Fenton continues to make love to Beverly, presently ending what he is saying with an impassioned plea to fly with him at once. For just a moment she seems on the point of yielding; then she starts back and shows that she is thinking of what it would mean. (Fade out into—)
Fenton continues to make love to Beverly, presently ending what he is saying with an impassioned plea to fly with him at once. For just a moment she seems on the point of yielding; then she starts back and shows that she is thinking of what it would mean. (Fade out into—)
18—Bedroom, same as 8.
Dean, lying in bed, wakes up and calls out, as if calling to his wife. Then he falls back again on the pillow, exhausted. (Fade back to—)
Dean, lying in bed, wakes up and calls out, as if calling to his wife. Then he falls back again on the pillow, exhausted. (Fade back to—)
19—Back to 17.
Fenton reaches out to grasp Beverly's hand, but she draws quickly back and urges him to stop pleading with her, at the same time crossing etc.
Fenton reaches out to grasp Beverly's hand, but she draws quickly back and urges him to stop pleading with her, at the same time crossing etc.
If you are using the "dissolve" or "interpose" (see definitions inChapter III) you introduce the device in the same way as above; but bear in mind that the dissolve is somewhat harder to accomplish than thefade, and, again, while it merges one scene into another in an artistically beautiful manner, it is not so readily recognized by the spectator as an announcement, so to speak, of what is to follow.
The diaphragm (in or out), as the definition inChapter IIIstates, is used to indicate a lapse of time in the action of a story without using a leader. Also, in scenes between which there is supposed to be only a very brief interval, but which nevertheless call for a definite break of thought, the diaphragm is resorted to. Some directors will say "Circle out!" that being the effect on the screen—the oblong picture changing to a circle, which gradually becomes smaller and smaller until the diaphragm of the camera is entirely closed and the film "goes black." The reverse of this, of course, is called "diaphragming in."
As several critics have pointed out, the fade and the diaphragm should never be used to denote synchronized action. Action occurring in two places at practically the same moment should be cut one into the other, for this is the primary function of the cut-back. At no time should the diaphragm be used in this connection, either as a means of fading out or to reduce the field, for this robs the action of any suggestion of immediate change. Here the use of cutting back is imperative, and no other device should be substituted.
As has been indicated, photoplay terminology is, even yet, only in process of formation. The terms given and defined inChapter IIIare the terms in common daily use in the majority of studios, but there isno ancient precedent to compel any writer to adhere to any of these terms if he is in the habit of using others. There is too great a disposition on the part of amateur writers to split hairs over the correct technical term. A matter of far more importance is to turn out a good story.
14. Camera Tricks and Special Effects
With the way most trick-effects are produced in the studio the average writer need be little concerned except as a matter of interest.[19]The object of discussing them here is to show how certain plots, or parts of plots, are made possible as a result of knowing how these thingsmaybe accomplished, whereas without this knowledge the writer with a good idea might fear to include it in his story in the belief that it was impossible of production. It may be remarked that what is said here has a bearing onChapter XV, in which is discussed the matter of expense in picture production. Some of the very companies who a few years ago were warning the beginning writer against introducing action that would necessitate too great an outlay of money are today producing features seemingly regardless of expense. Yet most concerns are really exercising a wise economy and getting some wonderful results with cleverly planned trick-camera work.
For example, in one episode of the Wharton serial, "The Eagle's Eye," the German conspirators in NewYork, seeking to injure the cause of the Allies and lay the blame on the American 'longshoremen at the same time, arrange to have a train of freight cars, crossing on barges from Manhattan to Jersey, dumped into the North River by removing the means by which they are held in place on the tracks of the barge and "letting 'em slide." The effect on the screen is wonderfully like what a long-range photograph of such an actual event would show. All that was needed to produce the scene was a tank of water with a miniature barge pushed along by a tiny tug-boat, the latter steaming up very realistically. When the toy barge and tug-boat were right in the middle of the "stage," three or four toy freight cars were allowed to slide off into the water. Above the tank, as a background, was hung some white or light colored cloth, making everything from the waterline up a white blank. Against this blank was superimposed, by running the film through the camera twice, a picture of the New York sky-line as seen from the Jersey shore. The unruffled surface of the water in the tank—so unlike the wavy North River—was almost the only thing to show certain of the spectators that the scene was not the real thing. In another episode of the same serial, after the German spies have caused an Allied grain ship to be loaded on one side only, so that she will turn turtle as soon as released from her moorings, another very realistic scene shows the ship actually turning over, as much as the comparative narrowness of the slip will let her, after they have cut the ropes holding her to the dock. Here, again, a model vessel in a built-upminiature slip supplied the means of obtaining a startlingly realistic effect. The scene lasted only a few seconds, so that little opportunity was given the spectator to see how it was worked, but the effect of the brief scene was very convincing.
