers maintain menageries! Each studio has
a star or two of either sex who is best known for certain types of
characters and plays. These high salaried artists must be kept busy.
Study their needs!
(c) _Photography_--Such photographic marvels have been accomplished
in motography, that the playwright is apt to forget that there is any
boundary line to possibility in photographic effects. First of all,
there is the matter of color; blue, for instance, becomes white on the
screen, and red, black. Black and white alone are resultant except in
kinemacolor or in tinted negative. When a situation or dramatic point
depends upon color, it will have to be indicated either by caption or
by insert. The camera is quicker than the human eye and more unfailing,
in that it records everything that passes within its range of focus.
Tyros have to be told again and again that exteriors cannot be made
at night. The night scene would have to be artificially lighted by a
flash, which would result in a daylight effect! Rain, night, lightning,
storm and pictures taken in a darkened or over-lighted atmosphere, are
usually “effects” artificially created. We do not see, for instance,
bona fide lightning descending from the sky and simultaneously striking
a man dead. The technical secret of portraying all difficult effects
of this kind is by showing them in two or more scenes--_first cause,
then effect_. First, we see lightning in the sky; then, we see the man
the instant after being struck, collapsing. Night exteriors may be well
simulated by having the action isolated under the rays of a street
lamp or other direct rays of light, with darkness surrounding. Light
and the want of it are the chief obstacles in the way of photography;
the genius of the directors and their co-operators have made almost
any conceivable “effect” possible. Frequently manuscripts call for
exteriors in foreign countries. Very seldom can backgrounds and sets
do anything more than make a cheap, wooden presentment of the Eiffel
Tower, or the Pyramids or St. Paul’s, London. The playwright may
accomplish his aim, by keeping his foreign scenes all interiors, with
possibly a glimpse of the distant landmark thru the window.
(d) _Manufacturer_--Every manufacturing company has some producing
policy or characteristic. The Kalem, for instance, is noteworthy for
its war dramas, Edison for its leaning toward topical themes--and so
on. In this relation, it may be well to remember that each company
has a staff of salaried playwrights who furnish many of their typical
features. The manufacturers both love and hate the spectacular; they
feel that it is beloved by the public and the life of competition,
yet they abhor the dangers, destructivity and tremendous expense
and superhuman effort it entails. Some day they will realize that
the public really loves simple drama more than they do sensational
spectacle.
3. THE MANUSCRIPT (a) _Technique_--In fiction the deeds need only be
probable; in photodrama they must be actually performable, because the
audience must see them. For the photoplay must show whatever is vital.
Keep your captions down to 15 words at the most, and your inserts to
20, as every word means a foot of film. Tell how your characters shall
act, leave to the director where and how they enter and exit. Write
mainly about characters that arouse the spectators’ sympathy. Our
photoplay is not told, but acted. Photoplay happenings should transpire
in the same order as they do in life. There is nothing so unconvincing
as a multiplicity of coincidences. First become an expert on words, if
you would be a master of thought. Be certain that you state briefly all
crises, situations, and the climax in the Synopsis. Be sure that you
feel all the emotions you plan to inspire in others and that you have a
dramatic idea before you worry about technique.
(b) _Preparation_--Good English is essential to the photoplaywright,
not merely because it is the badge of literacy, but because thru
good, clear, forceful English alone can the playwright hope to give
searching expression to an exquisite impression! Beside being a
literary offering, the submission of a manuscript is a purely business
venture. We offer our goods for sale; we put them up in an attractively
neat parcel; we label them plainly with our name and address in the
left-hand corner of the Cast, Synopsis and Scenario sheets only; we
prepay the postage of the manuscript both to and from the prospective
buyer, sustaining a good impression by inclosing a self-addressed
envelope. A carbon copy of a manuscript is the only perfect safeguard
in case of loss. The hand-written manuscript is as out-of-date as the
hand printing press.
(c) _Sale_--You can not force a firm to buy what it does not want,
and it is unbusinesslike to demand reasons or to censure it for its
refusal to do so. You will be paid, naturally, what the manuscript is
commercially worth and not what it may be valued at by you. You should
always be conceded the privilege of refusing an offer, just as the
buyer is given the right to buy. A photoplay cannot be copyrighted,
thanks to a ludicrous Department of the United States Government.
Happily, published works of Literature can--after a fashion--so that
the aspiring playwright will do best to photodramatize only such plays,
books, short stories and poems as he himself is author of. If you
wish to reserve story or stage rights, make it clear in the receipt
you sign. The photoplay market has a unique bit of etiquette--for a
business transaction--that demands of you to submit your manuscript to
but one manufacturer at a time. Sales are influenced, of course, by the
excellence of the playwright’s product; but they are forced alone by
the law of supply and demand.
A few important admonitions remain, chief among which is to eschew
the sterile pseudonym of “moving pictures,” when photodrama is meant.
Furthermore, scorn and cry down the derogatory and ignominious term of
“movie” that stands between the playwright and his claim to a dignified
profession.
_Be original_--and you can only acquire the virtue thru a constant
attendance at the theaters, seeking what has been worn to triteness and
learning what has never been done at all. Observe what “gets the hand,”
and you will surely find what will get the heart! Be persistent--if you
have faith in your play; keep revising it; keep sending it out.
PART II
THE PLOT OF THE PHOTODRAMA
_A photoplay Plot is the unpolished material for a COMPLETE decisive
action; it is composed of cumulative and interesting incidents rising
to a dramatic climax, and terminating in a manner calculated to
gratify and warrant the interest roused in its beginning._
CHAPTER I
WHAT PLOT MATERIAL IS[A]
THE PLOT GERM; THE PREMISE ADVANCED; ANCIENT THEME AND ORIGINAL
TREATMENT.
To the producer a plot is material capable of being dramatized thru
visualized action into a life-like story. To the playwright a plot is
suggestive material capable of being developed into the nucleus of a
story.
[A] “The Plot of the Short Story--an Exhaustive Study, Both Synthetical
and Analytical, with Copious Examples, Making the Work a Practical
Treatise,” is recommended to students desiring to study this important
subject exhaustively.
The average plot builder makes the mistake of looking upon plot
material as ready-made plots. He thus confuses plot germ (or material)
with complete plot. Plot germs lie about us by the score; complete
plots are hidden in the most evasive creases of our imaginative genius.
The plot germ is merely an item of suggestive plot material, which may
be lost sight of entirely in the search for the logical incidents to
complete the plot that is eventually led up to. Plot germs, then, are
ready-made; but complete plots are made-to-order.
The source, manifestation and aim of all plots is Man (or humanity),
his desires (or passions) and his emotional relationships with his
God and his fellow-man. A plot germ is an isolated incident, phase,
deed, relationship, fragment, or moment, vitally connected with and
suggestive of man’s emotional life. A plot germ is seldom used exactly
in the form in which it originally presents itself. It is valuable
principally as _suggestive_ material. Like other germs, it must be
pregnant with a life of its own that will vitally affect any other
mass upon which its energies are concentrated. Carrying the simile
further, we find that plot germs, too, often so change the nature of
the ideas they fasten upon, that they lose their own identity in the
master idea.
(_EXAMPLE 47._) _Man’s relations with the Devil is in itself plot
material, but too general. We must become more particular. Crime is
one of man’s relationships with the Devil, but that is not available
as definite plot material; at least it is not a plot germ as yet.
We further particularize, and select sub-divisions of crime: Bomb,
Thief and Finger prints. Here again is elemental plot material, but
there are further steps still to be taken before we can class them
as legitimate plot material, or plot germs. At last, we arrive upon
pregnant material--among the items of the daily newspaper--which
we can seize upon as plot germs: “Bomb Throwers Trailed by a Boy;”
“Caretaker Locked in Closet by a Thief;” and “Take Finger Prints of
Everybody.”_
The discovery of a plot germ, however, merely marks the beginning of
the exercise of one’s plotting power. This starts our thoughts in a
definite train in search of an idea. The idea proves to be something
_big_ that comes to pass; that is our story. Now we will begin to build
our plot by seeking a _cause_ for the great deed that culminates the
story. That cause becomes the beginning of our play. The effect of the
causal condition, ambition or deed, results in the events that happen
between the beginning and climax of the play, and raises three standard
questions that our complete plot must answer: (1) What is the Cause?
(2) What is the Effect of the cause? (3) What Climax does the effect
lead to?
A great photoplay plot should concern a ludicrous, a pathetic, an
heroic or a tragic episode in the lives of two or more people. A
complete plot is, in fact, a perfect syllogism. We advance our first
premise for the action to follow in the Cause; our second premise
is the Effect, or action; there can be but one conclusion, which we
demonstrate in the Climax.
Original themes are few in number and were all used scores and
scores of times before this generation was born; original plots are
inexhaustible and admit of as many variations as there are products
in literature from different minds based upon the original twenty-six
letters of the alphabet. Do not be afraid of the ancient theme, because
the fact that it still survives shows its popular sway; but your
survival as a playwright depends on your originality in treatment of
plot material in its application to theme.
_Plot material is the tell-tale dust of Deeds that lies heavy behind
the curtain of Commonplace Events; in the crevices pried open by
Ambition; in the niches worn by Crime; and in the knot-holes gnarled
by Nature._
CHAPTER II
WHERE TO GET PLOT GERMS
OBSERVATION; READING; EMPLOYMENT OF FACTS; THE DAILY NEWSPAPER;
DANGERS; PROPRIETY; ORIGINALITY; THE “TRUE STORY;” IMPORTANCE OF
NOTES; TITLES; PLOT CLASSIFICATION.
Daily life is filled with dull routine and monotonous detail; but drama
is contrary to actual life, in that it picks and chooses the events it
requires for its purposes, isolating, magnifying and suppressing them
according to its needs. Drama demands that there be a keynote of human
interest, a bond of vital relationship, in the life of man, or the
revealment of a soul’s supreme moment under pressure of struggle.
To have one’s eyes open in his search for plot material is not
sufficient; the plot seeker’s imagination must be sensitively alert,
and his emotions prepared to throw some feeling into the impression.
Thus equipped, he may acquire _visions_ thru observation, and not
mere mental photographs. Bear in mind that this matter of creating
Literature and Drama draws just as heavily on the emotions as it does
on brains. The imagination is the frontier post between the two.
(_EXAMPLE 48._) _A plot germ resulting from observation: A man sits
in his office looking out of the window when a blinding flash assails
his eyes. It proves to be a boy passing the window opposite with a
bright can in his hand which refracted the sun. A plot germ instantly
suggests itself: He visions an old house, set back from the road;
surrounded by shrubbery; he is the hero who sits in his own home some
distance away; the flash; he gets his glasses and sees a woman in
distress--there is productive material for a play. Scarcely a vestige
of the original suggestive matter remains._
It is more beneficial for a student of literature or drama to associate
with the works of a master than with the master himself. Few successful
artists are successful teachers; their success lies in their having
absorbed and _forgotten_ technique. Thus in hearing and seeing drama
and reading literature, the promising student should normally feel all
that is noble and great within him rise--like a host on the wings of
inspiration--to meet and do honor to the master creatures of thought
and feeling created by the playwright and author. Exaltation is the
coveted gateway to inspiration, thru which every artist-creator must
pass.
(_EXAMPLE 49._) _A visit to the drama might yield a plot germ in the
following manner: Let us say we saw Douglas Fairbank’s noteworthy
impersonation of Bertie in “The New Henrietta.” We were inspired at
once with a story surrounding “The Boy Who Couldn’t Be Bad”--which is
the title and theme of our incipient play._
In employing facts to any large degree, the photoplaywright will
encounter danger in two particulars: (1) The more _commonplace_ the
plot material, the more subtile the dramatic art necessary to make it
attractive as a play; (2) The more _extraordinary_ the fact material,
the greater the tact requisite to make it seem plausibly real. The
simple rule is, Dramatize your facts before you employ them! Develop
the dramatic habit in all your five senses; better still, create a
sixth and call it the Sense of Drama.
Little tragedies, romances and dramas are constantly happening in the
circles of people with whom we come in daily contact--therein lies
danger, however. More than a mere change of scene or character is
necessary. The actual, intimate happening must form, if employed in any
degree, but a suggestive plot germ, or only an episode in an entirely
_new story_. The best way to avoid disaster in this relation is to see
to it that the development and elaboration of your resultant plot is
not the same as that of the incident upon which it was based.
