RULES FOR WRITING THE SCRIPT. Instead of simply saying that the manuscript should be typewritten, let us ask once more: If you are in earnest, and intend to succeed, why not give yourself every chance to gain the editor's attention and interest by proclaiming that you are a business man as well as a writer? Many film manufacturers plainly announce that only typed scripts will be examined. Therefore write the script with a typewriter. Today, when many companies rent good machines at from $4.00 for three months to $3.00 a month, and when you can buy a typewriter outright for from $15.00 to $100.00, the writer who is able to use one and who does not do so is simply being unfair to himself. Any good machine may now be had by paying down a small sum and the same amount monthly for a term of months. Serious writers should promptly decide to step out of the amateur class and equip themselves properly for the work. If you wish to experiment with your talents before deciding to rent or buy a typewriting machine, there are plenty of responsible typists who will typewrite your script for from 35 cents to 50 cents per thousand words, including one carbon copy.

If you have a typewriter you will, of course, make at least one carbon copy. Should the script you send out be lost or badly marred in any way, you have the carbon from which you can make another, but never be so unwise as to send out the carbon copy itself should the original be lost. Make a new copy. In the first place, should the carbon copy also be lost, you will have nothing left as a record of your story—unless you happen to have kept your notes and rough draft. Besides, carbon copies rarely look as well as an original script, and the editor who receives a carbon might not look upon it with any great favor—though this is the least valid reason.

Another important point is, if your photoplay is accepted, your copy will serve you as a valuable basis for criticism of your own work, inasmuch as you can compare the play as written with the play as produced, observing what changes the editor and director may have deemed necessary. This practice is followed pretty generally by earnest writers of fiction, but is applicable also to photoplay writing, and should help the writer, after seeing his play produced, to do even better work next time.

For carbon copies, almost any weight and quality of paper will serve. A plain yellow or a manilla paper, costing about 50 cents a box of 500 sheets, is very satisfactory.

Most authors who are users of typewriters know that a black "record" ribbon is far superior to a "copying" ribbon. The latter is likely to smudge or blur and spoil a clean manuscript. Again, it pays to get a pretty good grade of carbon paper; the best, in fact, is none too good for literary work of any kind. Cheap carbons smear the copy and stain the writer's fingers; besides, they have a tendency to make the copy look as if it were covered with a fine layer of soot or black dust. Avoid them.

GENERAL DIRECTIONS. Other hard and fast rules for the practice of photoplay writing are:

Do not write on both sides of the paper.

Do not fasten the sheets of your script with clips or pins which perforate the paper; there are at least half-a-dozen kinds of paper clips which hold the sheets firmly without permanently fastening them together. The editor likes to have the sheets loose when reading the script.

Above all, do not roll your script. If it is 8-1/2 by 11 paper, as it ought to be, fold it no more than twice. That is what all writers do who follow the rules.

DIRECTIONS FOR TYPING THE SCRIPT. While it is well to remember that the suggestions here offered are intended for those who type their own photoplays, the same suggestions can be made by authors to the professional typists to whom they send their stories to be prepared for the editor.

The editor of one company suggests that it is best always to put your name and address on each sheet of the manuscript. This is simply "making assurance doubly sure" that the script will not go astray or become mixed in the editorial office, for winds and dropped manuscripts sometimes play annoying tricks upon editors, it need hardly be said. But at least write your name and address plainly in the upper left-hand corner of the first sheet of the synopsis; then write it in the same place on the first sheet of the scenario; and, provided you have room—if the last scene of your scenario does not run clear to the bottom of the page—also at the bottom of the last page of your scenario. Then, further, write on every other page the title of your photoplay. If it is a short title, write it in full. If it should be a long title, such as "Where Love is, There God is Also," a Selig release taken from Tolstoy's story of the same name, simply write "Where Love is, etc." That will be ample to identify your work should one of the sheets become separated from the rest of the script. Thus the editor has your name and address in three different places, and with all or part of your title on the other sheets of the script, there is little danger of any part going astray after it reaches his hands.

The following plan for the actual mechanical preparation of the three or four parts of the script has been approved by editors in general; nevertheless, it is here offered as a suggestion, not laid down as a rule. To follow it, however, insures your having a neat, readable script, one which will catch the editor's attention as soon as he opens it.

The scale-bar on most standard typewriters is numbered from 0 (the next figure, of course, being 1) to 75. Each figure indicates one space. When writing your name and address on the first page of both synopsis and scenario, set your left marginal stop at 5. When the paper is pushed as far to the left of the paper-shield as it will go, this will give you a left-hand margin of about 1-3/16 inches—which is quite wide enough for the margin on a photoplay script. Write your name and address so that the top line will come about three-quarters of an inch from the top of the sheet, and, keeping it even with the left-hand margin, write the two or three lines of the name and address directly beneath each other, and the other material below, in the manner illustrated on the succeeding type-page.

Frank B. Stanwood, 392 W. 62nd St., New York City.

T H E R A J A H ' S H E I R

Dramatic Photoplay in 27 Scenes;

6 Interior and 10 Exterior Settings

(Use only one line in Ms.)

S Y N O P S I S

The first sheet of the script being the one on which you commence to write your synopsis, first of all get your title neatly spaced.

Always write your title entirely in capitals, leaving one space between each letter of each word in the title, and three spaces between each word. Say that your title contains three words, as the foregoing. After you have written the first word—with a space between every letter—the machine will automatically space one. Do not count that as one, in leaving the three spaces suggested, but touch your space-bar three times. This will move the carriage back so that the first letter of the next word will be printed four spaces away from the last letter of your first word, leaving three spaces between. Take one sheet of your typewriter paper and keep it as a test sheet, trying out your title-spacing thus: Write the complete title, with spacing as suggested above, once, getting it as nearly right (with even spaces on either side) as you can at a good guess. If it is not right, space one line down on your trial sheet and try it again, this time a little farther to the right or left as the case demands. One or two trials and you will have it as nearly even in margins as it can be made on a typewriter. Thus, in a title like

T H E H E R O I N E O F T H E P L A I N S

you will find that to start the first word at 11 on the scale-bar, managing the spacing as suggested, will get your title in the centre of the page with practically no variation in the two margins.

Then, about an inch below the title, write the descriptive lines:

Dramatic Photoplay in 28 Scenes;

5 Interior and 12 Exterior Settings

as described in the chapter on "The Synopsis." About an inch below this, write the word

S Y N O P S I S

starting to write at 28 on the scale-bar. The O in the word OF, the middle word of your title, is the exact centre of the title. Starting the word

S Y N O P S I S

on 28 causes the centre of this word (which is the space between the O and the P) to fall exactly beneath the centre of the title. Then, about 1-1/2 inches below that, start to write your story in synopsis form. Commence your paragraph at 15, indenting ten spaces from the left margin. Thus the neatness and businesslike appearance of your pages will impress the editor favorably at the very first glance. Follow the same rule when typing the scenario, or continuity, and also the scene-plot, if one is made.

Having written your synopsis, if you find that you have plenty of room on the last sheet to write your cast of characters, do so; but do not crowd it in. If you cannot get it in so as to look well, double spaced, and appearing to be, as it should, a separate division (though not necessarily a separate sheet) of the manuscript, by all means give it a separate sheet.

On the other hand, there is a rule regarding separation of divisions of the script which must be observed in every case. You must ALWAYS start to write the scenario on a fresh sheet, no matter how much room you have left after writing your cast. The reason for this is simply that, should your scenario be in proper shape for the director to work from just as it is, he wants the scenario separate. Having read the synopsis once or twice, he is through with it; whereas, when working on a picture, the director "sleeps with the scenario."

And now a word as to the typing of the continuity, or scenario, for you should do everything in your power so to prepare it as to make its every word quickly and easily understood.