In scores of feature productions models or miniatures of various kinds have been resorted to to obtain startling or novel effects, and have saved the outlay of thousands of dollars in the production of certain pictures. Double photography, or superimposure, is a ready ally when the director wants to get an effect showing a specially arranged fictitious scene played against a real and frequently well-known background, as in the North River scene just described. In the same picture, "The Eagle's Eye," the Whartons, who produced it, displayed a new feature in photography—a genuine photographic device rather than a trick—in what they described as "the triple iris"—three diaphragms opening at once and disclosing the heads of Boy-Ed, Von Papen and Dr. Albert, and then fading and showing a scene in which these three characters were seen grouped in conversation.
Another effect which might, perhaps, be classed as a trick was used in the Mary Pickford feature, "Amarilly of Clothes-line Alley." It was in reality merely a clever scene intended to take the place of a leader, while being also an improvement on a leader because of the fact that to almost everyone in the audience it instantly "put over" the idea back of the action at that point of the story. At the time that Amarilly's good-hearted but socially impossible mother, with her littlebrothers and sisters, are being entertained by the rich hostess who desires to shame the little girl from the tenements in the eyes of her son, there is flashed on the screen, against a dark background, an empty glass gold-fish bowl with the fish themselves wriggling and gasping on the table beside it. The idea of "fish out of water" was very apparent to the spectators. Later, when the tenement-bred family had returned to their humble home, another picture showed the gold-fish contentedly swimming about in a well-filled bowl. It is such an effect as this that any clever writer might think of suggesting in his scenario, and it is legitimate in every way—far more so, in fact, than some of the tricks of diaphragming and fading so frequently made use of by certain directors.
A startlingly novel effect was shown some time ago in the Vitagraph Company's production of Arthur Stringer's story, "Mortmain." Just as Mortmain was put under ether the scene proper faded out, giving place to a dull blur in which the faces of the doctor and his attendants were brought right up to the lens of the camera and then withdrawn for several feet, the action being extremely rapid, and being repeated several times, by means of the camera mounted on a truck, as already described. This was accompanied by another dark-background strip of film, across—or rather down—which shot fiery streaks, like the tails of discharging sky-rockets. The whole effect of anæsthesia was vividly reproduced, and the effect on the audience was most marked. The idea of what Mortmain experienced in his last conscious moments "gotacross" in no uncertain way. Especially startling and realistic—to those who have been there—was the effect of the patient's feeling himself dropping, dropping, dropping through space into—oblivion.
It is extremely unlikely that this work will be made use of by anyone who has not visited the picture theatres often enough to have seen ten times as many camera tricks, special effects, and examples of the use of different technical devices as are herein described. But if youaretaking up photoplay writing without having seen many photoplays on the screen, you are but half equipped, notwithstanding all the help you may receive through text-books and trade-journal articles. In other words, we urge upon you the wisdom of keeping in mind that the real finishing school for screen writers is the picture theatre itself.
15. Dual-Character Double Exposures
Undoubtedly, the gradual perfecting of the double exposure (superimposure) device in motion-picture making has made possible the screening of innumerable good stories which would otherwise have been almost impossible of production. When only a few years ago the Vitagraph Company made their very creditable production of Charles Dickens's "A Tale of Two Cities," the two leading male characters, Sidney Carton and Charles Darnley, were played by two different actors—the final action of the plot turning on the fact that these two were "doubles," for this fact makes possible Sidney Carton's supreme sacrifice for his friend and the woman he loves. There was a fairlyclose facial resemblance between the two actors who played these parts—enough, with the aid of the wigs they wore and other make-up, to make the picture convincing. Today, no director would think of putting on such a picture with two different actors in the dual rôles of Carton and Darnley. When, in 1917, the Dickens classic was released as a William Fox feature, William Farnum played both rôles, and some really remarkable results were obtained in scenes where both characters were present at the same time. Almost everyone has seen pictures containing examples of the possibilities offered by double exposure in making pictures of this nature.
In the first place, when two characters are supposed to be "doubles," it is certainly more convincing to have one player portray both rôles. Again, any additional trouble that is attached to making pictures of this kind, on account of the double exposures involved, is confined to those scenes in which both characters are present in the scene at the same time, and even then the difficulty is minimized by the use of close-ups.