(_EXAMPLE 50._) _The almost daily sight of an old character who is
brow-beaten by his entire family, inspires speculation as to how he
lost his nerve and prestige, possibly a fortune too? For the purpose
of our plot, we say that he gambled away his fortune. He had a theory
of beating the market. He and his wealthy son-in-law become friends,
and before anyone realizes it he has induced his son-in-law to put his
whole fortune back of the old theory!_
The daily newspaper is perhaps the most prolific source of plot
germs. Take special note that this does not mean _complete_ plots. The
question of originality arises--for suppose other seekers choose the
same news clipping for development? In answer to this, it may be said
that not two persons in a thousand--providing they employ only the
suggestive germ and do not try to follow verbatim the news story--will
take the same point of view, will assume the same mood, will employ the
same plot development, or will choose the same plot manifestation. True
originality consists in doing the much-done thing in a new way. Be sure
that you are not trite, then go ahead.
The newspaper is most useful, perhaps, as a source of novel situations,
which are in constant demand in the development of the photoplay. We
arrive at a pass in the progressive building of our plot and find that
we are about to use an incident that has been worn threadbare. If our
press clippings are classified, all we have to do is to turn to the
proper classification, and in all probability we will make a discovery
worth while.
(_EXAMPLE 51._) _Suppose we are seeking some new way of catching a
thief, some of the following ought to be illuminating: (1) Clue to
Leegson Murder; (2) Join Dictograph to Telephone; (3) Police Hoax
Brings Gunmen’s Capture; (4) Women Sleuths Catch a Fugitive; (5) Bomb
Throwers Trailed by a Boy. Here are five items of plot material, plot
germs and dramatic situations._
Beware of “true stories” as plots. They lack the essential ingredients
of the fiction story, or dramatized play. They are loaded with deadly
personal detail that is usually too localized for the world-sweep of
the photodrama. They need most of their prime facts ripped out and
to be larded with choice bits of invented detail. True stories make
excellent anecdotes; but not one in a thousand bears any resemblance to
a complete photoplay plot.
Plot material is useless unless it is stored in sufficient quantities
to enable the consulting plot seeker to make use of it without being
cramped in his selection. Photoplaywriting is too arduous labor to
resort to slip-shod methods such as trying to remember items of plot
material. It is part of the author’s business to store up energy and
ideas. The application of a simple system, along the line of that
which follows, will permit the playwright to catalog, classify and
file all of his plot material (notes, clippings, pictures, etc.) in
a manner that will enable him to file or find any conceivable item
instantaneously.
(_EXAMPLE 52._) _This classified plot directory and catalog is
elastic and universal. The ambitious student may readily carry it to
completion along the lines indicated. There are easily a thousand
sub-divisions possible. There are 7 grand divisions: (I) The Heart of
Man; (II) The Ambition of Man; (III) The Flesh of Man; (IV) The Soul
of Man; (V) The Mind of Man; (VI) Not-Man; (VII) Humor. We will divide
but one of these grand divisions: (I) THE HEART OF MAN--(1) Man; (2)
Woman; (3) Love; (4) Marriage; (5) Children; (6) Family; (7) Home; (8)
Friendship; (9) Separation; (10) Re-union. The sub-divisions of (4)
Marriage: (a) Name; (b) Money; (c) Bigamy; (d) Deception; (e) Beauty;
(f) Blunder; (g) Runaway; (h) Miscegenation; (i) Morganatic; (j)
Eugenics._
A final suggestion as a source of plot material (as well as a
harvesting of titles for plays and stories) is a persistent search for,
and a diligent setting down for future use, of happy phrases, which
may be heard, read or conceived by the playwright. He will find that a
large percentage of these phrase-titles are the nucleus of plots in
themselves. In most cases they suggest the coveted big story.
(_EXAMPLE 53._) _The Tides of Fate; When a Man Cannot Pay; Give Him
a Chance; Somebody Had to Do It; To Those That Have; Who Live in the
Past; The Quality of Youth; For A’ That; For Good and All; One Chance
in a Hundred._
Plot material is the stuff that souls are made of; it is the
composition from which careers are moulded; it is sparks from the
forge of nobility and salt distilled from the tears of humanity. Plot
material means a record of man’s activities outside of the four dull
walls of Convention and beyond the dominion of the Commonplace.
_The great principle that governs the construction, outcome and
solution of all organizations, plans and plots, is the ever-conscious
FOREKNOWLEDGE AND FORESHADOWING of the objective mission, the sum of
all the parts and the decisive action._
CHAPTER III
BEGINNING WITH THE END
SEEKING THE CLIMAX; WHEN TO BEGIN THE PHOTOPLAY; EVER-FORWARD
MOVEMENT; THE LIVE BEGINNING.
The great question in the minds of the audience is, What will be the
outcome of it all? Audiences generally take all beginnings of plays
for granted. No ambitious playwright, however, can afford to take and
employ plot beginnings as a mere matter of chance. Every particle
employed in the building of a plot is the part of a conscious,
pre-arranged design--most especially the beginning.
In the first place, we must find something to write about; some
condition, experience or deed that is worthy of a plot, a story or a
play. As we consider this or that item of plot material, in our search
for a plot germ, we pause and ask of it: To what end? To what good? The
moment we discern the culmination of a big moment, or the performance
of a decisive action, or the accomplishment of a great deed, we have
found our plot germ. This is not the beginning of our play, but its
culmination, or climax. We at once set about to clarify, strengthen
and heighten this climax. The process should fill us with inspiration,
give our thoughts the impetus of flight and point our course clear and
straight. Thus inspired, equipped and confident, we set out to begin
our play.
(_EXAMPLE 54._) _We may peruse newspapers, read books, witness plays
and give our attention to plot material in vain and then stumble
over a pregnant plot germ in an unexpected quarter. For instance, we
suddenly discern in our old neighbor whom we have seen around all our
life, a picture of tragedy, that echoes Lear. He had slouched around
the place, scolded by his wife and brow-beaten by the grown children
until he seemed the acme of the commonplace. Tears in his eyes one
day suggest a story. He was the plot material; his tears the plot
germ; how to make the old man happy in the last great moment of his
life, is the climax and aim of the prospective play._
The climax resolves itself into a definite purpose to guide the
playwright; for he writes every scene with a view to its influence on
the climax; if it has no influence on the climax, that is sufficient
evidence that it is not necessary for his play purposes. The writer who
sits down to write his play with no definite idea of the outcome is
bound to be swayed by every new development that appears on the horizon
of his imagination. His characters will lead him around by the ears,
tweak his nose and play blind man’s bluff with him--as the resultant
play will show.
We begin our photoplay with the incident that marks the beginning of
the vital relationship between one of the principal characters and the
climax. The birth of the plot, however, does not mean the birth of the
characters. The ever-forward trend necessitates our going back only
once--when we begin.
(_EXAMPLE 55._) _To resume our plot of Example 54: Having resolved on
the climax to bring the affairs of our old-man hero to the greatest
moment of his life, we must turn now from the facts entirely and
weave our fiction tale: The old man in his youth was a gambler; he
lost the fortune for which his wife married him; he won his family’s
everlasting disregard; he had always had a “system” which he knew
could beat the market; this is what they all say; one of his daughters
marries a well-to-do, genial young man; he becomes the old man’s
friend; the old man confides his “system” to him and manages to make
him believe in it; these two plan to invest all he has; they do; the
family discover it too late; they drive him out; the son-in-law’s
fortune is apparently lost; the tide turns and he wins a fabulous
amount; it is he who brings the old man back--ready to die now that
he has proved his precious “system.” Since our play concerns the
old man’s relations with his son-in-law, we may properly begin it
just previous to that young man’s engagement with his daughter. Our
first scene could be captioned: “Ill-treated Half His Life for Losing
the Money Ma Married Him For.” The action would establish the old
man’s relations with his family. To go back to the old man’s losing
his fortune would be to run the risk of telling another story and
necessitates the “years later” breach in the development._
By a live beginning we mean one that quickly gets into the heart of
the theme with as few scenes as possible. It can be done in the first
scene very often, especially if preceded by a meaty caption. The first
scene must be suggestive at least of the climax.
(_EXAMPLE 56._) _In the first scene of “All Power for a Day” we
establish the irrascible character of Col. Farrington that led to his
attack on Ridgway and his death that brought about the big moment of
the play ... In “The Salt of Vengeance” the first scene depicts Dalton
discovering the rotten bridge that later precipitated the train that
maimed his child and caused him to seek vengeance.... In “The Master
of the Lost Hills” the letter is screened that jilts Shelburne and
sends him out to the Lost Hills on the great adventure that makes the
play._
Our course lies between beginning the play too early and injuring the
continuity by “years-later” breaks; or not beginning it soon enough
and having to resort to explanations, thru hitching visions, of many
important scenes depending upon something that has gone before. Try to
begin at that point where the first scene in the vital action occurs;
make the identities powerful and clear; establish relationships that
nothing will efface from the minds of the audience. Then go ahead with
as little loss of time as possible, for the audience is apt to be
skeptical at first and sit back demanding, “Well?”
_Every scene should develop the plot a step in advance and contribute
to the climax, or it has no reason for being in the play._
CHAPTER IV
DEVELOPMENT AND CONTINUITY
EACH SCENE CONTRIBUTES TO CLIMAX; ELEMENT OF TIME AND CHRONOLOGICAL
SEQUENCE; PROBLEMS OF CONTINUITY; THE CENTRAL THEME; THE RETURN;
INSTANTANEOUS SEQUENCE; TIME INDICATIVES.
As we have learned, that which happens in our play happens NOW. All
time is present time, therefore all things must happen chronologically
correct. Whatever period of time we carry our audience back to in our
first scene constitutes the beginning of all things, as far as our
present purpose is concerned. Affairs relentlessly and inevitably move
forward. In this relation, special care must be taken in the screening
of simultaneous action in different scenes. Perfect continuity can be
maintained always by having the contributory scenes obviously bear upon
the principal theme, or that which is held in suspense.
(_EXAMPLE 57._) _In “The Master of the Lost Hills” our principal
scenes are those picturing the hero himself. The contributing scenes
are those showing the peril that threatens him. Scene 95 discloses
Shelburne dodging missiles as he barricades door; 96 shows angry
mob outside; 97 gives a rear view of the house showing his personal
enemy building a fire against shack. Subsequent deeds follow this
simultaneous action._
In the photoplay we have no wait, as in stage drama, while the scenes
are being shifted, therefore we must have perfect continuity of
time. We cannot digress with irrelevant matter; we must fill in with
contributive material always. An episode is an isolated incident that
has no place in the photoplay. The plot begins with the cause of it all
and can never pause until it has arrived at a satisfactory solution.
Lapses of time should never appear to be gaps or voids, but become
well rounded periods suggestively filled by artistic construction. We
have seen how only forward or simultaneous action can win conviction
of actuality. A very fine phase of this principle is essential when a
vital causal action demands an immediate view of the effect. In other
words, instantaneous sequences must follow instantaneously.
(_EXAMPLE 58._) _A man is about to commit suicide in one scene; he
lifts the revolver--the next scene shows his frivolous wife, the
cause of it all; laughing and chatting in the next room; she springs
up suddenly in horror--another scene shows the instant following
the shooting. Or, a man breaking thru a door in one scene, appears
instantly in the next scene._
This method of showing immediate continuity is also employed to
accelerate action and maintain suspense. It is called the “cut-back,”
which term has the objectionable quality of suggesting “going back.”
What we do is to revisit, or _return_, to a scene previously screened.
The strict application of the “cut-back”--or Return, as we shall
hereafter designate it--is in the case of a rapid sequence of action
wherein the Return reoccurs for an extended period in almost every
other scene. We find its abuse in the “chase” picture, which by some
directors is still considered drama. Rarely we find that one scene need
sustain the action for a longer period than is apt to be interestingly
safe. In that case we must break up the scene with one or more Returns
of another scene, or action, that has a contributive effect on the
thematic scene which we have broken. A long scene may be broken
effectively by the insertion of a Close-view. All of these constructive
possibilities must be resorted to in building the effective plot.
In other words, we must test each scene by visualizing it before we
write it out. Our rough draft is our plot, that may be changed to
meet, create and strengthen dramatic exigencies. Remember that we must
suggest even more than fiction, since we must tell the director and
actor what must be done, as well as show the audience a moving drama!
Definite actions, or tasks, that take considerable time in the
execution, are readily encompassed by the Return, or the introduction
of new material of a cumulative nature.
(_EXAMPLE 59._) _A mob’s march of a mile or so; the burning of a house
containing prisoners; the digging of a tunnel in order to escape;
the cutting down of a tree in which the hero is perched--progressive
stages in the task are shown, alternating with scenes bearing upon the
result that readily present themselves to the playwright._
_A play should progress even when it appears to go back._ This seeming
paradox is concerned especially with the employment of the Vision.
It means that every scene should contribute action--and every insert
supply data--that advance the play _in the mind of the audience_, by
indirectly clearing away some obstacle that has stood in the way of its
further progress, or by supplying material that heightens lingering
suspense, or by directly adding new action that impetuously drives the
development toward a climax.