In the first place, we strongly recommend the following method for the mechanical preparation of the scenario:

When writing the number of your first scene (1), place the indicator at 0 on the scale-bar. Write all scene-numbers up to 9 at the same point. When you start to write scene-numbers containing two figures (from 10 to as high as you will go) do so at 0 and 1, respectively. Now space one, then print the hyphen mark (which will make a short dash), after which space one or two, as the case may be, which will bring you to 5 on the scale-bar. At 5 start to write the descriptive phrase for your scene. You should also make 5 your left marginal point for the writing of the body of your action. In writing the subject matter of each scene, or division, of the action, commence each new paragraph at 15. In writing "Leader," "On screen, Letter," or any other direction intended especially for the director, always start to write at 0 on the scale-bar, in a direct downward line with your scene-numbers.

The result of following these suggestions will be a neat and attractive type-page, upon which the producer will be able to locate the scene-numbers and other directions at a glance, as may be seen from the following example:



The fact that every studio has writers on its staff to make over scenarios which are good but not in quite the correct form for the director, into what are known as "working scripts," should make no difference to you when writing your script. Let what you offer to the editor be as perfect as you can make it, regardless of what becomes of it after you have sold it. Make it, in every sense, a desirable script.

With regard to the proper spacing for a photoplay manuscript, some editors prefer single and others double spacing. Again, sometimes an editor may have a fondness for double spacing, while the director leans to scripts that are single-spaced. Our experience has shown, however, that the majority of editors and directors like single spacing for the actual subject-matter of the scene—the paragraphs of action—but double spacing between all other matter. Therefore use double space between a leader and the description of the scene which follows, and between the description of the scene and the action proper. This method of spacing, when combined with the rule of placing all directions in the extreme left-hand margin, results in a script that is almost sure to be satisfactory, and is certainly attractive, mechanically.

In conclusion, do not forget that a good typewriter is a tool of the writer's trade, and perhaps the most important tool of all. As for the question of which is the best typewriter, it is entirely a matter of opinion. If you live in a small town, where there is no typewriter agent or agency, see if, among your business acquaintances, there are not represented all the standard makes. Ask permission to examine as many different makes as you can find; try what each will do; make up your mind whether you prefer the single or the double keyboard. If you choose a machine with the single keyboard, you must get used to the shift-key system of printing capitals, yet many writers prefer the single keyboard. If you are buying a machine the makers will gladly substitute for one of the needless characters already on the keyboard—such as @—an odd character for which a writer of photoplays or of fiction would have particular use, such as the exclamation mark.

Having a typewriter, take care of it. Clean the type regularly with a stiff brush; keep it cleaned and oiled; protect the platen from spots of oil or grease of any kind; and give the machine the general attention which it deserves.

From all this, it may seem that undue stress is laid upon the neat appearance of the script, and the way it is planned from a mechanical viewpoint. But we re-affirm what has been said at the opening of the present chapter, and, in addition, we assert that not only are neatness and correctness in the preparation of the script of importance now, but, in the good times to come, to which all photoplay writers are looking forward, the names that will be featured on the posters and in the advertising matter of the companies will be the names of the writers to whom the big checks are paid, and for whose work there will be a steady demand, and they will be the names of the writers who consider it worth while to TAKE PAINS.



CHAPTER VII

THE TITLE

For a few moments, it will be well to pause in order to survey the road we have patiently travelled in our efforts toward writing the photoplay, and also to look briefly at the course that lies ahead.

In the preceding six chapters we have determined the precise meaning of the word "photoplay;" touched upon the qualifications necessary to success in photoplay writing; familiarized ourselves with the vocabulary of the craft; looked briefly at the parts of the photoplay script; examined a complete specimen; and found what are the proper methods for its typing.

After all this foundation work, containing the general information and instructions necessary to enable the photoplaywright to take up intelligently the actual planning, building, and writing of the story, we enter upon a second group of discussions, chapters VII to XII, which are essentially lessons in how to write the photoplay.

The third section, from Chapter XIII to the end, takes up the details of instruction and information in such a way as to supplement the main points before discussed—minor yet really important points which are sure to be of value to the photoplaywright in his work of turning out a script that will need little or no changing on the part of the director or the staff-writer.

1. Importance of the Title

Nearly everything that has been written on the subject of titles for novels and short-stories applies quite as much to titles for "regular" plays and the photodrama. No photoplaywright who is earnest in his desire to turn out only the best and most original work should neglect to read thoroughly the chapter on "The Title" in each available book in the list of works on the writing of the short-story in Appendix A, at the end of this work. Do not be satisfied with what has been written specially for writers of the photoplay; go deeper; study what has been written for fiction writers and dramatists, and so equip yourself thoroughly. We should like to write at the beginning and end of every chapter of this book this reminder: Only those who are thoroughly equipped will be able to remain in the ranks of photoplaywrights when once the various manufacturers have drawn out enough competent writers to keep them supplied with scripts. There will always be room for the competent writer, but a competent writer he must be. And as one element in competency this matter of the title is important, vitally important, when it comes to selling your script.

2. General Functions of the Title

"The title has for its main function the advertising of the story to the public."[8] Is not this, even if there were no other, a sufficient reason for making your title as attractive, interesting and appropriate as you possibly can? True, there are thousands of picture-play patrons who go to their favorite theatre night after night, prepared to see anything that may be shown for their entertainment. But there are also thousands who are not regular attendants. Many go only when attracted by the title of a picture based on some well-known book, poem, or play. A great many more are guided in their selection of moving-picture entertainment by the attractiveness of the titles displayed on the posters and banners announcing the regular daily programs. As a means of attracting all such, the advertising value of the title is important.

[Footnote 8: Evelyn May Albright, The Short Story.]

"A good title," Barrett has said[9] "is apt [appropriate, fitting], specific [concerning itself with, and narrowed down to, something individual enough to grip the attention], attractive [interesting and calculated to inspire attention], new [fresh and unhackneyed], and short." The bracketed comments, of course, are ours.

[Footnote 9: Charles Raymond Barrett, Short Story Writing.]

3. Titles to Avoid

Judging from the titles of many dozens of scripts that the writers have seen slipped into the "stamped addressed envelope enclosed" and sent back to amateur photoplaywrights, one of the greatest mistakes that the young writer makes in his choice of titles is in making them commonplace and uninteresting. When an editor takes out a script and reads the title, "The Sad Story of Ethel Hardy," would he be altogether to blame if he did put the script back into the return envelope utterly unread, as so many editors are accused of doing yet really do not do? To anyone with a sense of humor, there is more cause for merriment in the titles that adorn the different stories that a photoplay editor reads in the course of a day than is to be found in a humorous magazine. Yet it is as easy for some writers to select a good, attractive title for their stories as it is difficult for others.

Do not choose a title that will "give away" your plot. The title should aid in sustaining interest, not dull the spectator's attention by telling "how it all ends." To quote Mr. Harry Cowell, writing in The Magazine Maker: "A title is a means to an end. The end of a story should justify the title. If the title gives the story away, the writer may have to give it away, too, or sell it for a song, which is bad business." Let the title suggest the theme of the story, by all means; but keep your climax, your "big" scene, safely under cover until the moment comes to "spring it" upon the spectators and leave them gasping, as it were, at the very unexpectedness of it. Avoid titles beginning with "How" or "Why," for they are prone to lead in this direction. A good exception is the well-known play, "Why Smith Left Home."

If you use a quotation or a motto for a title, be sure it is not overworked. Variations of "The Way of the Transgressor," "And a Little Child Shall Lead Them," "Thou Shalt Not Kill," and "Honesty Is the Best Policy" are moss-covered.

Avoid baldly alliterative titles, such as "The Deepening of Desolation," "Elizabeth's Elopement," and "Tom Truxton's Trust." Had not the three elements mentioned in the title, "Sun, Sand and Solitude," practically made the story possible, it would never have been used; even so, it is really too alliterative. Usually, the over-use of alliteration is artificial and suggests a strained effort to be original.