For example, to show Carton in one scene where Darnley is not present is simply to take an ordinary scene in an ordinary way. Then, suppose you wish to show Carton seated in a chair at one side of the room while Darnley leaning against the table at the other side of the room talks with him. In pictures of this kind the director frequently uses more close-ups than usual merely to avoid the necessity of making double exposures, in connection with which the greatest trouble is always the keeping track—by counting, forinstance—of the moves of the two different characters. But it is a much easier matter for the dual-rôle actor, made up as Carton, to be photographed singly in one part of the room as he goes through with the action of one or more scenes, after which, dressed as Darnley, he goes through the synchronized action of that character. Synchronization—or harmony of movement in time—of course demands that the action of both characters be properly matched—to use a common and easily understood term—but it will be seen that when the spectator watches only one character at a time there is not the need for theperfectsynchronization of action that is always demanded of the wide-angle double-exposure scene, in which one man, playing two different characters, must face himself and keep the action natural and convincing at all times.
Very few things in the development of motion picture art have advanced so noticeably as this trick of portraying dual characters on the screen by means of double exposure of the film. Theoretically, it is extremely simple. There is a middle—or at any rate an arbitrary—dividing line to the stage. A mask being placed over one-half of the camera lens, the film is run through and the action of Carton in a certain scene in which he is supposed to face Darnley is taken. Careful track is kept of just what important moves he makes at different stages of the count. Later, after he is made up as Darnley, the first half of the lens is masked in the same way as before, while the second half is exposed and the action of Darnley is gone through with, with the gestures and other action properly timed to synchronize with the action of his "double"—and that is all there is to do. But the skill of the director is tested in his timing of the moves of the characters, just as his knowledge of lighting and backgrounds is tested so as to avoid showing the line where the two differently exposed parts of the film join. Then, too, certain directors have, of late, procured some "double" effects which well deserve to be called wonderful, as when in a certain William Fox film the two different characters, played by the one woman, are made to meet and kiss each other most naturally.
To repeat, double exposure (to use the simplest term for this camera trick) has made possible the writing of many stories for the screen which a few years ago would have been rejected because of the inability of the company to procure two people similar enough in appearance successfully to portray the "doubles." No author with a really fine idea for a dual-character story need hesitate to offer it to the film companies today. But there is still enough additional trouble attached to the production of this kind of story to justify the editors in rejecting everything but the very best in the way of plots.
16. Features
The most surprising thing, when one looks back and considers the single-reel stories of a few years ago, is that a complete, logically told story could ever have been produced in one thousand feet of film, part of which was consumed by sub-titles and inserts. Ofcourse, the sub-titles and insertshelpedto tell the story in those days, just as they do now, but even so, the comparatively small amount of footage allowed to each picture seems even less than it actually was in the light of the five- to eight-thousand feet and more to which we expect feature pictures to run today.
The fact remains, however, that for several years one-reel pictures were the rule; and a still more important fact, considered from the standpoint of the writer, is that many—a great many—of the stories that were then confined to one thousand feet of film were far betterstories, if not quite so pleasing aspictures, than many that are now being put out in lengths of five-thousand feet or more and labeled as features.
The reason is clear; there simply could not be a clearer or more undeniable reason: When a story had to be told in one thousand feet—perhaps a few feet less than that, but never a foot more—it had to beall story, all meat. "Padding" was a thing quite unknown in 1909. The wonder was that so much story could be crowded into so few feet of film. Good as was the Famous Players five-reel production of Dumas' "Monte Cristo"—judged by the standards of the year in which it was released—a great many people who saw it were struck by the fact that this feature production had very little more actual story in it than had the carefully condensed one-reel version of the same novel-play that was put out by the Selig Company in 1908. What it did have was more detail, and a great deal more opportunity for pictorial effects. The one-reel Selig release gave every essential detail of theromance, with the necessary explanatory inserts in the way of leaders, letters, etc. The Famous Players feature production gave the essential details plus innumerable details that were by no means essential—although very effective as helps to a better understanding of the locale, the period in history, and the author's characterization.