(_EXAMPLE 60._) _In “The Lost Melody” we are shown, thru a vision,
the picture that is passing thru Douglas’s mind NOW; its presence
was necessary to clear away the great obstacle that barred Douglas’s
reformation (the Climax); the play bounded forward in interest as it
was visualized._
We do not advance far in the construction of our photoplay plot before
we realize that variety is the spice of its life. Simplicity of theme
is essential, but simplicity of plot seems out of the question. This,
in a large measure, is true. It is the parting of the ways from the
short story, for in that the single, simple plot is essential; in the
photoplay the complicated plot is not only best but next to essential
in creating cumulative suspense. Our theme should be so simple that we
may state it in a few words. It is the subject-matter of the play; the
Climax is its direct outcome; our hero is with it thru thick and thin
because his body and soul are made of it; it is the play. _All else is
contributive matter._ The theme is comparable to the main line of a
railroad that is fed and sustained by way-stations and branch lines; if
we expect to reach an important destination we can arrive only by way
of the main line.
Continuing this view of the complications as tributary material
suggests a method of plot building that has exceptional merits. We
shall call it the building by dramatic sequences.
(_EXAMPLE 61._) _We shall quote “The Coming of the Real Prince,” in
this connection again. A sequence includes a definite section of
action marking the dramatic crises in the play. In the instance of
this play a caption has designated each sequence. 1. Annie’s Widowed
Mother Left Penniless Opens a Boarding House; 2. Better Times But No
Sympathy From a Busy Mother; 3. Annie Finds Solace in “Cinderella”;
etc. We take 1. Annie’s Widowed Mother Left Penniless and append
all the tributary scenes we can conceive; possibly not in the exact
order in which they are finally employed; (a) Arrival home after the
funeral; (b) Failure of the boarding house; (c) Servants discharged;
(d) Annie becomes the drudge. And so on, in each sequence until the
Climax is reached._
The only rule is to keep as close to the central theme as possible, for
the completed action must be so perfectly woven that all matter fits as
a perfect whole with no suggestion of patches, so artistically is the
construction hidden.
The element of time is the secret of logical sequence in the
photoplay--always make certain that the following scene is without
question the scene that follows. Perfect continuity insures perfect
illusion.
One of the big little problems that lies before the playwright is to
invent a time indicative without the monotonous mention of time at
all--at least by means of such trite Captions as “The Next Day,” “Two
Years Later,” “That Night,” etc. Lapses of time in the continuity
of essential action are inevitable. It is vitally necessary to an
appreciation of the dramatic significance of a scene that the audience
know whether a day or a year has elapsed. The Caption alone proves to
be the only reliable source of information. The real difficulty lies in
eliminating the aforementioned type of time indicative.
(_EXAMPLE 62._) _The solution seems to rest in incorporating time
significance to the entire Caption phrase, or at least in transposing
the actual time words from an isolated position to a relative place
in the Caption itself. Instead of, “The Next Day. Ridgway Returns Tho
Forbidden Ever to Trespass;” why not, “Tho Forbidden Ever to Trespass
Ridgway Returns the Next Day”? It is infinitely stronger. “Alice
Reconciled to Fate HAS BECOME Gov. Marsten’s Secretary.” “Mrs. Dalton
Learns the Truth AFTER TWO MONTHS’ Deception.” “AFTER the Operation.”
“SUMMER Brings Hope for Dalton.” (The capitalization is for the
student’s benefit only.)_
Plot building is simply carrying a dramatic premise to a dramatic
conclusion.
_In the Beginning of the Plot we have seen the Cause; in its
Development we have felt the Effect of that cause; in the Climax we
cannot avoid its inevitable Consequence._
CHAPTER V
THE CLIMAX AND COMPLETED PLOT
SEQUENCE AND CONSEQUENCE; LOGICAL CAUSE AND COMPLETE SOLUTION;
SUSTAINED CLIMAX; ALL EXPECTATIONS FULFILLED.
We have learned that we must create interest with the very first scene
by significant action, and that our characters must win admiration
or dislike upon their first appearance, but the fond hopes that we
create in the beginning and excite thruout the development of the play
must not be gratified till the Climax is reached. Nevertheless, thru
painstaking construction, it is usually the unexpected that happens in
the Climax, tho always that which is logical and has been the secret
desire of the audience. A premise once advanced in the beginning of
the plot must be conclusively proved, right or wrong, in the issue of
the Climax; that is all there is to the play.
(_EXAMPLE 63._) _In the plot introduced in Example 53, we picture the
old man in such a way that he wins the audience’s immediate sympathy
and thus premise and promise to do all in our play-power to win his
emancipation from abuse. We make the audience hope that he will
win out with his “system” that once lost his fortune. To put every
obstacle we can in his path marks the dramatic development of the
plot; to remove them is the part of the Climax--providing it is not
designed to be a tragedy._
Climax brings the suspense to its summit and determines the outcome of
the play in a single scene. What follows should be rapidly disposed of,
and constitutes the Conclusion. The most effective drama is that which
concludes with and is one with the Climax. This leaves an impression
with the audience that minor details in a drawn-out Conclusion often
efface.
(_EXAMPLE 64._) _In “The Salt of Vengeance,” the Climax comes in Scene
39; Dalton makes a superhuman effort to wave his handkerchief with the
speeding train bearing down on him. 40 shows the cab of the engine,
closing the throttle just in time. 41 shows the Climax still sustained
but waning; Dalton has collapsed and the little girl whom he had
risked his life to save, running toward him. 42 is the real Conclusion
taken some time later with inimical factions all united in perfect
happiness. In “All Power for a Day,” we find the Climax and Conclusion
synonymous; Marsten, who has hampered, jailed and almost had our
hero executed for a murder he himself had committed. The release of
the hero and accusation drives him to suicide. The hero claims the
heroine and they are handed a telegram for Marsten which tells them
that Marsten has won that for which he had labored all his life--he
is dead; it is the hero who holds all things. That is the end of the
play._
That our characters are married, have children and live happily forever
after, are separate outgrowths of our present play and require a new
plot to handle any story they may contain. The play deals solely
with removing the obstacles that stand in the way of our hero in his
accomplishment of a definite object. The obstacles once removed, his
object must be within his grasp, if the play is properly plotted.
Preliminary to the Climax, the plot deck must be cleared for a decisive
action; minor characters must be disposed of and nothing permitted to
interfere with the titanic struggle for supremacy between the hero and
his foes. The instant one or other receives the mortal blow, our plot
has achieved its purpose; our tale is told; our play is over.
PART III
DRAMATIC CONSTRUCTION OF THE PHOTOPLAY
_Drama is the presentation of man laboring under the stress of an
Emotion that personifies Pathos; a Passion that flames into Struggle;
or a Desire that embodies itself in Deeds--sufficiently entertaining
and edifying to make mankind pause, feel, think and be benefited._
CHAPTER I
DRAMA AND PHOTODRAMA
DEFINITION; PRINCIPLES; STRUCTURE IS EVERYTHING; THE DRAMATIC IDEA;
EMOTION IS THE SECRET; DESIRE THE MOTIVE POWER; DRAMA AND MELODRAMA.
Photodrama is--as we all know--a coherent series of animated
photographs projected life-like and life-size on a screen,
realistically visualizing a dramatic story. The one word “animated”
eliminates forever the authority to employ the word “picture”
in this relation. “Moving pictures” or “motion pictures” may be
pictures that are standing, or moving, or dancing, or jumping--for
all the adjective suggests--but it is impossible to make the term
synonymous with photodrama. It is, to say the least, a misnomer that
misleads--especially the playwright. Photodrama is not pictures, but
_life_!
The man who writes photoplays should study and master the principles
of dramatic construction. Before all things he is a playwright. Later
he will learn that photodrama is the older dramatic art and something
beside, requiring a new type and a new school of artists. He will learn
that what is in demand with fiction and stage drama is in vogue with
the photodrama. He should realize by this time that dramatic art is
both a faithful reflection of the vital and contemporaneous emotional,
mental and spiritual life of the civilized world, and an appeal to
the elemental passions of humanity. With the perpetuating of existing
literature and drama in photoplay form, the independent playwright will
have little to do, as this work usually falls to the lot of the staff
writer. It is collaborative rather than creative work.
As plot is the science of structure, so dramatics is the art of
treatment. Plot is a matter of selection; drama one of application of
the selected material. We take it for granted that all plot material
is inherently--tho crudely, perhaps--dramatic. We hint at both plot
and treatment when we state that drama is a supreme human experience
interpreted by characters in terms of emotion with piercing effect.
It is the clash of soul against soul in visualized struggle. It is
spiritual conflict. It is not the contention of ideas merely, for that
could be expressed only in words; nor is it the strife of matter, for
that could be expressed only in dynamic and spectacular action--it is a
clash of interests that involves both.
(_EXAMPLE 65._) _In the play “The Struggle” (Kalem) the methods
of producers in going out of their way to make spectacle of drama
is shown. The plot was built on the idea of the struggle of Labor
against Capital, which in itself is essentially dramatic. The dramatic
construction developed two characters symbolising their respective
classes. The contrast was essentially dramatic. They were made to
see--not each other’s strength to crush and kill, but each other’s
power of human kindness under the test of sympathy. That was the
idea of the author. The following line on the posters shows that the
producers had ideas of their own which substituted spectacle for
drama: “See the great iron mill in operation and the sensational
rescue from fire!” Neither of these contingencies had been a part of
the original play!_
Thus we find our first essential is to make sure that our plot germ
is dramatic. Our plot development has conditions and needs of its own
that carry us forward logically to the point of successful treatment.
Finally, we are prepared to proceed with our dramatic construction,
which is to convert a mechanical framework into an appealing play. Plot
construction is a matter of form; dramatic construction one of effect.
Provided the plot construction is excellent, dramatic construction
resolves itself into the task of arrangement and re-arrangement of the
matter contained in the plot.
The secret of all dramatic effects is emotional impression on the
audience. To endure, such an impression must contain a big dramatic
idea; one that involves an emotional experience that, _under the given
circumstances_, might happen to anybody anywhere. Love, Sacrifice,
Honor, Reconciliation, Re-union and Retribution are a few of the great
themes that never fail to stir the hearts of audiences the world over.
The success of the photoplaywright lies in his dramatic skill and
originality in weaving new situations from old relationships.
Addison’s statement of the nature and qualifications of drama still
stands: “First, there must be one action; secondly, it must be an
entire action; thirdly, it must be a great action.”
Melodrama is pure drama exaggerated. The hero and the heroine are very,
very good; the villain and the adventuress are very, very bad; their
manner is extraordinarily violent; their method is to startle both the
audience and each other by their actions and deeds; all emotion with
them is passion; they accomplish superhuman tasks and are generally
untrue to all conception of real life. Daring spectacle is one of their
favorite resources.
_Actions are only the Alphabet of Drama, which must be spelt into
critical Words of Emotion and coherent Sentences of Suspense before
they express Deeds--the common Language and Bond of all human heart
Interest._
CHAPTER II
DRAMATIC EXPRESSION
THE LAWS OF MOVEMENT AND ACTION; CHARACTER AND MOTIVE; RELATION TO
AUDIENCE AND CHARACTER; DRAMATIC VERSUS DYNAMIC; REALISM, ROMANTICISM
AND IDEALISM.
In drama we make no attempt to reproduce facts, but to induce reality.
Illusion is all things. The dramatist deliberately sets about to make
the hour that an audience gives to seeing his play become one of the
greatest events in their emotional history. He does not merely imitate
or mimic life, he _lives_ the life, and then, thru his dramatic and
technical skill--or Art--translates it into such familiar terms that
all who see can understand.
Strictly speaking, action is but the external conduct of the
characters, or actors. Great danger lies in the playwright’s failure
to understand and appreciate the marked difference between movement
and action. Movement is the internal undercurrent of real dramatic
progression. That actors come and go rapidly across the screen, or that
their actions shall be violent or punctuated with gestures, is not by
any means sufficient. Actions must express and portray an internal
struggle with which the audience is in sympathetic understanding.
There must be an underlying emotional meaning for every prominent
action that is displayed on the screen. Thus the dramatic element is
perceived by the audience thru its effect upon the characters and their
consequent actions. This is called motive, as well as movement; it
begins and continues in the guise of cumulative insinuations from the
very first scene, reaching its full stage of development in the climax.
This requires the most skillful and technical execution on the part
of the playwright, who must throw his whole soul into it without once
showing his hand. In other words, dramatic effects must come about as
naturally as the normal actions of the characters. Too often photoplays
are nothing more than a series of continued pictures, anyone or more
of which might be cut out without affecting the final scene. To the
contrary, drama is a living thing, and amputation will either maim, or
mar, or kill it outright.