For more than one reason, names, as titles for photoplays, are not very desirable, especially for original stories. To entitle a photoplay "Andrew Jackson," or "Jane Shore," if the plot is chiefly concerned with either of those two personages, is, of course, the proper thing; but the class of historical stories indicated by these or similar titles is usually turned out by the film company's own staff of writers. Once in a while, however, it happens that an original story of modern life is written around one character who so completely dominates the action that the name constitutes the very best title that could be given to it. Two good examples of stories having names as titles are "Mickey," in which Mabel Normand played the title role, and "Innocent" (the name of the heroine), produced by Pathe and featuring Fannie Ward.

One-word titles are good only when they are especially apt. Such titles as "Jealousy," "Retribution," "Chains," "Rivals" and "Memories" have been worn threadbare.

"Eschew titles that are gloomy, as 'The Sorrow of an Old Convict,' Loti; or old style, 'Christian Gellert's Last Christmas,' Auerbach; or trite, 'The Convict's Return,' Harben; or newspapery, 'Rescued by a Child;' or highly fantastic, 'The Egyptian Fire Eater,' Baumbach; or anecdotal, 'A Fishing Trip;' or sentimental, 'Hope,' Bremer; or repellent, 'A Memorable Murder,' Thaxter."[10]

[Footnote 10: J. Berg Esenwein, Writing the Short-Story.]

"The American editor, like the heiress, is willing, anxious, to pay big money for a genuine title; only she is on the lookout for an old one, he for a new," says Mr. Harry Cowell, in The Magazine Maker. And though he speaks of titles for fiction stories, what he says exactly fits when applied to photoplay writing. Again, Mr. Cowell says that "the best of titles, once used, is bad"—for re-use, of course.

Mr. Epes Winthrop Sargent remarks: "There are dozens of instances of title-duplication to be noted in the past year, some of the titles being used more than twice. A matter of greater moment is to avoid duplication of plot." It is of still greater moment to avoid both. Because he discovered that the Essanay Company was about to release a picture called "Her Adopted Father," a certain writer changed the title of one of his stories from "His Adopted Mother" to "The Bliss of Ignorance." This avoided, not a duplication, but a too great similarity in titles; at the same time the change was an improvement, when one considers the theme of the story.

As a photoplay author, you should subscribe for one of the trade-papers, if for no other reason than to keep posted on the titles of the various subjects released by the different manufacturers. In this way you will have a much better chance of avoiding the repetition of titles. It goes without saying that originality in a title is only less desirable than originality in a plot; yet every now and then some manufacturer will release a picture with a title similar to, or even quite the same as, one already produced by some other company. For example, on July 15th, some years ago, Lubin released a picture called "Honor Thy Father." Four days later, on the 19th, Vitagraph put out a picture with the same title. Yet this was the merest coincidence. On August 17th of the same year Reliance released "A Man Among Men," while Selig's "A Man Among Men" was released November 18th. The plots were totally different, and the Selig story was written and produced in the plant before any announcement of the Reliance picture was made. Again, on January 8, of the next year, Selig released "The Man Who Might Have Been." Twelve days later, Edison put on the market "The Man He Might Have Been," by James Oppenheim.

The exhibitor is the one who suffers as a result of these similarities in titles; many people see the poster and imagine they have seen the picture before, not noticing the difference in the make of film, and so go elsewhere to see some show that is entirely fresh to them. Therefore keep posted, as fully as possible, as to what the manufacturers are putting out.

Of course this matter of title-duplication has a bearing, though a remote one, on titles that are similar yet not identical, as when Artcraft releases "Wolves of the Rail" (with William S. Hart) and Triangle puts out "Wolves of the Border" (with Roy Stewart). Perhaps there is no valid objection to such similarity, which can be called imitation only when the themes are more or less alike, but it actually seems to have been the policy of many companies to follow the line of least resistance when selecting titles for their pictures, using a title, provided it is good in itself, and appropriate to the picture under consideration, regardless of whether or not it is already familiar to the public as the title of another photoplay, fiction story, or legitimate drama. Needless to say, this has led to a great deal of confusion—and, in one or two cases, to law suits.

Bear in mind that the titles of already published fiction and already produced stage plays are not the lawful prey of the photoplaywright merely because he is working in a different literary field. More than one librarian has told us of the confusion caused by reason of Anna Katharine Green's title, "The Woman in the Alcove," having been used later by another popular woman novelist. Again, such a unique and thoroughly distinctive title as Gouverneur Morris's "It" has been used for a very different type of short-story by another writer. Occasionally, we will admit, this happens by the merest chance—although not when a certain motion picture concern puts out a picture showing life in an American factory town and bearing Kipling's well-known title "The Light That Failed." Your literary conscience must dictate what you should do—willing as we are to admit that there is, very frequently, a great temptation to use the title already employed by another writer because of its extreme appropriateness to your own story.

It may be said that most photoplay producing companies are led to use unoriginal titles because of the poor and inappropriate titles given the stories sent in to them by the authors themselves. Your duty, then, is to help to keep the producing company from "going wrong" in this respect by supplying them with the very best and most original title you can devise for every story of yours which you are fortunate enough to sell.

4. Where to Look for Titles

Good titles are everywhere—if you know how to find them. The Bible, Shakespeare, all the poets, books and plays that you read, newspapers, even advertisements on billboards and in street cars, all contain either suggestions for titles or complete titles, waiting only to be picked out and used. But be sure that someone else has not forestalled you!

Sayings, proverbs, and well-known quotations are a fruitful source of titles, as we have already intimated. But sometimes the real significance and value of such a title are not apparent to a great many of the spectators until they have witnessed the climax of the picture. This arises from their ignorance of literature and is, of course, their loss. Many good and extremely appropriate titles of this character are taken from the Psalms, from Shakespeare, and other poets. Frequently these quotations, used as titles, are so well known, and their meanings so apparent, that almost every one of the spectators will at once understand them, and catch at least the theme or general drift of the story from the title. Sometimes, again, the real significance of a title is best brought out by repeating it, or even the complete quotation from which it is taken, in the form of a leader at the point in the action where its significance cannot fail to be impressed upon the spectators. For example, a certain Selig release was entitled "Through Another Man's Eyes." Before the next to the last scene, which showed the ne'er-do-well lover peering in at the window, while his former friend bends over to kiss his wife—who might have been the wife of the wayward young man, had he been made of different stuff—the leader was introduced:

"How bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes!"

—SHAKESPEARE, As You Like It.

5. The Time to Choose a Title

Notwithstanding that the title is the first in position on the writer's script, as well as on the film as exhibited, it is frequently the last thing decided upon. A writer may have his theme well in hand, know every motive of every character, have settled to almost the minutest detail just how his scenes are going to work out as they unfold his story, yet, when he begins his first draft of the script, he may not have the slightest idea of what title he will eventually give it.

On the other hand, he may create a story from the title. Having hit upon an expression that suggests a story by starting a train of thought, he may find that it is directly responsible for the way in which he builds his plot; its very words suggest the nature of the story, and supply at least a suggestion of how it can be developed—they hint at a possible plot, suggest the setting, and show, almost as one might guess the theme of a novel by glancing for a moment at one of the illustrations, what the probable outcome of the story will be. Hence the expression becomes a natural title for the photoplay.

As an example of the foregoing, in "The Fiction Factory," by "John Milton Edwards," the author says that "the sun, sand and solitude of the country God forgot" did, or caused, or made something—just what does not now matter. The point is that those ten words supplied one of the present authors with not only titles for two of his photoplays, but with the plot-germ for the plays themselves. Both are stories of Arizona: "Sun, Sand and Solitude," and "In the Country God Forgot."