The Famous Players "Monte Cristo," however, was not, at any point, "padded." It might have been two reels longer—and probably would have been three reels longer had it been produced a little later—without giving too much of the wealth of picture-material contained in the complete story of Edmond Dantes. We mention these two pictures solely for the purpose of drawing a comparison between the kind of stories put out in 1908 and those that were beginning to appear about six years later. But "padding"—the filling up of the picture with non-essential and often very extraneous details or pictorial effects—has steadily increased with the yearly increase of the so-called "features," and has unquestionably been responsible for the falling-off in interest among countless former photoplay "fans." They have gone into the theatres expecting to see a "big star" in a "big story"—and have come out after having seen only the "big star." Just who is responsible for this very unsatisfactory state of affairs it is sometimes hard to say. Occasionally the story, if written by an "outside" writer, is lacking in plot-material in the first place, and, having been purchased on account of its having, none the less, several good situations, is allowed to go into production without being built up in plot (which is quite another thing from "padding") by one of the studio staff-writers. Or it may be that, the logical length of that particular story being five thousand feet, the director lets it run on for another reel, or even two, in order to be able to work in several hundred feet of quite unnecessary close-ups of the female "lead," who chances to be his wife, and whose popularity he is naturally anxious to maintain. This actually has happened; but even a conscientious and otherwise artistic director may occasionally "stretch a picture out a little" in order to take advantage of the beautiful natural locations of the part of the country in which he is working.
All these things being so, it becomes more and more the duty of the author to see that his storyhasplenty ofstory. Give the director a strong, well-developed plot and he will have far less opportunity and much less excuse for introducing anything that will be in the nature of padding. Moreover, so evident is it that photoplay audiences have come to recognize the padded story when one is shown, that the producers have started to call a halt on this foolish practice, and as a result stories accepted from the outside are closely scrutinized to see if they are full length in actual material.
So far as any special rules in connection with the writing of the feature picture is concerned, there are really none—unless the admonition to try to make a five-reel story five times as interesting and five times as cleverly plotted as a one-reel story may be called arule. In other words, the writer who can turn out a salable synopsis for a one-reel story ought to be able to write an equally good synopsis for a five-reel feature; and similarly, if you can write the continuity for a one-reel story—if you can write a single-reel scenario of the kind that would have been acceptable in any studio a few years ago—you undoubtedly can write a five-reel continuity that is up to the technical standard demanded by those companies that accept complete scripts today. And of course the same applies to the "synopsis only" script.
The one thing that you cannot do, unless you are actually on the staff of a certain company, is obvious, and has been referred to in thechapter on "The Synopsis": You cannot write any story with the certainty that it will be entirely unchanged after being accepted for production. Any one of a dozen very good reasons may demand that some alteration, addition to or elimination of certain scenes or parts of scenes in your story must take place while it is in the director's hands. There is a vast difference between the necessary changes carefully made by an artistic and painstaking director and the indiscriminate slashing to pieces of a writer's story common among a certain variety of directors in the past. Fortunately for the writer, this class of director is rapidly being outlawed, and the photoplaywright should write at all times in the confident belief that his perfect-as-he-can-make-it story will be adequately "put on" by a director who knows his business and is, as Mr. Merwin says, an interpreter of the author's plot.
We need only repeat here one other thing that we said inChapter VIII: No matter what the length of the story, today, it is always run through—in all but the very smallest and most out-of-the-way theatres and towns respectively—without interruption, because two projecting machines are used, and another reel is started as soon as one finishes, there being no perceptible break in the action on the screen. For this reason, if you are writing a five-reel feature-story with, say, forty scenes to a reel, you start with Scene 1 and number straight through to Scene 200. There should be a series of rising climaxes, but no special forward-looking climax exactly at the end of each thousand feet.
Also, of course, it is quite unnecessary to have an equal number of scenes to each part. The action of your first reel—more or less introductory—may demand only thirty or thirty-five scenes, whereas when your story gets to moving rapidly you may see the necessity for running up the number of scenes by introducing several short scenes, or "flashes."
17. Serials
We advise a rereading of the definition of the term "serials" given inChapter III. In addition to what is there said, it may be stated that, as a rule, it is best not to write a complete serial—even though only in synopsis form—unless you have what is beyond question a sure market. As a matter of fact, most serials are written at present by big-name writers of fiction—such as Arthur B. Reeve—or "inside" writers, such asGeorge B. Seitz, who has been responsible for several successful Pathé serials. The comparatively few "outside" writers who have "made good" with serials follow the plan of writing the synopsis of the first four or five episodes (which in film form would mean eight or ten reels), which they submit for the editor's approval in the regular way. If the editor likes the idea, or theme, of the story, and thinks it would make a successful picture, he will commission you to finish it. Four or five episodes of well-planned, suspense-holding plot will be sufficient to assure him that you are capable of keeping up the same speed and making the story consistently interesting all through.