(_EXAMPLE 66._) _A single scene from a play in which a girl who has
discovered and developed a talent in a man is thrown off by him in
the moment of his triumph, shows the difference between Movement and
Action: (Action) Forbes is standing in the center of the room, the
lion of the hour; ladies crowding around him in excited contest; one
seems to get the major share of attention. (Movement) Alica, the
heroine, enters with joy and pride on her face; steps forward to shake
his hand; at first he pretends he does not know her; then accompanies
his handshake with a curt nod; turning away almost rudely to the other
woman.... Showing that the chief difference lies in action affecting
the character and movement affecting the audience._
Movement, then, is that which is felt more than it is seen. It brings
us face to face again with the power of suggestion, which is one of the
secret springs of dramatic effects. By means of it everything is made
to play a dramatic part in our drama.
(_EXAMPLE 67._) _In a scene picturing the hour a man has selected
to declare his love, we find a moonlight effect; they sing a love
song; “the time, the place and the girl” are all harmonious.... In
another scene we depict this man’s poverty by showing his threadbare
room; there are many suggestions of better days; his manner
shows refinements that suggest his former affluence and make his
surroundings pathetically dramatic._
The finer points in dramatic construction are equivalent--and just as
necessary--as those of fiction narration. Dramatic construction and
expression are modulated according to the nature of the theme. Realism,
Romanticism and Idealism each has its methods of producing effects.
We must guard against the vulgarity of ultra-realism and bear in mind
that all idealism must be edifying and romanticism refined. Realism is
materialistic and calls for gross details and convincing spectacle;
Romanticism is luxuriant and revels in the vagaries of youth, the
desire for love and the intoxication of adventure; Idealism is delicate
and speculates in beauty, dreams and perfection. The three are like
solids, oil and water that can never mix. If our play be a romance, its
contributive elements must be romantic to produce the desired romantic
effect.
(_EXAMPLE 68._) _The three plays following are examples of Realism,
Romanticism and Idealism, as their titles appropriately suggest: “The
Salt of Vengeance,” “The Coming of the Real Prince” and “The Lost
Melody.” The first is a play of revenge and does not mince matters
in delineating it; there is a wreck, a thrilling hold-up scene and
a sacrifice involving bloodshed. The second shows the blowing and
bursting of the romantic bubble of a visionary country girl. The third
depicts the effect of a youthful ideal upon a man later in life._
There are grave dangers, as we have hinted, in substituting dynamic
or spectacular action for dramatic movement, as illustrated in the
foregoing chapter by Example 65. Even melodrama can be ruined by it.
The toppling over of a house, the realistic battle between two armies,
or the smashing of two locomotives, obliterates the fine mechanism
of the drama with a realism that satiates and makes everything that
follows insipid. The play, the characters and the audience are lost
in the debris both literally and artistically. Our object in dramatic
expression is to enthrall, not to paralyze. Every distraction of
attention from the elemental mediums of pure art is an obstacle thrown
into the clear channel of receptivity. Spectacles are for the most part
acts that concern themselves and not _deeds_ that are an intrinsic part
of the drama. The characters and the action step back as it were, while
the precipitated spectacle usurps the stage and the attention. Unlike
the circus, drama has no legitimate side-shows. We are not interested
in anything that happens or that a character may do, but only in what
his action indicates and reveals of the story. Spectacles are real
“moving pictures”; what we want is moving drama. True drama appeals to
the heart; spectacular theatrics assault the nerves.
We should employ the spectacle then, not as an adjunct to drama, but as
a vital necessity--which will be rarely. When you can honestly say that
what you have written is good drama, and that you cannot do without one
or more spectacular scenes, then make use of them by all means.
_Suspense marks each dramatic Situation, and consists in retarding its
Crisis and withholding its solution as long as it is feasible._
CHAPTER III
SEQUENCE AND SUSPENSE
CAUSE AND EFFECT; EFFECTS DUE TO ARRANGEMENT; THE RAW COINCIDENCE;
SUSPENSE MOTORS; BATTLE OF OPPOSING MOTIVES; MOTIVE AS WELL AS IDEA.
Sequence in photodrama may almost without exception be called
consequence, so continuous and binding are the presence and
relationship of cause and effect thruout the photoplay. The very first
scene must contain a definite cause, followed by more or less suspense
until the effect is revealed. Each effect develops a new cause for
suspense which accumulates in volume--if skillfully constructed--until
it becomes an almost unendurable burden of expectation, speculation and
anxiety in the Climax, or biggest Situation, wherein it is effectively
solved.
(_EXAMPLE 69._) _In the first scene of “The Master of the Lost Hills,”
the hero’s fiancée writes him that she is jilting him. This is really
the cause of the entire play that does not find complete solution
until the last scene. The second scene of the play shows us the effect
of the first upon the hero. Hard hit, he turns from his irresponsible
life. Seeing his valet sending annual gifts to the poor whites on his
Southern estate becomes the cause of which his sudden departure to the
estate of Lost Hills in person is the effect. The startling adventures
that follow are the logical consequences._
Unless scenes are fragmentary, that is mere supplementary “flashes,”
an analysis will disclose a uniformity of development, that has a
counterpart in the structure of the play itself, namely: Introduction,
Situation, Crisis and Solution.
(_EXAMPLE 70._) _We take a scene from “All Power for a Day,” wherein
Ridgway is discovered by his sweetheart with a gun in his hand
and suspected of killing her father who lies dying on the floor:
(Introduction) Servants rushing in; Ridgway discovered with smoking
revolver in his hand gazing dully at Colonel who lies writhing on
floor.... (Situation) Alice enters, rushes to father’s side. He points
accusingly at Ridgway.... (Suspense) Ridgway comes forward pleadingly;
Alice hesitates and starts at what her father is saying; at length
nods yes.... (Crisis) Alice repulses Ridgway with a gesture; father
falls back dead.... (Solution--at least of the scene in hand) The
sheriff enters and arrests Ridgway._
The progressive effects of scene or play are due to arrangement, as
may readily be seen. Each minor effect, tho begun in the first scene,
must heighten and tighten the Climax. It accomplishes this by bearing
constantly and cumulatively upon the main theme of the play. No matter
how many contributive scenes may be necessary, the main theme, or
medium, must again predominate. We should engender suspense by so
arranging incidents that a vital desire is manifested in the character
first; many things may happen before the next unit of sustaining
suspense rises--Opportunity to gratify the Desire; the third unit of
prolonging suspense is the Frustration of the Opportunity to gratify
the Desire. On the other hand, suspense is terminated immediately by
the advent of Change, Decision or Fulfillment. The instant that the
playwright feels that suspense is being overstrained, he should bring
it to a close. The minor incidents of suspense are not closed, however,
until they have disposed of themselves by contributing an element of
suspense to the main theme that will be felt in the climax itself.
For, after all, suspense is merely a suspension of the Climax; each
suspension is marked by a crisis, or minor climax. We sustain interest
by suspending the Climax.
In drama nothing should be left to motiveless chance, or raw
coincidence. Suspense is a promissory note to the audience that the
culmination they have been waiting for is worth while, and not a hoax
by the author or a termination by an “act of God.”
(_EXAMPLE 71._) _Writers often get their characters in a dilemma that
defies solution on their part, upon which an unsuspected treasure is
made to appear; or an unhinted-at rescuing party helps the author
and hero out; or someone “marries the girl” rather than leave her
unprovided for at the conclusion of the play; or it becomes necessary
to kill off the unpunished villain or hero-who-has-gone-to-the-bad._
Suspense is much stronger than mere expectation. We may say that
expectation is the hope that something will happen; _suspense is the
fear that something may happen_. Suspense is not always occasioned
by the emotional strain of the character; that is only tension of
action. If there is an emotional strain on the audience, then there
is sheer suspense. The most dramatic suspense is possible thru the
suggestion of impending catastrophe of which the character is blithely
and emotionally ignorant, but of which the audience has seen ominous
portents in alternating scenes. Thus, in photoplay, we are permitted
the excitement of seeing the progress of both sides in the battle of
opposing motives. For in drama we must have the swiftly-moving motive
as well as the big idea. The course of dramatic sequence follows the
line of this motive, the only deviations being those made for the
purpose of creating suspense.
_Contrast is the essence of all striking Situations--meaning a
contrast between characters or their conditions or environments,
resulting from or leading to relations between them._
CHAPTER IV
THE POTENTIAL SITUATION
CONTRAST; SITUATION’S RELATION TO AUDIENCE; HARVESTING SITUATIONS;
PERIL AND DEATH; CLIMAX AND PUNCH.
The most poignant dramatic effect is that obtained by contrasting a
character with his most coveted--tho ungratified--condition. The most
powerful situations are those in which a character is confronted with
that which should have been, that which might might have been, or that
which can never be. Therein we plunge into the deepest wells of pathos.
(_EXAMPLE 72._) _As a case of that which should have been, we find
the man who failed suddenly coming into the presence of the man who
is prosperous because of his failures. That which might have been,
we see illustrated in the man and woman meeting years later--the
husband and wife of others--when a silly misunderstanding is all that
separated them. That which can never be is pathetically shown by an
old man making the acquaintance of a youth, who alone can accomplish
what he himself wishes to do. These are all dramatic situations of the
highest order._
Since drama is an artistic process of obtaining striking and gratifying
effects upon the emotions of an audience, the situation is the most
frequent and positive means to that end. The situation is what lends
novelty, fire and brilliancy to the progressive units of the play. It
places the characters in a galvanic relationship with each other or
with their condition or environment. It means the introduction of the
unexpected--either from the point of view of the character or of the
audience. Its introduction marks the beginning of Suspense, and raises
the question, What will he do about it? For it means a relationship
about which something must be done immediately, and that something is
a Crisis. The Situation itself is of short duration but of tremendous
power and effect. It succeeds the introductory action, or a sudden
revealment to the audience, of which the character may remain in
ignorance, or an unlooked-for entry, or an undreamed-of relationship
disclosed--that suddenly change the whole aspect of development.
(_EXAMPLE 73._) _A woman’s old father has sent for the police to
arrest the young criminal whom he has raised from a foundling--when
the daughter discloses that the boy is her illegitimate son, and his
grandson! A girl betrays a man to the mob for murdering her wealthy
benefactor whom she has never seen--when it is seemingly too late the
man proves to her that he is the benefactor, and that her brother
murdered his valet! In both cases the audience was aware of the
relationship and reveled in the characters’ embarrassment._
The foregoing Example has touched a point that should be driven home.
It concerns the extent to which the author shall take the audience
into his confidence. In this relation, writers will have to discard in
photoplay writing what in story writing is undoubtedly one of their
greatest assets; namely, the withholding of some of the important
details in order to build the delightful surprise at the end. In
the photoplay we must take the audience into our confidence, for
the simple reason that everything is screened in the order of its
occurrence. That is the first principle of perfect illusion--perfect
continuity. The second principle is, that all that is essential must
occur on the screen, which is the principle of perfect progression.
Both the spoken drama and the fiction story permit a development that
is contrary to these principles of photodrama. The writer of those
forms builds up a fabric of deception, as it were, around the real
events that hides the truth and makes it seem as tho it were just the
opposite--until the grand surprise at the end. He does this by means of
cleverly framed innuendoes, artificial explanations offered by various
persons in the play or story and the delay of misleading evidence that
is cleared up in speeches and dialog, that in turn explains why they
made the mistakes. The photoplay gains power by being more direct.
We do not try to outwit our audiences; we take them into our
confidence. If we can do this cleverly and suggestively, we can equal,
if not surpass, any of the effects to be obtained by other forms of
dramatic expression.
(_EXAMPLE 74._) _We see a crime about to be committed, but all of the
criminal that appears is a hand--possibly scarred--slipping thru the
parting of the portières. When the hero who was robbed or assaulted
by that hand finds the ring, the audience finds the criminal. Another
instance of showing the essential progressive action, but reserving
the full disclosure till the climacteric Situation, is found in the
finding of a woman’s lost boy by the man she loves. Later she is led
to believe that the boy has gone the evil way he started for. She
comes to the man she had scorned, for help; the man takes her to a
boy’s school where her boy is the leader. We had only seen the lover
find the boy and then we returned to the main line of action._
But are not the audiences’ hopes and fears heightened by omniscence?
Their knowledge does not mean foreknowledge, by any means. The hero
must work out his own salvation and overcome the villain just the
same. The fact that they know that the hero is sitting on the box that
contains the treasure for which he is looking is a hundred times more
dramatic than if they are not told till the end, when the circumstance
may be forgotten. The finest Situations are those wherein he does not
realize the true state of affairs that the foregoing scene has fully
disclosed to the audience.