6. Choosing the Title Last

But you may decide to leave the naming of the story until after you have made the rough draft of both synopsis and scenario. Your story is told; you know the motives that have prompted your different characters to do what they have done; you know the scene; and you understand the theme, or motif—as the word would be used in music—which underlies the whole action. The question arises: To what do you wish to have your title call particular attention? If a woman, or a girl, has the leading part, and it is what she does in your play that really makes the story, it would be best to feature the girl and her deed of cleverness or daring in your title, as in "The Ranch Girl's Heroism," "A Daughter's Diplomacy," or "A Wife of the Hills." Or you may attach most importance to the locale of your story, the background against which the rest of your picture is painted, and call it, for instance, "A Tragedy of the Desert," "In the North Woods," "A Tale of Old Tahiti," or one of the titles of Arizona stories, just cited. Again, the interest in your story may be equally divided between two, or among three, people, as in "The Triangle," "The Girl and the Inventor," and "The Cobbler and the Financier." Note that every title here given is the actual title of a picture play which has already been released. Bear in mind, too, that many photoplays are released bearing poor, commonplace, and inappropriate titles, and the foregoing are not so much named as models as for the purpose of illustrating the specific point now being discussed—that the feature idea may often direct your choice after the story is worked out.

A great many comedies have titles which state a fact, or specifically make an announcement concerning what happens in the photoplay, as "Arabella Loves Her Master," or "Billy Becomes Mentally Deranged." Photoplays with such titles are, as a rule, the product of the European makers. Once in a while a dramatic picture will be given such a title, as "Tommy Saves His Little Sister"—a picture made in France—and "Annie Crawls Upstairs," the last a beautiful and touching picture by the well-known writer of magazine stories and photoplays, James Oppenheim, produced by the Edison Company. Again, there are more general titles exploiting the theme of the story, as "The Ways of Destiny," "The God Within," and "Intolerance." There are also symbolical titles, which have, naturally, a double meaning, playing upon an incident in the plot, as "A Pearl of Greater Price," and "Written in the Sand."

7. The Editor and the Title

Some successful writers have expressed dissatisfaction when editors have ventured to change the titles of their scripts after having accepted and paid for them. Doubtless some of these objections have been not without reason. Many editors and directors have, in the past, taken entirely too much upon themselves, in this and other respects taking liberties with the scripts received which, if known to the head of the firm, would have led to their being at least reprimanded. But in such studios, the editors, and especially the directors, worked for days at a time without having once come in contact with the head of the firm; as a result, they all did pretty much as they liked. During the last few months, however, changes have been made in every studio in the country, and at the present time the scripts that writers send in are not only handled much more carefully, but, if the title of a story is changed in the studio, there is usually a very good reason for so doing.

Let us suppose, for example, that a certain company (such as, at this writing, Goldwyn) is featuring women stars only. A writer sends in an unusually good script entitled "Not Like Other Girls"—which, by the way, is a well-known book-title. At about the time that his script is received at the Goldwyn scenario department, the company decides to feature, in addition to its women, a certain male star. This writer's story, while one with a "woman lead," is also one whose plot is capable of being worked over and slightly altered so as to provide a good vehicle for the leading man who has just been engaged. On the strength of this fact, the company buys the author's story without even informing him of their intention to make alterations in it—or they may, of course, tell him of the contemplated alterations and request his help in recasting the story. Not only is the action changed in different ways, but the title is sure to be altered to make it appropriate for a male leading character—and all quite justifiably.

In this condition of affairs, by no means infrequent, the photoplaywright may find a strong reason for being familiar with the people composing a certain company, for the actual structure of the play as well as the title will influence its acceptance in some instances. It is well to ask: Are men or women featured in their pictures; or do they put out stories with a male and a female "lead" of equal strength? Your story should be good enough to make it acceptable to any editor; yet, if you plan to send it first to a firm that features a woman in most of its pictures, as you have the opportunity of knowing if you study the pictures you see on the screen and read the trade-papers, do not write a story with a strong male "lead," and do not give it a title that draws attention to the fact that the principal character is a man.

Remember, once again, that your title is the advertisement that draws the public into the theatre. The title is to the public what the title combined with the synopsis is to the editor—the all-important introduction to what is to follow.



CHAPTER VIII

THE SYNOPSIS OF THE PLOT

The synopsis is a brief—a clear, orderly outline—of the plot of your story. However, before considering the preparation of the synopsis, one important element must be considered:

1. What Constitutes a Plot[11]

A fictional or a dramatic plot is the working plan by which the story is made to lead up to the crisis (or complication, or cross-roads of choice), and then swiftly down to the outcome (or unfolding of the mystery, or untying of the knot, or result of the choice).

[Footnote 11: The student is advised to read The Plot of the Short Story, Henry Albert Phillips; and the chapters on plot in the following treatises: The Short Story, Evelyn May Albright; The Contemporary Short Story, Harry T. Baker; A Handbook on Story Writing, Blanche Colton Williams; Short Stories in the Making, Robert Wilson Neal; The Art of Story Writing, Esenwein and Chambers; and Writing the Short-Story, J. Berg Esenwein.]

There can be no real plot without a complication whose explanation is worked out as the story draws to its close. A mere chain of happenings which do not involve some change or threatened change in the character, the welfare, the destinies of the leading "people," would not form a plot. Jack goes to college, studies hard, makes the football team, enjoys the companionship of his classmates, indulges in a few pranks, and returns home—there is no plot here, though there is plenty of plot material. But send Jack to college, and have him there find an old enemy, and at once a struggle begins. This gives us a complication, a "mix-up," a crisis; and the working out of that struggle constitutes the plot.

So all dramatic and all fictional plots give the idea of a struggle, more or less definitely set forth. The struggle need not be bodily; it may take place mentally between two people—even between the forces of good and evil in the soul of an individual. The importance of the struggle, the clearness with which it is shown to the spectator, and the sympathetic or even the horrified fascination which it arouses in him, have all to do with its effectiveness as a plot—note the three italicized words.

2. Elements of Plot

Dividing the subject roughly, in this brief discussion, three important elements of plot deserve consideration:

(a) The preliminaries must be natural, interesting, fresh, and vivid. That is, they must not seem manufactured. It is all well enough to say that Jack has made an enemy at College, but how did the enmity arise? The young men will not become opponents merely to suit the photoplaywright. You must think out some natural, interesting, fresh, and vivid cause for the antagonism. Such a logical basis for action is called motivation. And so with all the preliminaries on which your plot is based—they must motivate what follows. Remember that forces or persons outside the two characters may lead them to quarrel. Swiftly but carefully lay your foundations (mostly out of sight, in the manner of a good builder) so that your building may be solid and steady—so that your story may not fall because the groundwork of the plot does not appeal to the spectator as being natural, convincing, interesting, fresh, and vivid; these words bear reiteration.

(b) The complication, or struggle, including all its immediately surrounding events, must be (usually) surprising, of deep concern to the chief character, and arouse the anxiety of the spectator as to how the hero will overcome the obstacles. Jack discovers that the girl he has just learned to love is the well-loved sister of his college enemy. How will this complication work out? An interesting series of movements and counter-movements immediately becomes possible, and any number of amusing or pathetic circumstances may arise to bring about the denouement—which simply means the untying of the knot.

The struggle in a plot may be either comical or tragic. Mr. Botts ludicrously fights against a black-hand enemy—who proves to be his mischievous small son. Plump and fussy Mrs. Jellifer lays deep but always transparent plans to outwit her daughter's suitor and is finally entrapped into so laughable a situation that she yields gracefully in the end.

And so on indefinitely. Hamlet wars against his hesitating nature. Macbeth struggles with his conscience that reincarnates the murdered Banquo. Sentimental Tommy fights his own play-actor character. Tito Melema goes down beneath the weight of his accumulated insincerities. Sometimes light shines in the end, sometimes the hero wins only to die. To be sure, these struggles suggest merely a single idea, whereas plots often become very elaborate and contain even sub-plots, counter-plots, and added complications of all sorts. But the basis is the same, and always in some form struggle pervades the drama; always this struggle ranges the subordinate characters for or against protagonist and antagonist, and the outcome is vitally part and substance of all that goes before—the end was sown when the seeds of the beginning were planted. This touches upon the third element:

(c) The Denouement, or disclosure of the plot just before its close, is one of its most vital parts.