To reiterate what was also pointed out in the definition inChapter III, you must bear in mind that while the end of each separate reel in an ordinary feature need not end with a forward-looking climax, the end of eachepisodein a photoplay serialmustbe a climax of a most thrilling nature, or, at any rate, must be such a climax as will greatly excite the interest of the spectator and insure his coming to the theatre when the next episode is shown. The serial photoplay is exactly like the well-written and carefully edited serial story of fiction. Judged from the box-office viewpoint, the supreme test of a good photoplay serial is its ability to keep the same spectators coming to the theatre where it is being run week after week.
What has been said as to the thrilling climax at the end of each episode, or chapter, must not be interpreted as meaning that a mere thrillingsituationis all that is required. In the boys' story-papers of a fewyears ago, referred to in our discussion of the cut-back, the hero was frequently left hanging over the edge of the cliff, or tied to the railroad track, or waiting for the timed fuse to reach the keg of powder. These situations in themselves were sufficient to make juvenile readers wait anxiously for seven whole days in order to find out what would happen "in our next." It has been demonstrated, however, that what holds the attention of the photoplay spectator, young or old, is the mystery connected with the story, and it is the solving of this mystery that must constantly be kept in mind. "Who is the masked stranger?" "Who is the owner of the mysterious clutching hand," "Who is the mysterious and ominous personage who inevitably sends a telephone message of warning when about to strike down a new victim?" These are the questions that keep them guessing from week to week and draw them back to witness every episode. Your climax may be a thrilling situation—should be, in fact—but it must also be a definite way-station on the journey to the point of discovery.
While there is still a great deal of absolute nonsense—viewed from any standpoint of common sense and logic—in most photoplay serials, and while the long-drawn-out mystery is often made possible only by the introduction of weird and unnatural happenings not even possible in real life, there is now a tendency toward serials more true to life and more dependent for their success upon plots that will stand the acid test of logical reasoning. The very fact that each separate episode, with its various situations in theworking out of the mystery, had to be depended upon to draw the crowds back again to see the next episode, was taken as sufficient excuse for the introduction of situations that would make the wildest exploits of "Diamond Dick" or "Old King Brady" read like the Sunday-school stories of a generation ago.
The Wharton serial, "The Eagle's Eye," already referred to, was the first in which historical facts were reproduced in their logical order, held together and made more interesting by a veneer of fiction. The fictional head of the Criminology Club and the daring woman Secret Service operative seemed almost to be secondary characters compared to the much-talked-about agents of the Imperial German Government whose nefarious acts made so much trouble for the American detectives and Secret Service agents headed by ex-Chief Flynn, under whose supervision the serial was made.
The future holds out immense possibilities for producers and writers of thoroughly good photoplay serials. Whereas in the past many serials were to be seen only in the second-rate houses, on account of the fact that their impossibly thrilling situations and weird plots appealed only to the juvenile and less intelligent spectators, now with the improvement in thestoriesof serial pictures has come an increase in the spectators who follow them up, and a consequent introduction of serials into theatres where at one time nothing of the kind would have been tolerated.
In conclusion, it may be said that for purposes of plot-study the photoplay serial can hardly be surpassed. Good, bad or indifferent, every photoplay serial reveals a sheer ingenuity of plotting that is a genuine inspiration to the writer of often better material. And a careful following-up and study of agoodserial is a liberal photoplay-writing education in itself.
18. Final Points
More and more, in those—all too few—studios where full scripts are desired, the directors of ability and intelligence are welcoming the help extended by the author—if the author himself is known to be a finished workman. Elsewhere we have quoted Mr. Bannister Merwin, who, long before he became one himself, held that the director was rightfully an interpreter—a reader of and builder from the blue print—of the author. Mr. Merwin was also one of the first photoplaywrights to submit what might be called a fully elaborated script—one in which every scene was so carefully worked out that themotivebehind every action of every character was made absolutely plain. Notwithstanding the greater length of such a scenario, or continuity, its advantages are emphatic, and directors are, as has been said, approving it more and more as they learn that the author's intention is to assist—to insure a proper interpretation of his thought—and not merely to try to teach the director his business. The script that opens up a way into the very heart of the character so that the actors and the director may be guided in interpreting it, is certainly vastly superior, in that regard at least, to the scenariowhich concerns itself chiefly with external action. Motives and the whole inner life of the man, set down clearly and briefly, are in the last degree valuable in showing what a character really is andwhyhe does what he does.