(_EXAMPLE 75._) _In “Madame X” we find the young barrister defending
his own mother who has committed murder. At first neither mother nor
son is aware of it. The audience knows, and this knowledge makes of
this scene one of the most powerful Situations in all Drama._
The Close-View--in the capacity of showing only a small portion of the
physical action magnified--is most effective in producing Situations.
Again, it brings that to the knowledge of the spectator of which the
recipient is blithely ignorant.
(_EXAMPLE 76._) _A Close-View shows us the hand of the villain
stealing the priceless scarf-pin; or the hero’s wallet that means his
all._
Or again, the Close-View can bring close what the audience witnesses
almost unemotionally from a distance, possibly showing the burglar’s
ugly face where they saw but a head in the foliage. The Close-View
is, in fact, one of the most effective devices at the command of the
playwright.
The Caption, too, is capable of doing service as a Situation, by
rousing a thrill in drama just as they rouse a laugh in comedy. Our
difficulty in this relation is to prevent it from robbing the scene,
or scenes, to follow of surprise or suspense.
(_EXAMPLE 77._) _The following strengthens a fact that has half-dawned
in the mind of the audience. Without the Caption the fact would have
passed without particular notice: “Mrs. Donnelly Handles Dalton’s
Deadly Messenger, Neither Dreaming That She Is the Intended Victim.”
Again we impress a Situation that must not be lost sight of: “Marsten
Thinks the Mortgage Lost That Has Slipped Into the Lining of the
Coat.”_
Thus we have seen that even infinitesimal, tho important, points may
be made potential Situations by bringing them “down front” in the
spot-light, or giving them the advantages obtained thru introspection
in fiction.
Death in itself is neither dramatic nor a Situation. Drama is dependent
on life, struggle and complication; and a Situation may be evolved
out of a perilous circumstance in which the character is threatened
with death. A Situation always germinates further life-action;
death terminates a line of action and eliminates forever an active
participant. Death is never the Climax, but the end.
Since Situations are a matter of such consequence to the playwright, it
behooves him to harvest them with the same diligence that he garners
plot material. He may readily file and classify them under the same
captions and sub-divisions as he does his plot material. Again, the
same sources of material are available, especially the daily press,
which graciously condenses Situations and Climaxes in the large type of
its head-lines.
(_EXAMPLE 78._) _Ten are chosen at random from current newspapers:
(1) Bee Upsets Big Auto; (2) Deceived by His Valet; (3) Two Women
Claim Boy; (4) Finds Woman Stowaway; (5) Claims Wife--She Laughs; (6)
Woman Gives Away Coins (7) Prince Weds a Commoner; (8) President Is
Captured; (9) Blind Man Made to See; (10) Identified by X-Ray._
Among the great number of technical terms that photoplaydom has
acquired is one identified with literary work-shop slang as well--the
“Punch.” It is more expressive than elegant, however. The Punch is
the Climax and something more. It must first be an effective Climax;
secondly, it is the effect of that Climax. The Punch is the momentous
event that is the excuse for the play. It is the tremendous moment of
revealment, when the dramatic struggle that has waged uncertainly
from side to side suddenly pitches forward with the victor for good
and all--just as the audience had been schooled either to hope or be
afraid that it would. The issue of the Climax-Punch must be sufficient
to make the audience literally hold its breath, or emotionally rise to
the occasion. It is the thing that hits you square between the eyes
with an effect that stuns and lasts. If a play has no Punch, it is not
a perfect play.
(_EXAMPLE 79._) _In “The Coming of the Real Prince,” the Climax of the
first part was the coming of the bogus prince; the Punch came at the
end of play when the real prince came. The first was a city “tin horn
Sport”; the second was the plain grocer’s boy, who had been Annie’s
neighbor all her life, and a real prince too--that was the Punch!_
The Punch, then, is the motive-idea of the play summed up in a
cumulative stroke. It bears the same relation to the story that the
climax does to the plot. It is not the big culminating action so much
as it is the effect that dawns on the audience. It is the emotional
truth of the author’s vision come home to dwell in the heart of each
one who sees the vision. The Punch is the recognition by the audience
of a visible symbol of spiritual struggle.
_A successful play must be able to claim an honorable place among the
most important emotional experiences of the spectators--Unity and
Harmony must have induced exquisite Reality._
CHAPTER V
UNITY PLUS HARMONY EQUALS EFFECT
QUESTIONS IN THE MIND OF THE AUDIENCE; REASON; TRUTH; STRUGGLE;
SOLUTION; THE TITLE; HARMONY VALUES.
Unity resolves itself into a rule of reasonable cause; Harmony becomes
solely a matter of consistent effect. Unity has to do with selection,
and is a part of the plot; Harmony with arrangement, and is essential
to dramatic expression. One is the perfect relation of the parts; the
other the perfect expression of the whole.
First of all, there are unities of language that must be observed to
insure perspicuity, precision and perfect presentation of the idea.
This demands a command of words, a knowledge of grammar and an exercise
of rhetoric. The illiterate writer is beyond imagining and might be
compared with a blind painter or a mute singer. The next step toward
eventual harmony is the choice of an appropriate idea and a subsequent
coherent development. The units of development should not merely stick
together; they must _cling_ to each other. Thus we fulfill the unities
of impression, which is the simpler part of our task.
Perfect unity in expression is harmony. There is a measure, a key, a
pitch, a tone--or a color scheme, if you will--that cannot be violated.
The main theme is the refrain, or motif, to which we continually hark
back, until we build up a volume of melody that releases itself in
a grand finale of harmony. We describe a crescendo--tho it is not a
perfect arc, in that its highest point is near the end instead of the
center, when it descends rapidly to the plane of its beginning. That
is the mark of the perfect artistic production: Balance, the last bar
pitched in the same keynote as the first! This suggests the entire play
in a single effective impression.
(_EXAMPLE 80._) _In the first scene of “The Master of the Lost Hills,”
Shelburne receives a letter from Petronella Dupuyster saying that
she is jilting him for Baron Komisky. The blow shatters his ideas of
women, and he cynically thinks none of them is worth while.... In the
last scene it is the morning of his coming marriage to Mary. He reads
an item in the paper saying Petronella is seeking divorce from her
bogus “Baron”; Mary enters and he takes her in his arms, making it
clear that he has found THE woman._
Every element must be in unison, then, in the perfect play. The poetic
play must be rendered every _artificial_ aid available to delineate,
identify and appeal to poetic _feeling_. The same is true of romantic,
realistic, idealistic, or any other specific type. Each play, for that
matter, has its own peculiar exigencies that call for unity auxiliaries
for the sake of harmony. The character must have his consistent traits,
condition must have its appropriate environment, situations may be
heightened by setting, deeds are strengthened by atmosphere--just as
the effect is enhanced by harmony. Thus we disclose one of the most
vital reasons why the least element in the play should become a factor
in the Climax; why it should contribute to, color, culminate and
sustain the desired effect of totality to be left in the mind of the
audience.
(_EXAMPLE 81._) _In “The Lost Melody” we begin with the Caption:
“Malcolm Decides to Wait and Make His Proposal to Rosalie an Artistic
Occasion.” This typifies Malcolm’s character that loves to luxuriate
in his own dreams. We next find him a collector of rare jewels, of
which his business-like rival, Douglas, only realizes the monetary
value. The night of the proposal, Rosalie mistakes Malcolm’s dreaming
for lackadaisical disregard. Douglas seizes the opportunity and
proposes. The setting is a glorious, lover-like night. They sing the
melody that intoxicates Malcolm and sobers Douglas. When Malcolm
has detached himself from his ideal state, he finds Rosalie in
Douglas’ arms. They part forever. Douglas, true to his type of sordid
materialism, rises and falls thru his desire for money. Malcolm
becomes the big artist we have felt he might be. And so, till the lost
melody is found again, we find a potent strain of harmonizing units
building a persistent effect that will haunt the audience after seeing
the play._
The literal construction of the photoplay has evolved a method of
writing the manuscript that peculiarly lends itself to the composition
of dramatic “business.” While action is the language of emotion,
brevity vivifies action. Terseness is a potential factor, then, in the
construction of the manuscript, and there are several ways in which
terseness may be suggestively conveyed thru the physical treatment of
written action. In this connection, we must bear in mind that verbs are
natively _action words_; adjectives are color or quality words; and
adverbs are essentially drama words.
(_EXAMPLE 82._) _A simple analysis of the fiction value of the nine
parts of speech reveals that (1) ARTICLE is insignificant and is to
be used as little as possible; (2) ADJECTIVE is a quality word that
visualizes the image and description cannot do without it; (3) NOUN
tells what or who we are talking about; have no more nouns than you
want the reader to see objects, and no object unless it is clearly
visible; (4) VERB is the action word, the dynamo of emotion, the
important word in drama; (5) PRONOUN is he, she or it--nothing more
and the noun is always to be used in preference, if its repitition
permits; (6) ADVERB is the word of color, manner, time, subtilety,
charm and emotion and tells HOW, which is what the reader wants to
know; (7) CONJUNCTION joins together qualities, objects, groups and
may connect short statements and break long ones; (8) INTERJECTION is
the less artful way of expressing emotion; (9) PREPOSITION is the
word of passing, the bridge, pause at it and you have suspense._
The Synopsis, while it does not permit of unctuous detail, yet there
seems no reason why it should not follow the rules of all narration and
be written tersely, but in full, rounded sentences, instead of in the
abbreviated forms suggested for the Scenario.
(_EXAMPLE 83._) _Some writers employ the comma thruout the entire
scene: “Donnelly reading over letter girl has written, scowls, roars
for girl,” etc. Others use the dash in the same manner: “Donnelly
reading letter--scowls--” etc. A more effective way is suggested by
the use of the semi-colon and the use of sentences. Each sentence is
to mark either all the consecutive action of one character, or the
short sequences of action in which possibly all the characters are
involved: “Donnelly reading over letter girl has just handed him;
scowls; roars for girl; reprimands her brutally. Boy enters; says
Dalton is outside; Donnelly shakes his head can’t see him; boy says it
is urgent. Donnelly nods and turns belligerently to receive Dalton.”
There is vivacity in the short periods and the reader almost instantly
falls into the recurring sequences with perfect understanding._
We come to the conclusion at length that idea, technique, situation
or dramatic atmosphere alone is not the thing, but the _harmony_ of
all of these. And in attaining this harmony we find that delineation
is essential, while description is incidental, for the simple reason
that the characters and setting describe themselves the instant they
are seen. The physical picture saves all the space fiction devotes to
visualization.
There is nothing more distracting to harmony than the method of some
directors in accelerating action by means of perpetual short scenes,
regardless of the nature of the theme. If used to excess, this
continued employment of the Return sinks its subject to the low level
of the “chase” picture that was the curse of the early attempts at
dramatic depiction. The time will come, it is hoped, when the chase,
the crude pantomime and the actor who flirts with the audience, will
become taboo just as the telephone dialog, the soliloquy and the aside
are avoided in the best spoken dramas. Both the Return and the Flash
are merely alternatives to be employed as special devices for special
occasions and not stable units upon which the entire play may be built.
They are merely effective accelerators of contributive action and
secondary to the main theme.
Unity is agreeable accord; harmony is artistic concord. Unity is a
perfect assemblage of the parts (seen from the constructive viewpoint);
harmony is the spontaneous chord shed by the newly created instrument
(felt from its perfect operation). In unity we make the parts
absolutely consistent with well-known rules; in harmony we make the
whole naturally real according to the principles of life and experience.
Strictly speaking, the photodrama is not governed by the so-called
Dramatic Unities, restricting dramatic operation to a single Time,
Place and Action. For the photodrama, thru the latitude permitted in
its multitudinous scenes, may cover continents and span generations.
The old order remains unchanged in the matter of Action--there can be
but _one_ Action. There is an axiom in drama, however, that applies
equally to spoken drama and to screen drama: The nearer a play
approximates the actual time consumed in a definite, continuous and
centered story that it represents, the more convincing is its effect
likely to be. In other words, if the consumation of a deed required
exactly fifty minutes in actuality and took fifty minutes to be acted,
it would be a perfect unity in point of time. But how rare it is to
conceive a deed, every consecutive second of which is dramatically
worth while!
Finally we come to the harmonious element that appears first on the
manuscript, but is conceived wisely last--the Title. The title must fit
the play like a glove, and hide its complete nature as tho it were a
glove.
Fortunately, photoplays are not chosen--by either public or
producers--because of their titles, as books and short stories are
often selected. Yet, because of the seeming lack of importance attached
to this part of the play, writers, editors and manufacturers do not
always accord it the important place it deserves, and will eventually
demand. Good, fitting and perfect titles to plays are a distinct
commercial asset, beside being a requisite to artistic and harmonious
completeness. The title is the head, the handle, the greeting, the
introduction, the pleasing personality, the cue and the bid to favor
of the as-yet unread manuscript and the as-yet unseen play. A title
should be exquisite--like a finely-carved casket, obviously containing
a precious treasure--its exterior suggesting mystery, wonder, and
delight that must follow its revealment. The title must suggest the
individuality of the play without revealing its identity as shown thru
development, climax and denouement.