"Novelty and interest in the situations throughout the story, with an increasing interest in the denouement, are the essential demands of a plot."[12]

[Footnote 12: Evelyn May Albright, The Short Story.]

It goes without saying that you must interest your audience, but you must also satisfy them—gratify the curiosity you have earlier aroused. It is all very well to write an "absorbing" story, in which the excitement and expectation are sustained up to the very last scene, but be sure that the theme is essentially such that in the last scenes, if not before, your action will unravel the knot that has become so tantalizingly tangled as the play proceeded. No matter how promising a theme may be in other respects, it is foredoomed to failure if from it comes a plot of which the spectator will say as he goes out, "It was a pretty picture—but I couldn't understand the ending."

Another thing: If it is important that, in every case, the spectators must be "shown" what happens in the working out of a plot, it is equally important that they be shown why it happens. This also has to do with sound and comprehensible motivation. "It is not so much a case of 'show me,' with the average American, as a common recognition that there must be a reason for the existence of everything created. He is inclined to give every play a fair show, will sit patiently through a lot of straining for effect, if there is a raison d'etre in the summing up, but his mode of thought, and it belongs to the constitution of the race, is that of getting at some truth by venturesome experiment or logical demonstration."[13]

[Footnote 13: Louis Reeves Harrison, in The Moving Picture World.]

Bear that truth in mind, no matter what you write of, and never start anything that you can't finish—which is simply one way of saying, do not start to write a story at all until you have every scene, situation, and incident, so thoroughly planned, motivated and developed in your mind that when you come to write it out in action in the scenario you cannot help making the audience understand the plot. Never attempt to introduce even a single situation without a logical cause; be sure that "there's a reason."

"Break away from the old lines," advises Mr. Nehls, of the American Company. "Try to write scenarios that will hold the interest with a not too obvious ending, with sudden, unexpected changes in the trend of the story."

If the story contains a mystery, do not allow the end to be guessed too soon. Interest thrives on suspense and on expectation. The surprising thing, yet the natural ending, swiftly brought about, marks the climax of a good photoplay plot. Many a promising photoplay script has failed because it did not make good its prophecy. The plot opened well, but "petered out"—the complication was a good one, but the unfolding of the mystery, the result of the struggle, the aftermath of the choice, were disappointing.

And one final word in this connection: The photoplay public loves a "happy ending"—unless it must be forced.

3. The Study of Plot-Structure

A careful study of fictional and dramatic plot will well repay the photoplaywright. But little more can be said here on the technique of plot, though it deserves a treatise in itself; but much will be gained if these few words are taken seriously, and no stories are submitted except those revolving about ORIGINAL, CLEAR-CUT, PLAUSIBLE SITUATIONS SHOWING THE LIVES OF HUMAN BEINGS IN THEIR HOUR OF CRISIS, AND WORKING OUT THE AFTER-RESULTS OF THAT CRISIS WITH LIVELY, DRAMATIC HUMAN INTEREST.

This advice applies even to humor, for humor takes things which are ordinarily serious and by introducing the incongruous makes them laughable. It is the sudden interruption of smooth going, the unexpected shifting of the factors in the problem, the new and surprising condition of affairs, the swift disappointment—it is any of these in countless variety that makes plot possible.

Learn to invent plots. Invent them wholesale—by day, by night. Turn the facts of everyday life into plots. Draw them from jests, from tragedies, from newspapers, from books, from your own heart—and don't omit the heart, whatever else you do omit. At first, invent merely complications; later work out the situation entire. Thus you will cultivate an inventive attitude and at least some good plots are sure to result.

4. Preparation of the Synopsis

The synopsis of the plot is the first part of the script to be read by the editor, for from it he decides whether the whole script is worth reading further. For this reason, even were there no other, the importance of the synopsis should need no argument. Besides, many companies now are willing to consider "synopsis only."

The final preparation of the synopsis should be the last stroke in the completion of the script. We emphasize "final" because, as has been briefly pointed out in a previous chapter, the writer should at the very outstart draft a rough, or working, synopsis, to be used as a guide while working out the various scenes in his scenario.

The reasons for reserving the synopsis for improving and polishing at the very end of the writing may easily be understood. Suppose an author were to write the complete synopsis of his story first, and then in writing his scenario follow that synopsis rigidly, adding no scene not indicated in it, introducing no character that it does not mention, and otherwise being bound by his earlier work. He might indeed produce a good scenario, but would it be quite as good as it might have been had he allowed himself a freer rein in working it out? Might there not have been a scene or two added that would have aided materially in making every little detail of his plot clear to the spectators?

Again, a writer will frequently find, when working out his scenario, that he can improve his story by transposing some of the scenes as originally planned. In fact, there are a dozen ways in which the story may be altered for the better while in course of construction. Why, then, should the author hamper himself by obstinately adhering to his original plan or synopsis of it? In photoplay writing an author should not promise himself never to change his mind.

An experience of a certain writer will serve to illustrate the impracticability of writing the final form of the synopsis first. A few years ago, when all editors were asking for the complete script, and when most companies were insisting upon a synopsis of approximately two hundred and fifty words, the editor of a company for which he writes suggested that, instead of preparing the complete script before submitting it, the author should merely write out his synopsis in the usual way and send that in. If the synopsis was satisfactory, his being told to go ahead and finish the script would mean that the story was as good as purchased. Appreciating this kindness, three synopses were submitted by the writer, and two of them accepted; the third was for certain reasons unavailable. It was necessary, then, to write out and send in the scenarios for the two satisfactory synopses, and the author started in. Notwithstanding that the firm in question places no restriction on the number of words in the synopsis of scripts submitted to them, and that this author, for that reason, seldom sent in, even in those days, a synopsis of less than a thousand words, giving the theme and details of the plot, he found that in working out the scenarios of both stories the original plots could be improved, strengthened, given a more decided "punch," by making some changes. In one, he added a character and transposed several scenes, thereby strengthening the whole plot. In the other, elimination of two scenes of minor importance made it possible for the director to give more footage to a big scene. These changes being made in the scenarios, the original synopses could not be used. It was therefore necessary to write two new ones which corresponded with the scenarios that went with them. Thus the original synopses of the two accepted stories really amounted to nothing more than working, or first-draft, synopses.

5. Length of the Synopsis

How many words should be allowed for the writing of a synopsis still remains a matter of opinion. Almost every writer wishes that he could use, within reason, an unlimited number. The acceptance or rejection of the script depends so almost entirely upon the interest the editor takes in the synopsis, that it unjustly hampers a writer to be limited in the number of words he may use. This is peculiarly true if the plot should happen to be one that requires the explanation of several minor, yet important, details of the story. And even though you are sending to a company that asks for the complete script, you must bear in mind that some editors base their decisions wholly upon what they get from the synopsis.

On the other hand, more scripts suffer from having the synopses loosely and wordily written than from being over-compressed. The young writer especially cannot be too careful in drilling himself in the art of clear-cut, concise, yet effective expression. To be able to tell a story in outline, using few but vivid words, is an art worth cultivating.

However, now that the market has expanded from one to five, and even more, reels, the limit of words is not so closely drawn. Indeed, today, whether the studio is one that asks for the complete script or insists upon examining the synopsis only, you may almost feel safe in sending in a synopsis containing just as many words as are really needed—which means, simply, that the editor's first consideration is to be able to "get" your whole story from one reading of your synopsis, whatever its length. It should be concise; it must be clear and readily understandable. A busy editor has no time to waste in re-reading certain paragraphs or even sentences the meaning of which is obscure. One of the first things to remember is that certain companies send out the call for "synopsis only" because they prefer to have their staff writers do the continuity of scenes (write the scenario), instead of accepting the scenario prepared by the author and upon occasion, altering it in the studio to suit their special requirements. Why so many concerns prefer to do this is easily understood. Instead of cutting up the originally submitted scenario and substituting different settings or locations, and perhaps, even, different large and difficult-to-obtain "props," they simply provide the staff writer with the synopsis of the story purchased from you, and tell him to go ahead and prepare the continuity, knowing as he does, and keeping in mind while at work, to just what approximate expense the company is prepared to go, just what sets are available or can be built, what necessary locations can be reached within a reasonable time, and what players—especially if they must be distinctive types—are in the company or may be readily engaged. These, of course, are matters over which the outside writer can have no control; if he is selling to a concern that demands the synopsis only, he must make up for what he does not know about the inside workings of the studio by giving the editor and (especially) the staff writer every needed detail of his plot. Only by so doing can he feel sure of eventually seeing the story on the screen in the form of an artistic and satisfactory working out of his original idea.

Some companies that request the synopsis only also like the writer to submit two synopses. The first, for the special benefit of the editor, and shorter than the two-hundred-and-fifty-word synopsis of a few years ago, is intended to show the editor or his reader almost at a glance if the story is what that particular company could use at all. The second synopsis, of course, is the longer and more detailed one from which both he and the staff man can get all the necessary details if your story is purchased. By reading the market departments of such magazines as The Writer's Monthly, and the various trade journals, you can keep posted as to which concerns like this double synopsis. For your own good, always observe the rule if the company lays it down, and remember that it is an easy matter to make a brief synopsis from the longer one already prepared.

Again, while it is also necessary to observe strictly the rule of sending the "synopsis only" to companies that demand it, one of the present writers has found that many firms welcome the author's continuity, after the story has been purchased on the strength of its synopsis, for the sake of the finer details of action and the technical and mechanical suggestions contained in it, and even though they use it merely as an additional aid to the staff writer in preparing his continuity. Such a company, of course, merely gives the writer a courteous "thank you" for his continuity, as contrasted with those that pay a certain amount for the synopsis and, usually, double that amount if the scenario also is called for; but the earnest writer has the satisfaction of knowing that, with the additional details supplied in the scenario, or continuity, the staff writer stands an even better chance of perfectly preparing the blue print, as it were, of the story from which the director will work while building the photoplay.

These things being so, this writer works along the following lines: From a rough draft, or working synopsis, he prepares the complete scenario, just as he would do for a company that was having a story done to order. To this, in any case, must be attached a synopsis. He therefore writes a very complete, detailed synopsis, preparing it in the manner which will presently be described. In addition, it is a very simple matter to write a synopsis of from one hundred and fifty to two hundred and fifty words, according to the story, and have it ready in case he finds it advisable to submit to a "two synopses requested" concern.

Now, whether the company is or is not one of those that will accept the author's own continuity as an additional guide for the staff writer, if it is a concern that asks for a complete, detailed synopsis, this writer sends in what he has more than once humorously termed a "camouflaged continuity." He does not, so to speak, send in the "plot of action"—the full continuity—with the technical directions and scene numbers left out, but a genuine, specially-written synopsis, in proper narrative form. However, it is written directly from his own complete, detailed continuity, and the action, though in narrative form, is made to run along exactly as it does in the continuity. This, it may be said, is almost the same process which was followed by writers a few years ago, when complete scripts were first in demand, and which we advocate earlier in the present chapter. But you must bear in mind that the method here outlined is used in connection with the writing of a synopsis of from three thousand to six thousand words, or even more, if really necessary, as contrasted with the two-hundred-and-fifty-word synopsis generally demanded a few years ago. Furthermore, the synopsis is written in such a way that anyone could separate this writer's sentences and paragraphs by drawing a lead pencil between the lines, thus dividing it into almost the exact number of scenes, with the same continuity of action as shown in the scenario. The minor details of action are omitted, of course, and there are little side remarks written in, in connection with characterization, etc., which would be out of place in the scenario.

As for its mechanical preparation, this synopsis is double spaced, with a left-hand margin of one and one-half inches. As the story runs on, many statements are made which give the staff writer an opportunity to use a leader (sub-title) at that point if he wishes to; but if in his own scenario the writer whose practice we are quoting has a number of leaders (frequently ordinary statement, or before-the-scene, sub-titles, but usually cut-in, or dialogue, leaders) which he really feels are of special importance, and worded just right, they go into the synopsis written in red, and started in the left margin at "0," with double space both above and below them. In this way they stand out clearly and give the staff writer or the sub-title editor (if the firm employs someone to attend to that special work), a chance to pick them out quickly and decide whether or not he wishes to retain them. Even more important than the matter of keeping in the sub-titles after the picture has been produced is that of directing the action of the players when putting on the picture, so as to work directly up to the leader that fits into the action at a certain point. Knowing this fact, the writer gives the director help in the way just described; what necessary changes are made after the script has been sold is a matter over which no free-lance writer has any real control.

At the end of this chapter is reproduced a page from one of this same writer's synopses, illustrating just how far he usually goes in giving details of the action when writing a complete synopsis, and showing how the suggested inserts are separated from the narrative of plot. Let us repeat, however, that not all companies that ask for the detailed synopsis care to have also the scenario, even as a gift. This explains the introduction of little bits of detail and certain suggestions which ordinarily would have no place in the synopsis were it not that, in order to insure as fully as possible the proper interpretation of his story, the writer inserts them in this way for the benefit of both editor and—especially—staff writer.

The importance of trying to acquaint yourself with the preferences of the different editors as to the length of the synopsis should be apparent to any writer—although it is well to remember that editors change and studio rules change with them. For a feature-story of five reels or more you may have, say, from six to twelve typed pages—the length of the synopsis, of course, depending upon the nature of the story and the action it contains. You must be especially careful to ascertain the preferences of an editor who reads scripts for a star such as Douglas Fairbanks, because you know that a story prepared especially for his use (although not written to order) may not sell elsewhere if his company rejects it. However, regardless of its length, the object of the synopsis is to present a clear, interesting and comprehensive outline of the story—of what is worked out in action in the scenario, if you send one—and to give editor, staff writer and director all the help you possibly can without for a moment making it appear that you are trying to teach them their business. This does not mean that if you know your business you need hesitate to send in a scene-plot diagram as your suggestion for a certain important set, or supply historical or other needed data, or give your own idea of how best a certain effect can be obtained. All broad-minded and progressive directors are glad to receive such help. But do not attempt such suggestions until you have thoroughly mastered the technique of photoplay writing and have also seen on the screen many examples of how different effects have been procured in the past. It is not out of place to say now what is enlarged upon in a chapter to follow: The screen is, after all, the greatest of all schools for the would-be professional photoplaywright.

Here are some wise words from Mr. Epes Winthrop Sargent, in The Moving Picture World:

"The successful seller of synopses first makes his story interesting, not through inflated literary style, but through clearness in the exploitation of idea. He makes his second point through the fullness of the necessary detail. His third point is made through the omission of unnecessary detail. His last advantage is that he knows when to give scenes that are out of the ordinary and leaders that will be useful to the continuity writer. He undertakes to sell no more than an idea, and, selling an idea, he does not confound it with history nor expect the buyer to be a mind reader. That is the great trick in synopsis writing. Learn what to put in and what to leave out. Learn to tell what the continuity writer needs, and learn to omit the things that will suggest themselves to the imagination of any intelligent plot-handler."

6. The Form of the Synopsis

An examination of the scripts of some amateur photoplay authors shows that there is a frequent tendency to misunderstand the form in which the synopsis should be written. This may be due to the writer's being impressed with the necessity for not making his synopsis too long. At any rate, the examples we have in mind are written—the story is told—exactly as the scenario should be written, only even more briefly and without being subdivided into numbered scenes. Thus, instead of writing: "Blake conceals himself behind a boulder and, as Tom is about to pass him, steps out and orders him to throw up his hands. He compels Tom to surrender his revolver and cartridge belt, hastening Tom's actions, when he momentarily hesitates, by firing a shot close to his head;" the writer may say: "Blake sees Tom approaching up path. Hides behind boulder. As Tom is about to pass boulder, he is held up by Blake, who makes him strip off gun and cartridge belt. Tom too slow in actions, so Blake shoots past his head. Tom drops belt and gun on ground, etc." Obviously, the mistake consists in not writing the synopsis in narrative form.

It is well to note another point also. Although some manufacturers in preparing synopses of their stories for the trade journals write them in the past tense, it is always advisable to tell your story in the present tense. In the scenario, you must follow this custom, and in the synopsis you should do so.

In adding bits of characterization to your synopsis, and particularly in pointing out the dramatic incidents of your plot, consider the value of suggestive words and phrases. Not many words, but words that suggest pictures, call up whole scenes, tell entire stories, are needed. And this is particularly true when you are writing to meet the "synopsis only" demand. Don't over-adjective your synopsis, but such qualifying words as you use should be vivid, clear and precise. One specific word outweighs a score of general statements. Consider the difference between "horse" and "broncho;" "house" and "bungalow;" "woman" and "sour spinster." Be definite.

A careful examination of any well-written synopsis will convince the novice that several rewritings are not too many to give to a synopsis before deciding that it is clear, concise, and interesting. Each of these points is well worth considering carefully. Interest, no one can teach you; conciseness may be attained only by cutting out needless words and studying how to express the utmost in terse language; and clearness is surely equally worthy of conscientious effort to master. A first-class rhetoric, like Genung's, or Hill's, will be of great value in acquiring conciseness and clearness of style, as well as other good qualities of expression. One point only is there time to dwell upon here: the lack of clearness arising from the careless use of personal pronouns. For example, compare the relative clearness in these two statements:

"In a moment of excitement, Harley strikes Jim a heavy blow. The whole thing dazes him, and he scarcely knows what to do. After a few hours, he determines upon revenge and, after taking his brother into his confidence, warns him that he will shoot him on sight, etc."

"In a moment of excitement, Harley strikes Jim a heavy blow. The whole affair dazes Jim, and he scarcely knows what to do. However, after a few hours, he determines upon revenge, and, after taking his brother Ted into his confidence, he warns Harley that he will shoot him on sight, etc."

In the following 248-word synopsis, we have a model of clearness, conciseness, and interesting statement. The same general form, applied to a longer synopsis, should satisfy any editor. For the second, or short, synopsis, demanded by certain companies, one of about this length, and as carefully prepared, would undoubtedly be entirely acceptable. Add to the conciseness and clearness of this Vitagraph synopsis the suggested inserts, leaders, etc., already described in connection with the synopses usually sent out by one of the present writers, and you have what comes pretty near to being the ideal form when the wishes of the editor, staff writer and director are all considered. You will find other synopses in chapters V and XX.

A WASTED SACRIFICE

Produced by the Vitagraph Company

With all his faults, Jack Martin, an Arizona gambler, has one redeeming quality, a deep love for his motherless child. The baby is taken sick. Leaving her with Aunt Jane, the Mexican housekeeper, Jack goes for Doctor Winton, who is also the sheriff. The child dies. Crazed with grief, Jack gets drunk and shoots the town Marshal. Leaping astride his horse, he escapes into the desert. Far out on a sandy plain, he comes across the dead body of a young Apache squaw, who has been bitten by a rattlesnake. By the side of the lifeless form he finds a child who has nursed from its mother's breast and imbibed the poison.[14] Jack thinks of his own child and his heart goes out to the little one. Jack has eluded his pursuers and his horse has dropped from exhaustion. He knows that he is free to escape. He hesitates, but determines to save the little papoose by doubling back on his tracks and meeting the posse, of which the doctor-sheriff is the leader. On rounding a curve in the canyon, he comes upon his followers, who cover him with their weapons. Holding out the child to the doctor, he begs him to do something for it. The sheriff examines it and discovers that it is dead. Jack, with tears in his eyes, stands ready for his capture, conscious that inasmuch as he did it for one of God's little ones, he has not done it in vain.

[Footnote 14: The scientific inaccuracy of this statement need not now be considered.]

Mr. Epes Winthrop Sargent has well epitomized some important principles in synopsis writing when—in The Writer's Monthly for April, 1918—he says that "the good synopsis:

"Starts with a 'punch' fact.

"Tells the story clearly in full detail as to facts, with as few words as possible.

"Identifies as fully as possible all the leading characters at their first introduction.

"Fully establishes minor personages as they enter the story.

"Gives all of the facts required by the staff writer in the construction of a continuity.

"Presents these facts fluently and interestingly, with some suggestion of literary charm, but without the use of florid phrase or elaborate descriptive writing.

"Presents facts in their logical order, but not necessarily in the exact order of their happening.

"Is as brief as is consistent with clearness of statement, but may run 5,000 words or more IF fewer words will not permit the story to be clearly told."



[Illustration:

The Man who Mocked - 2 -



Dear Dwight:

What do you say to a trip to Italy? Father is very anxious to continue his historical researches, especially in Rome and the Campagna. We'd be delighted to have you as one of our party. Run up to the house tonight and we'll talk it over.

As ever, Muriel.

Delafield cares nothing for the ruins and historical treasures of the Eternal City, but he is mightily interested in being near Muriel, and he leaves the house prepared to accept this invitation.

As he comes down the steps of his house to enter his car, an old blind man, led by a little dog on a cord, shuffles along and collides with him. Delafield steps back, pushing the man from him, who, as if fearing a blow, raises his arms to guard against it and then hurries on, while Delafield, sneering as he watches him, steps into his car and drives off.

At the Trevor's, he is shown into the library, where Muriel and her father are sitting in earnest conversation. They rise to greet him, the professor shaking his hand warmly. When Muriel goes to him, Delafield takes her left hand in his (close-up), and with his right index finger touches the engagement ring on her finger and then points to himself, thus indicating that he already looks upon her as his property, albeit he plainly shows his genuine regard for her. She presently picks up the book to which she and her father have been referring before Delafield's entrance and shows it to him, saying:

"FATHER AND I HAVE BEEN DISCUSSING THE THEORY OF REINCARNATION"

At which Delafield smiles good-naturedly, but plainly shows that he considers the theory so much rubbish, answering:

"WHILE I'M ALIVE, THAT SORT OF THING DOESN'T INTEREST ME; AND WHEN I'M DEAD, IT WON'T MATTER"

The professor is plainly disappointed by this speech, but he passes it off with a smile, answering:

"ONE HAS TO DIE, MY DEAR FELLOW, TO FIND OUT THAT IT DOES MATTER"

The truth of which remark is not apparent to Delafield until some time later. He smiles at the professor's earnestness, which Muriel quite evidently shares, and is about to speak to the girl again when her brother, Jack, enters. He is about twenty-two, clean-cut and jovial, and he greets Delafield heartily, at the same time asking his father:]



CHAPTER IX

THE CAST OF CHARACTERS

The expression "the cast of characters" may be used in any one of three senses: the list of principal characters as it is thrown on the screen to serve the purpose of a theatre program; the actual group of actors used in the production of the photoplay; and the complete cast of characters as made by the writer for his script. Of course it is not necessary here to consider each of these three uses of the term, but it will be quite easy to avoid confusion if we bear the distinctions in mind.

1. Showing the Cast on the Screen

Introducing the cast of characters as a printed part of the pictured drama is a comparatively recent improvement in the art of the photoplay. For many years the picture "fans," as we have come to call them, were kept in ignorance of the real names of the players who entertained them on the screen. Then in Great Britain the exhibitors came to realize that the added interest that would come of having the various artists known to the public by name would mean an increase in the box-office receipts, and they began to give out fictitious names for such favorites as Mary Pickford, Florence Turner, and Mary Fuller. This opened the eyes of some of the manufacturers to the wisdom of giving on the films the names of the players as well as the names of the characters represented by them, and the Edison studio, of which Mr. Horace G. Plimpton was then manager, was one of the first American concerns to give the cast of characters in connection with the pictured story. Leaving aside the wishes of the public, it was an injustice to the players not to have included the casts sooner, just as the names of actors and actresses are given in a "legitimate" theatre program.

Following the first showing of the casts on the films, different manufacturers began to see the wisdom, as well as the additional artistic effect, of showing the name of the author of the photoplay, and this practice has gradually grown until, today, it is very seldom that the name of the writer is omitted. There are patrons who feel that, at the present time, the preliminary announcements on most films, especially "features," are rather overdone, inasmuch as they usually give the names of the author of the story, the writer of the scenario, or continuity, the director, the cameraman, the "art title" maker, and the supervising producer. However, most writers and actors feel that the manufacturers are quite welcome to go as far as they like in this direction, so long as they continue to give the credit due to those who write and enact the story.

Undoubtedly, one reason why the manufacturers hesitated about giving all this information on the film in the days of the single-reel photoplay was that they had the matter of footage to consider. With an even thousand feet to a reel, and a reel to a story, no footage could be spared for preliminary announcements without crowding the story-part of the film. Today, with one-, two-, three-, and a few four-reel pictures, and feature productions of from five reels up, less attention need be paid to the matter of footage consumed by both preliminary statements and the regular leaders and inserts, as further pointed out in Chapter XII.

Again, today, one company at least—the Essanay, of Chicago—has broken away from the old rule of making pictures run to one, two, or more even reels. They decided to let all their photoplays run on until the story was logically told (with the aid of the printed inserts) and then to end it, regardless of the length to which it had run. Then, instead of announcing in the trade-papers that the picture was in so many reels, or parts, they simply stated that the screen-time of the picture was so many minutes, or an hour and so many minutes. From this, the exhibitor may easily reckon the approximate length of the picture. The important point in this connection is that it would seem that the foolish old custom of making a picture run to an arbitrary length, either by padding it out or by cutting it down, regardless of all reason and logic, will soon be a thing of the past. The harm done to certain productions in the past by forcing them to adhere to a certain number of feet—so many even reels—can hardly be estimated. Imagine stage plays being written to run so many even hours, instead of ending logically when the story is fully and consistently worked out!

At any rate, today, and especially in the case of those concerns which call for the synopsis only, the free-lance photoplaywright has a much better opportunity to centre his attention on turning out a good story, without having constantly to keep in mind the matter of how many reels of film it will take to tell it—which, of course, is as it should be. Thus, as has just been shown, the gradual breaking of the restrictions on footage has resulted in proper screen-publicity being given to the cast.

2. The Time for Showing the Cast

The methods adopted by producing companies in presenting the names of characters and players on the screen are varied. Indeed, no set rules are followed. The producer's whole object in each case seems to be simply to present every cast-announcement of this kind in as striking and artistic a way as possible. Some companies list the characters at the very outset—or all the principal characters, at least—with the names of the players. Others open with a statement-leader, which gives, so to speak, the "theme" of the story to follow, this leader being at once followed by the name of the leading male or female character, sometimes with and sometimes without an additional descriptive statement. With the particular method followed by the producer the author is little concerned. His best plan is simply to make out a complete list of the people in his story, following one of the forms given later in this chapter. At the present time, nearly every big concern employs a sub-title editor whose duty it is to eliminate, alter, or add to the writer's own leaders and inserts, and this person also "fixes up" to comply with the firm's rule any additional wording that may be attached by the author to the names of his characters when the cast is made out.

3. The Number of Characters

The "legitimate" dramatist, especially the untried dramatist, must be very careful to use only as many characters in his play as are absolutely necessary. Every theatrical manager knows that he is taking a chance, and a big chance, when producing the work of a new writer. The writer, also knowing this, and realizing that every additional character means an addition to the salary list—and therefore to the manager's risk—wisely uses no more characters in the unfolding of his plot than he can help. Even when an actor "doubles" two parts, he expects a proportionately larger salary for so doing.

In the moving picture studios, on the other hand, the players are paid by the week, to work, as it were, by the day. The photoplay actor plays as many different parts as the director finds it necessary to cast him for. If necessary, in a big production, a director can draw on any or all of the players making up the stock company, provided he does not prevent them from playing the parts in another picture then in course of production, for which they have been previously cast. So that, so far as salary is concerned, unless certain "types," either men or women, are specially engaged for a production, the film manufacturer does not need to worry about how many "principals" are needed to take part in a picture. He has, of course, to consider the salaries of the "extra people," or supernumeraries, when a picture calls for their employment. But the principal reason for keeping the photoplay cast as small as possible is that the fewer the principal characters the more easily understood is the story. In this respect, better twenty extras and five principals than twenty principals and two extras.

Remember, then, to use as few principal characters as possible in developing your plot. This does not mean that you may be prodigal in your use of extras; quite the contrary. But, since extras who are posing as cowboys, soldiers, guests at a ball, bystanders in a street scene, or saloon loungers, are easily distinguished from the principals, it is a matter of small importance how many are used so long as the scene is full enough to harmonize with the idea. It would be silly, of course, actually to specify the number of "travellers and bystanders" used in a scene at a railroad station at train time. The director will employ as many as he thinks necessary.

4. How the Director Assigns the Cast

It frequently happens that members of the regular stock company are used to fill in in certain scenes, although they may not be cast in the picture at all. When, for example, the scene is laid in a ballroom, or when boxes and orchestra chairs in a theatre are shown, the director uses as many of the regular company as are available—knowing that they may be relied upon to sustain the necessary action, and feeling sure that they will "dress" the scene suitably. Extras are then drawn upon for as many more people as he may require.

A distinction must be made between extras who merely fill in or dress a scene and those who play a small part, or "bit," in one or more scenes. In every studio there are men and women who are known as "regular" extras—people who are on hand every morning and who remain until they are either told that they can work in a certain picture or that they will not be required that day. Practically all of these regular extras are experienced actors and actresses, and most of them continue to report daily in the hope that, being given a small part to play, they may in this way attract the attention of the director and eventually be offered positions in the stock company. Many of the best known photoplayers in the country today made their start in moving-picture work in this way after having forsaken the "legitimate" stage.

5. Planning the Cast

Strictly speaking, it is no longer advisable, nor even possible, to plan your cast ahead, when writing photoplays, any more than it would be possible to state exactly in advance how many characters you would introduce if you were setting out to write a novel. Today more than ever before the demand is for good stories. Given a good story, a competent director will do the rest. He will not hesitate to engage for that production just as many people as may be necessary, whether they are special "type" players, male or female, or for "straight" parts. Your cast, in other words, must inevitably be a result of the final working out of your story. The one thing you can do in advance is determine whether you are going to write what is simply a good story or is a story designed as a vehicle to exploit some particular "star."

This latter procedure is always a risky one for the writer to adopt. The story planned and worked out to fit the talents of a certain star, especially if designed to feature the very unusual work of such a player as Douglas Fairbanks, may not sell at all if it fails to sell to the one for whom it was planned, and the writer's work goes for naught. By far the wisest plan is to write for certain particular stars only under contract, or at least to write only stories that stand a chance of selling elsewhere if rejected by the firm at which they were first aimed.

If you are writing "to order" for a certain star, and if you are reasonably sure that the supporting players are permanent members of that particular company, you may plan your story so as to give the director a chance to use all the people at his disposal to the best advantage, for today, while character-actors are just as busy as ever, it is the actual "type" that is usually cast for a certain part if such a man or woman is procurable at all.