Conciseness.—But this desirable sort of scenario elaborationmust notlead to over-expansion. Brevity and conciseness are not necessarily one, any more than are fullness and prolixity. Be concise—cut close to the line; having started your action by setting forth a basic incident at once interesting and plausible, keep the wheels of your story in motion, letting it accumulate speed as it runs on, and never slow down until after the climax has been passed. Keep your eye—your "picture eye"—on your characters as they move about and carry out the actions which you have planned to have them perform; but describe those actions, as well as the motives which actuate them, in just as few words as possible. Do not trifle with the tendency to be wordy, or even to introduce too many scenes.
The time is rapidly coming when the production of a photoplay will mean the earnest and intelligent coöperation of the author, editor, and director. But there is a very decided difference between including in the paragraphs of action everything really necessary to the proper understanding of the motives actuating the different characters and the indiscriminate introduction of extraneous details that neither assist in telling the story nor help in making it interesting.
Over-Condensation.—On the other side of the golden middle-ground lies the weakness of too great brevity, and this is the very fault that some otherwise good writers at times permit themselves to display. Their plots are strong, and their work is so well and favorably known that their scripts are accepted; but because they have over-condensed it becomes necessary for the editor or director to add to the business of a certain character, or possibly to devise explanatory inserts. Too little is worse than too much. In many cases it is the writer's failure to include a few words describing a bit of by-play or a short piece of business that makes the scenario faulty, even though it may find a grudging acceptance.
The Number of Words.—The question has frequently been asked by amateur writers: "How many words are there in a full-reel photoplay—what is the average number of words to a scene?" and so on. No such consideration as the number of words in a script enters into the production of a motion-picture drama. "Photoplays are put on," said one prominent producer, "with a stop-watch in one hand and a yard-stick in the other." It is the number of feet of film used, and not the number of words contained in the scenario, with which the director is concerned. There can be absolutely no set rule—in from ten to fifteen words you may say all that is necessary in the description of a scene that will use up three hundred feet of film. Another scene which consumes one hundred feet may require five times as many words, or more, to make perfectly clear to the director a short but very important bit of business. If you leave out the non-essentials, you will save on the number of words, but you should never hesitate to tell all that is necessary in order to make clear the motives and actions of your characters.
Simple, Clear English.—The scenario is really nothing more than the synopsis rewritten in detail and divided into scenes. Observe that the paragraphs of action are written in the present tense to helpyoukeep the action simple and vivid andpresent. Absolutely nothing is to be gained by attempted "fine writing," yet it is true that the best-paid writers today are for the most part the ones who are giving attention to clearness and precision of detail and description when writing the third division of their scripts. But description does not mean hifaluting word painting—it means clear, concise setting forth of exactly what a thing is.
The Uselessness of Dialogue.—Dialogue, naturally, is out of place in the scenario. If Frank asks Ethel where she hid the letter, and she replies by opening a volume which she takes from the bookcase and taking it out, that is all that is necessary. Do not write a line of dialogue which tells just what Frank says to her, except as may be required for an occasional cut-in leader. Neither is it necessary to say what words of hers accompany the action of taking the letter from the book where it has been concealed. Yet there is one way in which dialogue may serve a useful purpose in writing the scenario. If by writing a single phrase you can tell theeditorand thedirectoras much as you could by writing several lines of action, there is noreason why you should not use the line—not as dialogue, however, but as stage directions.[20]
Exterior Backgrounds Valuable.—In planning your scenario remember that for scenes that do not positively demand indoor settings it is best to provide an exterior background, or location. No matter how well provided with scenery a studio may be there is always a certain amount of time lost in erecting sets. Even though the director does not take the scenes in the order in which they are written, he will be able to save a great deal of time if, between the scene that is done in the library and the one enacted in the court-room, he can take his people out and get three or four, or even more, scenes in the open air, where the setting is ready for him. Carefully plan every scenebefore you write it, and see, for instance, if Dick could not propose to Stella in the garden, or on a bench in the park, just as well as he could in the drawing room or in the ball-room. Help yourself to more sales by helping the director to easier work.