Unity we may find if we look for it; Harmony cannot be discovered by
the keenest critic, for it is not hand-made but born. When the flesh
and form of the play is perfectly built, Harmony enters in a breath--it
is the soul of the play! Harmony is the last word of drama!
PART IV
FORMS AND TYPES OF THE PHOTOPLAY
_Above all things Drama is human--it has its hours for laughing and
weeping, for strife and death; it is governed by both free will and
destiny--it calls its moods Drama and Melodrama; Comedy and Tragedy._
CHAPTER I
DRAMA AND MELODRAMA; TRAGEDY; COMEDY; OTHER FORMS; “SPLIT REEL”; SHORT
PLAY; LONG PLAY; SPECTACLE; ADAPTATIONS; PLAY DIVISIONS.
Photoplay audiences arrived at a stage of mature understanding
and appreciation of the photodrama long before the manufacturers
and producers had emerged from the jungle of crudity. The latter
are inclined to remain money-makers and not become art producers;
they are filling their pockets today from the emptied brains of
yesterday and forcing tomorrow to go begging. With few exceptions the
plain drama is exaggerated into melodrama, startling the audiences
thru the violent acts of the characters, or dynamic spectacle, or
extraordinary setting--rather than thru the simple medium of pure
dramatic construction that stirs the imagination and sways the emotions
with a semblance of real experience. Drama is one of life’s exquisite
emotional phenomena brought home to an audience thru the pictured
experience of others.
Melodrama is easiest to write, since it is all high-lights and black
shadows. It demands the concoction of a series of violence and
spectacle to happen in a logical and progressive order. Melodrama
resembles farce, in that the characters are cursed with all the
earmarks of the deepest-dyed type they portray--the beetle-browed
villain, or the ludicrous Jew-Irishman-Nigger. In the true drama we
meet men and women who live poignantly in our lives--tho we see them
for the first time. The melodramatists had things their way because the
few artists had no co-operation.
Comedy is most difficult to write, and is easiest to sell--meaning,
of course, pure comedy. It is more difficult, for instance, to
keep an audience laughing for twenty minutes than it is to keep
them in suspense over a dramatic story for an hour or more. The
photo-counterpart of the Play of Manners, or the Polite Comedy, is
bound to become one of the future developments of the Photodrama.
Photoplay Comedy has been in the hands of the Philistines since its
inception. Rarely do we see anything but the rollicking farce. Polite
Comedy has its exquisite moments that mingle delighted smiles with
pathetic tears; Rollicking Comedy is all wide-mouthed laughter.
If we are careful in distinguishing from its coarser
parasite--“slap-stick” farce--we may say that Rollicking Comedy is an
art worthy of one’s serious effort. There are certain temperaments,
however, incapable of comedy in any form. These playwrights are
self-conscious of their failing! The Polite Comedy is marked by grace,
repression and humor. It is a delicate cameo of the serious drama--only
it avoids the villainies, perils and horrors of life, substituting
in their place the failings, fantasies and prejudices that are both
humorously and pathetically human.
In the Rollicking Comedy, then, _everything must be comical_. The
term “everything” is imperative; it means idea, title, plot, every
situation, every scene, every insert, every reference, every character,
every setting, every action, every suggestion. “It is to laugh!” Comedy
demands exhaustive treatment of detail. It is insufficient to say that
a character performs an act in a funny way; we must tell in detail
how the action is done to make it so funny. Comedy must always be
delineated good-naturedly, and never with satire or animus. Misfortune
is not a comedy subject.
In all good drama--whether it be drama, melodrama, comedy or
tragedy--there must be an idea in the material, a motive in the
characterization, a definite end to be attained; a reasonable cause, a
logical effect and a climacteric deed; a plot.
In all drama there is struggle with an obstacle. In pure drama and
melodrama we have the hero struggling against the obstacles and
pitfalls placed in his path by the villain; in comedy the character
struggles against the ludicrous situations that rise in his course; in
tragedy evil circumstances overwhelm the hero no matter how heroic his
struggles are against them.
The reel, or unit of photoplay length, has both its advantages and its
disadvantages. The “Split reel” play is under a disadvantage. If it be
only a plotless farce--which it is most frequently--it makes little
difference, since that form is only a fragment, or series of them.
There are many ways in which the Short Play--or one-reel--may be
compared to the Short Story, and the Long Play--or multiple-reel--to
the Novel. The Short Play, is intensive in method. We pursue the
development swiftly and relentlessly from the opening scene to the
culmination.
The Long Play is not a Short Play amplified--as we so often see them
padded. It is not in any sense a Short Play told in two or more
parts (or reels). Each part (or reel) of the Long Play, like each
chapter of the Novel, is a unit in itself, having its own beginning,
development and climacteric situation. Yet it is progressive and
becomes fragmentary unless considered as an intergral part of the whole
production. Each part (or reel) of the Long Play accumulates and takes
care of its own situations and complications, which may tend to pile
up revelations of dramatic interest to heighten the suspense of the
reel to follow, or which may be a direct progressive result of the reel
preceding. In the Long Play each reel ends with the introduction of a
new complication that necessitates an entirely new line of treatment.
It is literally “continued in our next.” Each reel must always advance;
it never can go backward. In each succeeding reel of the Long Play we
find that the story has just received a set-back in its solution, thru
the introduction of a new and formidable obstacle that demands another
line of solution from that employed in the preceding reel.
(_EXAMPLE 84._) _In “The Coming of the Real Prince,” the first reel
ends with the climacteric situation showing our heroine really won
heart and soul by the unprincipled villain. But the story cannot
end here; common sense and instinct tell us that that is not the
culmination of the plot. And sure enough, just as the audience
thought the villain was going to be caught and thrashed perhaps,
by the hero--the heroine elopes with the villain! Thus we have the
constructive foundation for another reel, that demands an entirely
different course of action._
The studios themselves are usually responsible for the thrilling or
gorgeous spectacles displaying a wonderful array of scenery, setting,
hordes of actors, marvelous mechanism and a hundred other entertaining,
and possibly pleasing, features that bear only a distant relationship
to bona fide drama. If the manufacturer has a menagerie, a railroad, a
thousand pounds of dynamite, a wild west outfit or a military equipment
on his hands he naturally desires to make use of it. It is then that
the photoplay hack is called upon to write one or more stories “around”
it--and they usually are considerably around it and seldom inside of it.
The play offered in the following chapter is an unpretentious example,
falling short of perfection in more than one particular, tho equal to
the occasion of modestly exemplifying most of the rules and principles
set forth in the present work.
_An Example can but show you what to do and what not to do; it cannot
teach you how or why to do a thing; the more perfect it be the less
mechanics it will reveal; it is not a lesson to you in Technique, but
the result of Technique by another._
CHAPTER II
A SPECIMEN PHOTOPLAY
THE EFFECTIVENESS OF TYPOGRAPHY; “THE SALT OF VENGEANCE,”--A SHORT
PLAY DRAMA.
Typographical display in preparing manuscript will effect its immediate
understandability. A careless and unintelligent display will require
extra time and patience on the part of the reader to fathom its full
significance. A careful and intelligent arrangement will enable
the reader to grasp the full meaning of every detail on sight. The
special features of the arrangement and display of type adhered to
in the following play are: (1) Single-spacing body of Synopsis; (2)
Underlining setting, or location, above the text of scene action; (3)
Indenting scene text, single-spacing it and making it stand out as by
putting double space before and after it; (4) All Captions and dialog
typed in capital letters; (5) Using the red ribbon for all matter that
is to appear intact on the screen; (6) Numbering Scenes and Captions in
Arabic numerals and Inserts in Roman; (7) Indenting Close-Views double
the distance of Scene indentation; (8) In case of more than one reel,
numbering the scenes consecutively (1 to 100, etc.) but, after the
first reel, putting in parenthesis the number of scenes it represents
in current reel, as: Scene 48 (13), always referring back to the serial
number on its reappearance. (The foregoing remarks are necessary
since print-type gives only the effect without following the rules
identically.)
HENRY ALBERT PHILLIPS,
New York City .... N. Y.
_THE SALT OF VENGEANCE._
A Short Play (One Reel) Drama
In 23 Interior and 17 Exterior Scenes.
By Henry Albert Phillips.
_Synopsis_:
The matter of a rotten bridge is brought to the attention of Donnelly,
a penurious railroad president, by Dalton, a conscientious consulting
engineer. Donnelly refuses to listen or heed the report. Dalton
pleads, insists and finally is discharged.
Dalton does not tell his wife of his misfortune. Failing to get work
after two months he is on the verge of a breakdown. His wife has
learned the truth and sets out at once with their little boy, Arthur,
to her father’s for aid. On the way home Dalton reads of the terrible
train wreck at the very point he had condemned. Hardly able to think,
he hurries home, finding a note from his wife saying that she and the
child have taken--the train that was wrecked! More than half-crazed,
Dalton hurries to the scene of the wreck.
Mrs. Donnelly, the sweet wife of the president, has learned of the
wreck and hurries to the scene to offer aid. With her is her own
lovable child, Florence. It is her car that carries the terribly
maimed little Arthur to the hospital. The child’s leg is amputated.
Mrs. Donnelly has kept her identity secret, but continues to bestow
every blessing in her power upon the stricken family. Dalton has gone
completely mad. There seems but one influence under heaven that makes
Arthur want to live, and brings intelligence and peace to Dalton--that
is Florence. They worship the wonderful little girl.
Dalton’s insanity takes the form of a blind obsession. He seeks
vengeance on Donnelly. He learns that Donnelly has an only child. He
immediately sets to work and makes a terrible bomb. He then plans
to telegraph for Mrs. Donnelly and her daughter and have the train
wrecked and the child blown to atoms on the spot where his child was
maimed.
Mrs. Donnelly and Florence are with Arthur when the telegram is
brought by a servant, they just catch the fatal train. Meanwhile,
Dalton has forcibly entered Donnelly’s office, tells him at the point
of a gun what will happen in less than an hour and waits. In that
hour Donnelly passes thru hell. When there is but twenty minutes
left, Dalton espies the picture of Florence, realizes that she is the
victim, his mind clears and the men hurry away on the almost hopeless
task of rescue.
It is Dalton who arrives alone, half dead, just as the train looms
up. They ignore his white signal and he heroically cuts his wrist
and saturates the handkerchief with blood that warns the engineer of
danger the last instant.
Dalton recovers; the men are reconciled; Dalton gets back his
position; Donnelly mends his ways.
(NOTE: _Use another sheet of paper_.)
HENRY ALBERT PHILLIPS,
New York City .... N. Y.
_THE SALT OF VENGEANCE._
_Author’s Remarks_:
In the explosion scene, the supposed bridge that is blown up could be
a set erected to look like portion of bridge showing thru trees. The
question of color of the blood is solved by the Caption.
_Scene Plot_:
INTERIORS
Donnelly’s Office, 2, 4, 25, 27, 29, 31.
Ante-room, 3, 8, 10, 20, 24.
Dalton living-room, 5, 7, 9, 11, 13, 21, 28, 40.
Hospital, 19.
Telegraph office, 23.
Passenger coach, 35.
Engine cab, 38.
EXTERIORS
Beneath bridge, 1, 22.
Veranda, 6, 26.
City street, 12.
Field hospital, 15, 17.
Open field, 14, 16.
Near automobile, 18.
Railway station, 30.
Stretch of railroad, 32, 34, 39.
Another stretch, 33, 37.
On railway trestle, 36.
_Cast_:
CHARLES DALTON--Arthur’s father; consulting engineer; serious, nervous.
JOHN DONNELLY--Florence’s father; railroad president; brutal.
FLORENCE DONNELLY--(Ingenue) Sweet child with wonderful influence.
ARTHUR DALTON--(Juvenile) Injured in accident.
MRS. DALTON--Anxious type.
MRS. DONNELLY--Kindly.
Telegraph Clerk, Newsboy, Stenographer, Employe, two laborers,
Engineer, Fireman, Guards, Doctors, Nurse.
(NOTE: _Use another sheet of paper._)
HENRY ALBERT PHILLIPS,
New York City .... N. Y.
_THE SALT OF VENGEANCE._
_Scenario_:
SCENE 1. BENEATH RICKETY RAILROAD BRIDGE.
_Dalton making notes; he directs one of two laborers to strike pier of
bridge. He does so; there is a hail of debris; they all hurry out in
alarm._
CAPTION 1. CONSULTING ENGINEER DALTON BRINGS MATTER OF ROTTEN BRIDGE
BEFORE DONNELLY, PRESIDENT OF THE ROAD.
SCENE 2. PRESIDENT DONNELLY’S OFFICE.
_Donnelly bullying stenographer over an error. Boy enters; announces
Dalton; Donnelly shakes head emphatically can’t see him; boy says
it is urgent; Donnelly looks at him a second, then nods and turns
belligerently to receive Dalton._
SCENE 3. ANTEROOM OF OFFICE.
_Dalton pacing determinedly and anxiously. Boy enters; nods; exit
Dalton._
SCENE 4. SAME AS 2. OFFICE.
_Dalton advances and begins confidently. Donnelly stops him. Dalton
amazed; walks to map and points out bridge. Donnelly angrily refuses
to listen. Dalton turns; delivers eloquent tirade. Donnelly in rage
rings bell; obsequious employe enters; he is told to put Dalton out
and pay him off. Dalton speaks his mind before he goes._
Scene 5. DALTON LIVING-ROOM.
_Mrs. Dalton sewing a man’s shirt; kisses sleeve tenderly; turns in
surprise and pleasure as Dalton enters; looks into his eyes; questions
him anxiously; looks at clock. He pats her on shoulder and smiles,
shaking head; asks for Arthur. They call and child runs in; Dalton
takes him in his arms and makes plain his love._
SCENE 6. VERANDA, DONNELLY MANSION.
_Mrs. Donnelly reading to Florence; pauses occasionally to lavish
affection; they register approach of motor. Mother sighs; child
brightens. Car swings up; Donnelly alights; scolds chauffeur about
tire; brushes maid who holds open door; scowls at wife who approaches
yearningly; sees child and softens; takes her in his arms._
CAPTION 2. MRS. DALTON LEARNS THE TRUTH AFTER TWO MONTHS’ DECEPTION.
SCENE 7. SAME AS 5. LIVING-ROOM.
_Dalton leave-taking; marked change in his appearance which he tries
to hide from wife. He looks at clock saying it is time he was at
office; kisses her and child; exit. Mrs. Dalton looks after him, then
turns resolutely to telephone._
SCENE 8. SAME AS 3. ANTEROOM OF OFFICE.
_Same boy as in 2 at switchboard; looks up name in book; same employe
as in 4. Passes thru; pantomimes throwing person out bodily at boy’s
question; boy shakes head emphatically and bangs up receiver._
SCENE 9. SAME AS 5. LIVING-ROOM.
_Mrs. Dalton staggering back from telephone; sinks into chair and
takes Arthur tragically into her arms._
SCENE 10. ANOTHER OUTER OFFICE.
_Dalton pacing up and down; another man enters; men shake hands
cordially; Dalton asks question; other points to empty desks; Dalton
turns sadly away._
SCENE 11. SAME AS 5. LIVING-ROOM.
_Mrs. Dalton and Arthur dressed for journey; bag on table; she is
finishing note; holds it up and reads_:
INSERT (I) LETTER. “FATHER WILL HELP US OUT, DEAR, AND I AM TAKING
ARTHUR TO HOYTSVILLE WITH ME.”
SCENE 11. (CONTINUED.)
_She has Arthur kiss note; she kisses it, sticks it in the mirror;
exeunt._
SCENE 12. CITY STREET.
_Dalton going along despondent; boy asks him to buy paper. Dalton
brushes him away; boy insists, pointing excitedly to scare head.
Dalton shows wild interest;_
INSERT (II) _News head_, TERRIBLE TRAIN WRECK. HOYTSVILLE LOCAL
PLUNGES THRU FAULTY TRESTLE.
SCENE 12. (CONTINUED.)
_Dalton devours news; boy demands payment and he absently hands him
coin; boy offers change, but he moves away, paying no attention._
SCENE 13. SAME AS 5. LIVING-ROOM.
_Enter Dalton still reading; pauses; realizes no one is there to
welcome him; shrugs shoulders and sits down shaking his head; suddenly
espies note in mirror; seizes it with a look of apprehension; reads,
falling back in chair and clutching his hair; rises unsteadily; gropes
his way out his face contorted in agony._
CAPTION 3. MRS. DONNELLY INCOGNITO OFFERS AID.
SCENE 14. STRETCH OF ROAD. (Train wreck and field hospital visible.)
_Crowd held back by guards, evidently railroad employes. Donnelly car
drives on; Mrs. Donnelly orders car stopped and alights, inquiring
the trouble; face convulsed in horror; asks guard to let her pass; he
refuses; she shows pass; he takes off his hat and sends one of men
with her._
SCENE 15. FIELD HOSPITAL NEAR SCENE OF WRECK.
_Mrs. Dalton on stretcher in foreground; she becomes conscious; cries
for Arthur. But everyone seems to be working over form on cot a few
feet away; a doctor steps aside; Mrs. Dalton screams and creeps
toward them; falls, fainting as she clasps a limp little hand; Arthur
is revealed to audience. Doctor turns to companion._
INSERT (III) DIALOG. “WE MUST OPERATE IMMEDIATELY!”
SCENE 15. (CONTINUED.)
_One doctor has opened case; stands scratching his head in despair;
instrument missing._
SCENE 16. SAME AS 14. ROADWAY.
_Guards pushing back the curious. Dalton, now completely mad, enters
hatless and wild-eyed; looks about till he sees people on beds; gives
a cry and tries to pass; guard pushes him back. Dalton beats down
guard murderously; rushes on._
SCENE 17. SAME AS 15, FIELD HOSPITAL.
_Mrs. Dalton on her knees sobbing before pallet. Doctor is telling
Mrs. Donnelly of predicament; she instantly points to car; doctor
calls his aid and instantly the cot is lifted and hurried away, Mrs.
Donnelly supporting Mrs. Dalton from scene._
SCENE 18. VERY NEAR DONNELLY CAR.
_Florence standing alongside and looking painfully at what is
approaching. Men enter with stretcher. They are halted this moment by
appearance of Dalton who lifts cover from Arthur’s face and sobs like
a child. The two women appear. A terrible look of frenzy comes into
Dalton’s eyes; it gradually disappears as he feels Florence’s hand in
his; she soothes him completely. Mrs. Dalton is helped into car that
drives away. A buggy nearby is requisitioned; they all get in and
exeunt._
CAPTION 4. FLORENCE BECOMES THE DALTONS’ ANGEL OF HAPPINESS.
SCENE 19. HOSPITAL PRIVATE ROOM.
_Arthur in bed; opens his eyes and speaks; nurse motions toward door;
Mrs. Dalton enters; Arthur half turns away to mother’s great grief.
Dalton enters listlessly; maniacal cunning in his eye; in turn, he is
almost repulsed by Arthur. Florence enters with bouquet; tiptoes to
downcast parents; her influence marked, especially on Dalton; she puts
her arm round both of their necks and kisses them in turn. She moves
to bedside; Arthur looks up and smiles immediately; she strokes the
hand he puts out; kisses his cheek and moves away. Dalton now sobbing
takes her in his arms, showing great affection. They all exeunt on
tiptoe._
CAPTION 5. SEEKING TERRIBLE VENGEANCE DALTON LEARNS THAT DONNELLY TOO
HAS A CHILD.
SCENE 20. SAME AS 3. ANTEROOM.
_Dalton conversing with boy to latter’s discomfiture; asks cunningly,
pointing toward Donnelly’s private office, if he has children. Boy
annoyed nods and indicates height of child. Dalton persists; finally
boy writes Donnelly’s country home address on piece of paper; Dalton
stows it away with vicious delight and sneaks out. Donnelly enters
hurriedly; tells boy never to let Dalton in again._
CAPTION 6. THE MESSENGER OF DESTRUCTION AND ITS UNSUSPECTED VICTIMS.
SCENE 21. SAME AS 5. LIVING-ROOM.
_Arthur in reclining chair; crutches beside him. Dalton in corner
working on obvious bomb with time clock connection; looks around
crazily now and then, gathering the outfit in his arms when he thinks
he hears someone coming. Mrs. Dalton pats him gently when he shows
violence toward an unseen enemy. Enter Florence; Dalton is first to
see her; takes her in his arms joyfully; changed at once. Florence
plays with machine; he shows how it operates; imitates train;
points to clock; then pantomimes big explosion. They have not heard
Mrs. Donnelly enter; she comes forward and picks it up; but he is
suspicious and will say no more. Mrs. Dalton draws her gently away;
two shake their heads sadly; approach Arthur._
CAPTION 7. THE 4.29 TRAIN DOOMED!
SCENE 22. SIMILAR TO 1. BENEATH RAILROAD BRIDGE.
_Dalton’s face slowly emerges from bushes; now hideously maniacal;
opens valise and hurriedly arranges mechanism of bomb; clock in plain
view; connects wires already strung; hears a noise and crawls away
grinning fiendishly._
SCENE 23. TELEGRAPH OFFICE.
_Dalton enters; takes folded telegram from pocket; hands it to clerk
who opens and reads_:
INSERT (IV). MRS. JOHN DONNELLY, MANORVIEW.
YOUR HUSBAND INJURED--COME AND BRING CHILD--WILL MEET YOU ON TRAIN
LEAVING 4.29.
DR. SAVAGE.
SCENE 23. (CONTINUED.)
_Clerk looks up skeptically; points to signature; he nods with a
frown; he pays and hurries out._
SCENE 24. SAME AS 3, ANTEROOM.
_Boy reading; registers bell; shakes his fist at it; reluctantly
shuffles thru door other than that marked “President.” Enter Dalton
cautiously; hurries to and thru president’s door; boy returns; puzzled
at finding no one; resumes reading._
SCENE 25. SAME AS 2. DONNELLY’S OFFICE.
_Enter Dalton, softly locking door; Donnelly alone at desk; does not
look up; Dalton throws key thru window as Donnelly looks up; covers
him with revolver as he rises angrily; Donnelly startled at something
he sees in Dalton’s eyes, sits down; reaches for button; Dalton stops
him and makes him move chair from desk; places two photographs in his
hand; he glowers at them._
INSERT (V) CLOSE-VIEW PHOTOGRAPHS.
_One showing little Arthur smiling and healthy. Other of him
emaciated; face disfigured; on crutches, with but one leg._
SCENE 25. (CONTINUED.)
_Dalton now convulsed with madness has taken rope from pocket; springs
on Donnelly; there is an uncertain struggle in process as scene fades._
SCENE 26. SAME AS 6. VERANDA.
_Maid returning telegram to messenger and urging him to follow
disappearing auto; he rides away as fast as he can._
SCENE 27. SAME AS 2. OFFICE.
_Dalton sits facing Donnelly whom he has bound and gagged; both men
with clothes half torn off. Dalton approaches pointing to photographs;
tries to speak; breaks down and weeps like a child. Donnelly merely
indifferent and defiant. Dalton pantomimes tragically the whole story;
beats his breast, points accusingly at Donnelly; raises his clenched
fists as tho to brain him; then remembers and smiles crazily; whispers
behind his hand_:
INSERT (VI) DIALOG. “IN 50 MINUTES YOUR CHILD WILL BE ON THE
SCRAP-HEAP, TOO!”
SCENE 27. (CONTINUED.)
_Instant change in Donnelly who rises horror-struck; searches
the maniac’s face with terrible anxiety. Dalton begins to laugh
exultantly._
SCENE 28. SAME AS 5. LIVING-ROOM.
_Mrs. Donnelly has just entered with Florence with packages which they
put on table before Arthur; it is a big iced cake and delicacies;
Florence claps her hands and kisses boy; Mrs. Dalton admiring.
Messenger interrupts; at first too exhausted to speak; Mrs. Donnelly
takes telegram; nods; tears it open; half faints; hands it to Mrs.
Dalton who is amazed at her identity. She comforts Mrs. Donnelly, who
seizes Florence; hurries out. Florence kissing flower Arthur has given
her._
SCENE 29. SAME AS 2. OFFICE.
_Shocking change in Donnelly; hair almost white; jaw sagging as he
slumps in seat. Dalton points malignantly to time with gun; gives way
to terrible memory. Donnelly now turns supplicatingly; pleads; weeps.
Dalton laughs tauntingly. Donnelly makes a furious but futile effort;
curses gnashes his teeth; tries to cry out. Dalton springs to door
menacing it with gun._
SCENE 30. RAILROAD STATION.
_Mrs. Donnelly and Florence anxiously clamber aboard train._
SCENE 31. SAME AS 2. OFFICE.
_Donnelly now exhausted and still more terribly changed; hair matted
on brow; all arrogance burnt out of him; brutality gone. Dalton now
walking about room in a ferment; suddenly pauses before a photograph
of Florence on bookcase; pleasure comes in his eyes; he kisses it.
Suddenly he springs back; pain in his eyes; a shudder passing over
him. Horror in his eyes as he extends portrait toward Donnelly._
INSERT (VII). CLOSE-VIEW PHOTOGRAPH of Florence; Dalton’s twitching
thumb grasping it.
SCENE 31. (CONTINUED.)
_Dalton’s face has lost its madness and has become like Donnelly’s; he
approaches Donnelly, his gun falling to the floor; he tries to speak;
Donnelly nods; like a flash he unties Donnelly; the two men look into
each other’s face an instant; then grasp each other’s hand, making it
plain that they forgive; they rush to the door which they tear and
break down after desperate effort._
SCENE 32. STRETCH OF RAILROAD.
_Train speeding along._
SCENE 33. STRETCH OF RAILROAD WITH HIGHWAY ALONGSIDE.
(_Be sure to have auto moving toward train._) _Follow swaying,
madly-driven car containing Donnelly and Dalton. Obvious explosion
of tire; auto stops; both spring out in dismay. Show futility; rush
despairingly to track; suddenly Dalton points ahead with a glad cry;
a hand car is on a siding close by; laborer tries to stop them from
seizing car and is thrown down the embankment; they propel it away._
SCENE 34. STRAIGHTAWAY STRETCH OF RAILWAY.
(_Following car._) _Both men working in half exhaustion; suddenly
Donnelly collapses and pitches off the side of the car. Dalton tries
in vain to push car alone up steep incline; seeing the futility he too
drops off exhausted; is up again and runs on._
SCENE 35. INTERIOR OF PASSENGER COACH.
_Florence and Mrs. Donnelly in foreground; Florence seeing her mother
weeping asks her to kiss the flower Arthur gave her; both smile._
SCENE 36. STRETCH OF RAILWAY TRESTLE.
_Dalton making his way groggily over it in dangerous manner; looks
down once while resting and draws away in horror, realizing that
dynamite is there; glances at watch; registers the singing of the
rails; hurries on in terror._
CAPTION 9. DALTON SEVERS HIS WRIST TO MAKE THE BLOOD-RED DANGER SIGNAL.
SCENE 37. CURVE OF RAILROAD.
_Dalton has fallen at last between the tracks; structure (artificial)
of bridge may be seen several hundred feet behind; train plainly in
sight bearing down on him. He has been waving his handkerchief weakly
with no effect; shakes his head and with frantic weakness gets out his
knife; severs his wrist; presses handkerchief._
SCENE 38. ENGINE CAB.
_Cab swaying; fireman leans over frantically signalling to engineer to
down brakes; engineer pulls throttle back and both jump down._
SCENE 39. SAME AS 37. RAILROAD.
_Dalton, his arm still raised waveringly; streams of blood running
down it; he collapses. Mrs. Donnelly and Florence among first
passengers to appear. Doctor comes forward and tourniquets arm. They
are all startled by tremendous explosion that sends debris up in a
cloud; supposed bridge collapses. All turn thankfully to Dalton._
CAPTION 9. THE BALM OF VENGEANCE.
SCENE 40. SAME AS 5. LIVING ROOM.
_Dalton sleeping in chair, his arm, in bandage; Florence enters;
signals someone; Donnelly enters tenderly carrying Arthur; Dalton
opens his eyes; sees Donnelly caressing his boy; Donnelly turns; they
look at each other and smile; Florence takes her father’s hand and
puts it into Dalton’s._ (_Fade._)
THE END.
GLOSSARY
_To listen continually to words you do not understand, is Ignorance;
to use words persistently and inaccurately, is Pedantry; to essay
the Business of Expression and not study the significance of its
terminology, is Dabbling._
THE MOST-USED TERMS DEFINED WITH MANY SUGGESTIONS FOR REVISION AND
ALTERNATIVE TERMS.
It was but natural that photoplaydom should be all cluttered up with
the crude material from the workshop where it first saw the light
of the screen--the Studio-Factory. The Photoplay, step by step, was
manufactured. Ideas, pictures, crude plays and even playwrights were
manufactured! Let the factory have its own terminology, but do not
cripple technique with it. That day has past forever, but we have
many of the relics still remaining, most noticeable are those to be
found among the terms applied to the technique of the photodrama.
They all smack of the factory. There was never a question of literary
quality, value or significance. Many of them are unique in their homely
appropriateness and should remain. Others are ridiculous and should be
changed. Among the latter are terms that are without reason, and which
are used with different significance in different studios. There should
be a dignified standard of universal usage and recognition. With this
aim in view, several suggestions are offered.
_Action_--Specific act of a character; the Scenario; the combined
elements that compose a drama.
_Business_--The playwright’s instructions to the actor to perform the
expressive acts that transform him into a character.
_Bust_--(Meaningless, misleading.) See CLOSE-VIEW.
_Caption_--The interpretive reading line preceding a Scene, or
Sequence, that explains, excites interest and indicates passage of
time.
_Close-Up_--(Unliterary; confusing because of both verbal and adverbal
use.) See CLOSE-VIEW.
_Climax_--The supreme moment in the play; the end toward which all
elements tend in the Plot.
_Cut-Back_--(Really instruction in manufacturing to cut film and go
back; misleading to playwright who goes only forward.) See RETURN.
_Censor_--Person employed by National or Local Board of Censorship to
criticize plays with a view to their moral influence.
_Chase_--An inartistic device in which many scenes are consumed in
showing the pursuit of one or more characters by others, and their
perilous or ludicrous difficulties.
_Close-View_--The isolated, microscopic or magnified close view of
some important fragment of action or essential piece of evidence or
reading matter.
_Co-Incidence_--A chance incident, meeting or discovery that
conveniently helps out the plot and is obviously unconvincing to the
audience.
_Crisis_--The instant that follows the “planting” of a Situation and
precedes the Solution; the turning-point when something must happen.
_Characters_--What the actors should become in the eyes of the
audience.
_Cast_--The list of names, parts and required characteristics of the
characters (in some cases includes names of actors taking the parts).
_Dissolve_--To dissolve one scene or character gradually into another.
_Director_--The person or persons who translate the playwright’s
manuscript into action, setting and effects by directing the
production of the play, which is simultaneously photographed.
_Discover_--Means to find a character already upon a scene when it is
thrown upon the screen: “Douglas discovered at window.”
_Denouement_--That part of the Plot left after the Climax; the part of
the play following the culmination, when “just deserts” are meted out
as a result of the foregoing action.
_Dynamic_--The visible exercise of force, violence and physical
effects, as opposed to visualized emotion.
_Enter_--Said of a character as he enters a scene: “Enter Douglas.”
_Exit_--(Plural EXEUNT.) Said of a character as he leaves a scene:
“Exit Douglas.”
_Establish_--To make certain the relationship of a character with
other characters and with his surroundings, or to make known his
identity.
_Episode_--An isolated incident not bearing upon the climax which has
no place in the Play.
_Editor_--Person who reads manuscripts to determine their
availability, and possibly edits, revises and rebuilds promising
manuscripts to practicability.
_Exterior_--A scene laid actually or presumably in the open-air.
_Film_--The celluloid strip upon which the photographs are to be--or
have been--portrayed. (FILM as a verb seems almost eligible because of
usage.)
_Fade_--To cause a scene to fade gradually into blackness.
_Flash_--(Variously used by different Companies.) Accurately, when
referring to a scene fragment that is flashed for a second on the
screen.
_Farce_--Extravagant Comedy.
_Harmony_--The perfect agreement, consistency and balance of all the
parts with the whole in a complete, artistic and gratifying effect.
_Insert_--Any matter that breaks the continuity of a scene; printed
matter, letters, inscriptions, captions, dialog, close-views, visions
and devices other than action.
_Interior_--A scene laid under the roof and within the four walls of
any structure.
_Jump_--A gap, not merely in the continuity, but in the progressive
action of the Play.
_Leader_--(Prominent editorial in a newspaper.) See CAPTION.
_Lead_--One of the “star” actors having the leading part in a Play.
_Locale_--The combined Settings for the main theme of the Play,
including Atmosphere.
_Long Play_--A Play occupying more than one Reel.
_Multiple Reel_--(See LONG PLAY.)
_Manuscript_--The written form of the playwright, containing Synopsis,
Cast, Scene-Plot, Remarks and Scenario.
_Pantomime_--Sign language and inter-communication between characters.
_Punch_--An effective Climax; the effect upon the audience of the
Climax.
_Plot_--The organized dramatic material upon which the Play is
elaborated.
_Properties_--All articles necessary for the effective staging of a
play.
_Reel_--1,000 feet of film; length of a Short Play; the spool upon
which the film is wound.
_Register_--The method of visualizing sounds by showing the reflex
action of recipient.
_Release_--To place a Play upon the market; the Play so released.
_Screen_--The framed surface upon which the Play is projected; the act
of projecting.
_Spectacle_--A Scene or Play or series showing daring deeds, gorgeous
settings or dynamic force or numbers; not necessarily dramatic.
_Set_--Specific Scene artificially constructed.
_Short Play_--A one-reel, one-part Play; comparable to the Short
Story, or One-act Play.
_Setting_--The scenic environment in which the action takes place.
_Scenario_--The Action of a Play laid out in progressive Scenes with
appropriate Business.
_Synopsis_--A condensed version of the play in story form and present
tense.
_Script_--(Slang, by which nothing is gained but ill-repute.) See
MANUSCRIPT.
_Sequence_--Logical order of succession of events; a connected series
of incidents.
_Serio-Comic_--Comedy written in vein of seriousness that makes it
ridiculous.
_Split Reel_--A subject, or Play, occupying less than one reel.
_Scene_--All the Action in one Setting taken without moving or
stopping the camera; a Scene broken by any form of Insert is
“continued,” technically unbroken after the interruption.
_Stage_--The Cinema stage never exceeds in limits the range of the
camera.
_Sub-Title_--(A secondary title, as: “St. Valentine’s Day, or The Fair
Maid of Perth,” “The Fair Maid of Perth” being the sub-title to “St.
Valentine’s Day.”) See CAPTION.
_Title_--The name by which the Play is called and known.
_Technique_--The science of giving established and effective photoplay
form to the dramatic Plot.
_Theme_--The main line of Plot development; the subject-idea of the
Play.
_Tint_--To color the scene to represent moonlight, lamplight,
firelight.
_Unity_--The agreement and appropriateness of the elements that
constitute a Play.
_Visualize_--To interpret the playwright’s ideas in such a way that
the audience will see and understand them.
_Vision_--The screening of some remembered or contemplated action
bearing on the play that is passing thru the mind of a character;
picturing a dream.
_OTHER VOLUMES IN_
THE AUTHORS’ HAND-BOOK SERIES
THE PLOT _of the_ SHORT STORY
BY
HENRY ALBERT PHILLIPS
Author of “A Complete Course in Short Story Writing,” “A Complete
Course in Photoplay Writing,” “A Complete Course in Plot Construction,”
“Art in Short Story Narration,” “The Photodrama,” and formerly
Associate Editor of the “Metropolitan Magazine.”
Introduction by Matthew White, Jr., Editor of “Munsey’s”
_The only serious work on Plot Sources, Construction and Analysis there
is; just as valuable to Photoplaywright as to Fiction Writer._
“We think the Photoplaywright will find many helpful hints in ‘The Plot
of the Short Story.’ Those who are building up their working library
will find this book a welcome addition. Mr. Phillips proves himself a
teacher as well as an author.”--EPES WINTHROP SARGENT in _The Moving
Picture World_.
“‘The Plot of the Short Story’ will prove invaluable to the
Photoplaywright. Originality and treatment of plot are the essence of
the successful picture play, and Mr. Phillips points out very clearly
how these plots may be obtained.”--PHIL LANG, Editor of the _Kalem
Company_.
“The most practical hand-book for Photoplaywrights ever written.”--E.
V. BREWSTER, Editor _Motion Picture Magazine_.
“It is certainly a fine little work!”--ARTHUR LEEDS, Editor _Photoplay
Author_.
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HANNIS JORDAN, Editor _Writer’s Bulletin_.
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Now going into a Second Large Edition.
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All divisions are logical, progressive and comprehensive. The most
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IV.--THE SOUL OF MAN--Man’s Relations with His God and Religion.
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_OTHER VOLUMES_
THE AUTHORS’ HAND-BOOK SERIES
Art in Short Story Narration
A Searching Analysis of the Qualifications of Fiction in General and of
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Written in a trenchant, intimate style that brings the most remote and
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“The Short Story Market” or “The Photoplay Market,” each 10 cents.
“List of 500 Books of Interest to the Literary Craft,” 10 cents.
_Note--Add 10 cents for collection of all out of New York checks._
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Transcriber's Notes:
Italics are shown thus: _sloping_.
Bold type is shown thus: =strong=.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.
Perceived typographical errors have been changed.
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