Human Interest.—In the Biograph photoplay, "Three Friends," previously referred to in this chapter, there was one short scene that was especially effective—one of those human-interest bits that are characteristic of photoplays that sell. After the arrival of the two men, and the reconciliation between the foreman and the young woman's husband, the former hurries the latter off to the factory, promising to "give him back his job." The third friend hangs behind,and, realizing that the wife is without money to buy food, hands her a banknote. She hesitates to take it; but he, noticing the revolver which she now holds, takes it from her and thrusts the money into her hand in its place, indicating that he is only buying the "gun" from her. The woman smiles gratefully, and the kind-hearted friend hurries out after the other two men.
It will pay the student to remember all the little human touches of this kind that he sees in the photoplays of others, and, while by no means copying them, try to work into his own stories bits of similar value.
Human interest must be woven in the plot, and not thrown in in chunks. As for how to do it, "Each mind," says Emerson, "has its own method. A true man never acquires after college rules." But of one thing make sure: Plan your human appeal from the start, so that the actual climax may loom up distinctly from the time you write your very first scene. As Jean Paul has said, "The end we aim at must be known before the way."
In conclusion, we offer a short catechism that the writer will do well to consult before sending out his script:
Is my plot really fresh?
Could it be called a colorable imitation of any magazine story, book, or play?
Is it strong enough?
Is it logical?
Does it suit the time of year?
Is the plot not only possible butprobable?
Is the material desired by the producer to whom I am sending it?
Does the company make that style of story?
Are the points properly brought out, that others may see them as I do?
Can I make it better by altering it?
Will it pass the Censors?
Even if it does, will it offend even one spectator?
Do the synopsis and scenario match properly, or have I hinted at action in my synopsis which is not adequately worked out in the continuity? On the other hand, does the synopsis tell everything that happens in the scenario?
Is it impracticable for the camera?
Have I introduced scenes that would cost too much to produce?
Is the cast too small?
Is it too large?
Finally, some anonymous writer has said: "Don't let go of your script until you are positive that you have made every detail clear, that your layout of scenes has told the story in self-explanatory action, and that you have answered every prospective 'Why?'"
It has been said in an earlier chapter that it is optional with the writer whether to submit a scene-plot with his complete script; nevertheless, we believe that it is advisable.
1. Why Prepare a Scene-Plot
The reason is a plain one: Until the writer has become known as a professional, it is the spirit in which the scene-plot is sent rather than its actual value to either editor or director that counts in his favor. It indicates his willingness to help both these busy men so far as lies in his power; further, it shows that he is willing to do at the beginning of his career that which he would never for a moment think of leaving undone after his complete scripts are once in demand; but, most of all, it shows that he has enough confidence in his work to believe that—provided the story is acceptable—it will be produced essentially as he has planned it.
Naturally, it often happens that the director adds scenes to those planned by the author, and even oftener some of the author's scenes are cut out; in either case, however, so much of the scene-plot as remains unchanged will have its value. The author may feel that the director's alterations are unwarranted, but that functionary rarely makes additions or cuts unless he works an improvement.
The writer sends the scene-plot along so that, in case no drastic changes are necessary, the director may have all ready his list of scenes arranged in proper chronological order. From these he will prepare his regular scene-plot diagram, which the carpenters and mechanics will use in building the scenery, and by which the stage hands and property men will be guided in setting the scenes and placing the furniture and other "props."
2. The Scene-Plot Explained
Let us now explain the difference between theonly kind of scene-plot with which the photoplaywright is concernedand that which the director means when he uses the same term.
Practically all directors have had experience as theatrical producers, or stage directors, or stage managers, before entering the moving-picture field. What is known as a scene-plot in regular theatrical work is a list of the various scenes, or sets, showing where the different "hanging pieces" (drops, cut-drops, fog drops, foliage, fancy, kitchen, or other borders) are hung, and how all the various pieces of scenery that are handled on the floor of the stage, as wood and rock wings, "set" pieces, "flats," and "runs," are to be arranged or set. Almost every stage carpenter has, inaddition to this list, a supply of printed diagrams showing the exact position on the stage of everything handled by the "grips," or scene-shifters, as well as the proper arrangement on the set of the furniture and larger props. Both the list and the diagram are usually printed on one sheet, and this, known as the scene-plot, is sent ahead to the stage managers of the theatres in the next towns to be played. At the same time, a "property plot," being simply a list, act by act, of the various props not carried by the company, is sent to the property man of the house.
Now, the principal difference between the regular and the moving-picture stage is that, in making photoplays,naturalexteriors are used, in almost every case. Consequently, landscape and other exterior drops are almost unknown in moving-picture work. As actual drops theyareunknown; when such painted backgrounds are used, they are usually painted on canvas or a sort of heavy cardboard, which is stretched over or tacked to a solid framework. So that even in making out his working scene-plot diagram, a director finds that there are many technical terms which he constantly used in his theatrical work but seldom or never employs in his capacity of photoplay producer. Nevertheless, he still uses a scene-plot diagram, drawing it himself on regular printed forms.
As may be gathered from the foregoing, the scene-plot diagram for a photoplay setting is entirely different from the diagram of the setting for a scene on the regular stage. The former shows, printed, the comparative shape and dimensions of the "stage," andgives, in figures, the depth of the stage and the distance from the camera to the "working line," below which (toward the camera) an actor must not step if he wishes his feet, therefore his whole body, to show in the picture.
To say "the depth of the stage" is to say that the printed diagram is marked off in a scale of feet from the camera's focus. The figures at the right side of the sheet indicate the distance in feet from the camera, while those at the left show the width of the field, or range of the camera lens, at different distances. Only that portion of each piece of furniture which is marked a solid black in the diagram is supposed to show in the picture. Thus half of a table may be "in" and half "out" of a picture, or scene. This diagram-form is made out by the director for virtually every set that shows an interior scene, and he frequently draws one also for exteriors, where a building, or even what appears in the picture to be a complete, permanent structure, is set up by the carpenters and mechanics out of doors. Such ascene-plot diagramis reproduced at the end of this chapter.
The scene-plot which you as a photoplay author are called upon to prepare, however, is simply a list of the scenes used in working out your scenario. Here you must distinguish between "scene" and "set" (or setting) in photoplay writing. We know that the scene is changed every time that the camera is moved. One scene or ten may be taken, or "done," in the same set—that is, a half-dozen scenes might be taken successively in a business office without changing the setat all. Therefore, although you have two hundredscenesin your five-reel scenario, only twentysetsmay be needed in which to play them.
3. How Scenes and Sets Are Photographed
We know that a scene is ended when the cameraman stops "grinding;" we understand, also, that a change of setting is brought about by moving the camera, even though, in the case of taking two exterior scenes, the camera is only moved enough to take in a new "stage" three or four feet to either side of that shown in the last scene.
Reception of King Robert
The Reception of King Robert of Sicily by His Brother, the Pope—a Historical Photoplay Produced in the Essanay Studio, Chicago
Players Getting Ready for Action
Same Set, with Players Getting Ready for Action. The Three Poplar Trees are Real, while the Rest of the Background is a Painted Drop
The word "scene" seems to be a stumbling block for some beginners. Take for example the setting showing the bedroom in the ranch house, as listed in the scene-plot of "Without Reward," and given in this chapter. In doing the five scenes that take place in that room, Scene 4 would be taken, the camera would be stopped, and, in some studios, a large white card with the figure "9" painted on it in black would be held a few feet in front of the lens. About a foot of film would then be exposed, which would thus register the numberof the next sceneto be taken in the same set.[21]Then Scene 9 would be done. This scenebeing ended, the numbering-of-the-scene process would be repeated, the next scene being number 17. Then, in turn, would come scenes 28 and 30—or, rather, although listed on the scene-plot as two scenes, 28 and 30 would really be photographed as one unbroken scene, for, as a glance at the scene-plot will show, Scene 29 is a bust scene, which means that the film would be cut at the proper place after the scene had been taken, thus dividing it into two scenes, separated by Scene 29 in the finished photoplay.
Now, since Scene 30 is the last to be taken in the bedroom setting, let us suppose that the setting showing the interior of the sheriff's office is standing on the studio floor right next to the bedroom set. The camera is merely shifted over and set up as required to take the two scenes (24 and 26) done successively in that set, and the same process is gone through that was followed in making the five scenes in the bedroom.
This, then, is the one thing that the photoplaywright must remember: All thescenesthat are to take place in onesettingor location are made before the camera is moved an inch, and, in one way or another, according to the particular studio, the film is marked after each scene so as to show the number of the scene coming next. The reason is plain: because scenes 28 and 30 (which are subsequently divided by the bust picture) and scenes 4, 9 and 17, are all done in the same set, if the camera were not stopped and the film marked before each new scene with the number of that scene, the operators in the cutting room, where the different parts of the film are assembled, would—unless guided by the director—mistakeallthat part of the film showing the bedroom setting for one unbroken scene.
4. How Scene-Plots Are Handled by Directors
The scene-plot for the writer's story, "Without Reward," just referred to, follows: