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dull blur in which the faces of the doctor and his attendants were brought right up to the lens of the camera and then withdrawn for several feet, the action being extremely rapid, and being repeated several times, by means of the camera mounted on a truck, as already described.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 anaesthesia was vividly reproduced, and the effect on the audience was most marked. The idea of what Mortmain experienced in his last conscious moments "got across" in no uncertain way. Especially startling and realistic—to those who have been there—was the effect of the patient's feeling himself dropping, dropping, dropping through space into—oblivion.

It is extremely unlikely that this work will be made use of by anyone who has not visited the picture theatres often enough to have seen ten times as many camera tricks, special effects, and examples of the use of different technical devices as are herein described. But if you are taking up photoplay writing without having seen many photoplays on the screen, you are but half equipped, notwithstanding all the help you may receive through text-books and trade-journal articles. In other words, we urge upon you the wisdom of keeping in mind that the real finishing school for screen writers is the picture theatre itself.

15. Dual-Character Double Exposures

Undoubtedly, the gradual perfecting of the double exposure (superimposure) device in motion-picture making has made possible the screening of innumerable good stories which would otherwise have been almost impossible of production. When only a few years ago the Vitagraph Company made their very creditable production of Charles Dickens's "A Tale of Two Cities," the two leading male characters, Sidney Carton and Charles Darnley, were played by two different actors—the final action of the plot turning on the fact that these two were "doubles," for this fact makes possible Sidney Carton's supreme sacrifice for his friend and the woman he loves. There was a fairly close facial resemblance between the two actors who played these parts—enough, with the aid of the wigs they wore and other make-up, to make the picture convincing. Today, no director would think of putting on such a picture with two different actors in the dual roles of Carton and Darnley. When, in 1917, the Dickens classic was released as a William Fox feature, William Farnum played both roles, 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 roles. Again, any additional trouble that is attached to making pictures of this kind, on account of the double exposures involved, is confined to those scenes in which both characters are present in the scene at the same time, and even then the difficulty is minimized by the use of close-ups.

For example, to show Carton in one scene where Darnley is not present is simply to take an ordinary scene in an ordinary way. Then, suppose you wish to show Carton seated in a chair at one side of the room while Darnley leaning against the table at the other side of the room talks with him. In pictures of this kind the director frequently uses more close-ups than usual merely to avoid the necessity of making double exposures, in connection with which the greatest trouble is always the keeping track—by counting, for instance—of the moves of the two different characters. But it is a much easier matter for the dual-role actor, made up as Carton, to be photographed singly in one part of the room as he goes through with the action of one or more scenes, after which, dressed as Darnley, he goes through the synchronized action of that character. Synchronization—or harmony of movement in time—of course demands that the action of both characters be properly matched—to use a common and easily understood term—but it will be seen that when the spectator watches only one character at a time there is not the need for the perfect synchronization of action that is always demanded of the wide-angle double-exposure scene, in which one man, playing two different characters, must face himself and keep the action natural and convincing at all times.

Very few things in the development of motion picture art have advanced so noticeably as this trick of portraying dual characters on the screen by means of double exposure of the film. Theoretically, it is extremely simple. There is a middle—or at any rate an arbitrary—dividing line to the stage. A mask being placed over one-half of the camera lens, the film is run through and the action of Carton in a certain scene in which he is supposed to face Darnley is taken. Careful track is kept of just what important moves he makes at different stages of the count. Later, after he is made up as Darnley, the first half of the lens is masked in the same way as before, while the second half is exposed and the action of Darnley is gone through with, with the gestures and other action properly timed to synchronize with the action of his "double"—and that is all there is to do. But the skill of the director is tested in his timing of the moves of the characters, just as his knowledge of lighting and backgrounds is tested so as to avoid showing the line where the two differently exposed parts of the film join. Then, too, certain directors have, of late, procured some "double" effects which well deserve to be called wonderful, as when in a certain William Fox film the two different characters, played by the one woman, are made to meet and kiss each other most naturally.

To repeat, double exposure (to use the simplest term for this camera trick) has made possible the writing of many stories for the screen which a few years ago would have been rejected because of the inability of the company to procure two people similar enough in appearance successfully to portray the "doubles." No author with a really fine idea for a dual-character story need hesitate to offer it to the film companies today. But there is still enough additional trouble attached to the production of this kind of story to justify the editors in rejecting everything but the very best in the way of plots.

16. Features

The most surprising thing, when one looks back and considers the single-reel stories of a few years ago, is that a complete, logically told story could ever have been produced in one thousand feet of film, part of which was consumed by sub-titles and inserts. Of course, the sub-titles and inserts helped to tell the story in those days, just as they do now, but even so, the comparatively small amount of footage allowed to each picture seems even less than it actually was in the light of the five- to eight-thousand feet and more to which we expect feature pictures to run today.

The fact remains, however, that for several years one-reel pictures were the rule; and a still more important fact, considered from the standpoint of the writer, is that many—a great many—of the stories that were then confined to one thousand feet of film were far better stories, if not quite so pleasing as pictures, than many that are now being put out in lengths of five-thousand feet or more and labeled as features.

The reason is clear; there simply could not be a clearer or more undeniable reason: When a story had to be told in one thousand feet—perhaps a few feet less than that, but never a foot more—it had to be all story, all meat. "Padding" was a thing quite unknown in 1909. The wonder was that so much story could be crowded into so few feet of film. Good as was the Famous Players five-reel production of Dumas' "Monte Cristo"—judged by the standards of the year in which it was released—a great many people who saw it were struck by the fact that this feature production had very little more actual story in it than had the carefully condensed one-reel version of the same novel-play that was put out by the Selig Company in 1908. What it did have was more detail, and a great deal more opportunity for pictorial effects. The one-reel Selig release gave every essential detail of the romance, with the necessary explanatory inserts in the way of leaders, letters, etc. The Famous Players feature production gave the essential details plus innumerable details that were by no means essential—although very effective as helps to a better understanding of the locale, the period in history, and the author's characterization.

The Famous Players "Monte Cristo," however, was not, at any point, "padded." It might have been two reels longer—and probably would have been three reels longer had it been produced a little later—without giving too much of the wealth of picture-material contained in the complete story of Edmond Dantes. We mention these two pictures solely for the purpose of drawing a comparison between the kind of stories put out in 1908 and those that were beginning to appear about six years later. But "padding"—the filling up of the picture with non-essential and often very extraneous details or pictorial effects—has steadily increased with the yearly increase of the so-called "features," and has unquestionably been responsible for the falling-off in interest among countless former photoplay "fans." They have gone into the theatres expecting to see a "big star" in a "big story"—and have come out after having seen only the "big star." Just who is responsible for this very unsatisfactory state of affairs it is sometimes hard to say. Occasionally the story, if written by an "outside" writer, is lacking in plot-material in the first place, and, having been purchased on account of its having, none the less, several good situations, is allowed to go into production without being built up in plot (which is quite another thing from "padding") by one of the studio staff-writers. Or it may be that, the logical length of that particular story being five thousand feet, the director lets it run on for another reel, or even two, in order to be able to work in several hundred feet of quite unnecessary close-ups of the female "lead," who chances to be his wife, and whose popularity he is naturally anxious to maintain. This actually has happened; but even a conscientious and otherwise artistic director may occasionally "stretch a picture out a little" in order to take advantage of the beautiful natural locations of the part of the country in which he is working.

All these things being so, it becomes more and more the duty of the author to see that his story has plenty of story. Give the director a strong, well-developed plot and he will have far less opportunity and much less excuse for introducing anything that will be in the nature of padding. Moreover, so evident is it that photoplay audiences have come to recognize the padded story when one is shown, that the producers have started to call a halt on this foolish practice, and as a result stories accepted from the outside are closely scrutinized to see if they are full length in actual material.

So far as any special rules in connection with the writing of the feature picture is concerned, there are really none—unless the admonition to try to make a five-reel story five times as interesting and five times as cleverly plotted as a one-reel story may be called a rule. In other words, the writer who can turn out a salable synopsis for a one-reel story ought to be able to write an equally good synopsis for a five-reel feature; and similarly, if you can write the continuity for a one-reel story—if you can write a single-reel scenario of the kind that would have been acceptable in any studio a few years ago—you undoubtedly can write a five-reel continuity that is up to the technical standard demanded by those companies that accept complete scripts today. And of course the same applies to the "synopsis only" script.

The one thing that you cannot do, unless you are actually on the staff of a certain company, is obvious, and has been referred to in the chapter on "The Synopsis": You cannot write any story with the certainty that it will be entirely unchanged after being accepted for production. Any one of a dozen very good reasons may demand that some alteration, addition to or elimination of certain scenes or parts of scenes in your story must take place while it is in the director's hands. There is a vast difference between the necessary changes carefully made by an artistic and painstaking director and the indiscriminate slashing to pieces of a writer's story common among a certain variety of directors in the past. Fortunately for the writer, this class of director is rapidly being outlawed, and the photoplaywright should write at all times in the confident belief that his perfect-as-he-can-make-it story will be adequately "put on" by a director who knows his business and is, as Mr. Merwin says, an interpreter of the author's plot.

We need only repeat here one other thing that we said in Chapter VIII: No matter what the length of the story, today, it is always run through—in all but the very smallest and most out-of-the-way theatres and towns respectively—without interruption, because two projecting machines are used, and another reel is started as soon as one finishes, there being no perceptible break in the action on the screen. For this reason, if you are writing a five-reel feature-story with, say, forty scenes to a reel, you start with Scene 1 and number straight through to Scene 200. There should be a series of rising climaxes, but no special forward-looking climax exactly at the end of each thousand feet.

Also, of course, it is quite unnecessary to have an equal number of scenes to each part. The action of your first reel—more or less introductory—may demand only thirty or thirty-five scenes, whereas when your story gets to moving rapidly you may see the necessity for running up the number of scenes by introducing several short scenes, or "flashes."

17. Serials

We advise a rereading of the definition of the term "serials" given in Chapter III. In addition to what is there said, it may be stated that, as a rule, it is best not to write a complete serial—even though only in synopsis form—unless you have what is beyond question a sure market. As a matter of fact, most serials are written at present by big-name writers of fiction—such as Arthur B. Reeve—or "inside" writers, such as George B. Seitz, who has been responsible for several successful Pathe serials. The comparatively few "outside" writers who have "made good" with serials follow the plan of writing the synopsis of the first four or five episodes (which in film form would mean eight or ten reels), which they submit for the editor's approval in the regular way. If the editor likes the idea, or theme, of the story, and thinks it would make a successful picture, he will commission you to finish it. Four or five episodes of well-planned, suspense-holding plot will be sufficient to assure him that you are capable of keeping up the same speed and making the story consistently interesting all through.

To reiterate what was also pointed out in the definition in Chapter III, you must bear in mind that while the end of each separate reel in an ordinary feature need not end with a forward-looking climax, the end of each episode in a photoplay serial must be a climax of a most thrilling nature, or, at any rate, must be such a climax as will greatly excite the interest of the spectator and insure his coming to the theatre when the next episode is shown. The serial photoplay is exactly like the well-written and carefully edited serial story of fiction. Judged from the box-office viewpoint, the supreme test of a good photoplay serial is its ability to keep the same spectators coming to the theatre where it is being run week after week.

What has been said as to the thrilling climax at the end of each episode, or chapter, must not be interpreted as meaning that a mere thrilling situation is all that is required. In the boys' story-papers of a few years ago, referred to in our discussion of the cut-back, the hero was frequently left hanging over the edge of the cliff, or tied to the railroad track, or waiting for the timed fuse to reach the keg of powder. These situations in themselves were sufficient to make juvenile readers wait anxiously for seven whole days in order to find out what would happen "in our next." It has been demonstrated, however, that what holds the attention of the photoplay spectator, young or old, is the mystery connected with the story, and it is the solving of this mystery that must constantly be kept in mind. "Who is the masked stranger?" "Who is the owner of the mysterious clutching hand," "Who is the mysterious and ominous personage who inevitably sends a telephone message of warning when about to strike down a new victim?" These are the questions that keep them guessing from week to week and draw them back to witness every episode. Your climax may be a thrilling situation—should be, in fact—but it must also be a definite way-station on the journey to the point of discovery.

While there is still a great deal of absolute nonsense—viewed from any standpoint of common sense and logic—in most photoplay serials, and while the long-drawn-out mystery is often made possible only by the introduction of weird and unnatural happenings not even possible in real life, there is now a tendency toward serials more true to life and more dependent for their success upon plots that will stand the acid test of logical reasoning. The very fact that each separate episode, with its various situations in the working out of the mystery, had to be depended upon to draw the crowds back again to see the next episode, was taken as sufficient excuse for the introduction of situations that would make the wildest exploits of "Diamond Dick" or "Old King Brady" read like the Sunday-school stories of a generation ago.

The Wharton serial, "The Eagle's Eye," already referred to, was the first in which historical facts were reproduced in their logical order, held together and made more interesting by a veneer of fiction. The fictional head of the Criminology Club and the daring woman Secret Service operative seemed almost to be secondary characters compared to the much-talked-about agents of the Imperial German Government whose nefarious acts made so much trouble for the American detectives and Secret Service agents headed by ex-Chief Flynn, under whose supervision the serial was made.

The future holds out immense possibilities for producers and writers of thoroughly good photoplay serials. Whereas in the past many serials were to be seen only in the second-rate houses, on account of the fact that their impossibly thrilling situations and weird plots appealed only to the juvenile and less intelligent spectators, now with the improvement in the stories of serial pictures has come an increase in the spectators who follow them up, and a consequent introduction of serials into theatres where at one time nothing of the kind would have been tolerated.

In conclusion, it may be said that for purposes of plot-study the photoplay serial can hardly be surpassed. Good, bad or indifferent, every photoplay serial reveals a sheer ingenuity of plotting that is a genuine inspiration to the writer of often better material. And a careful following-up and study of a good serial is a liberal photoplay-writing education in itself.

18. Final Points

More and more, in those—all too few—studios where full scripts are desired, the directors of ability and intelligence are welcoming the help extended by the author—if the author himself is known to be a finished workman. Elsewhere we have quoted Mr. Bannister Merwin, who, long before he became one himself, held that the director was rightfully an interpreter—a reader of and builder from the blue print—of the author. Mr. Merwin was also one of the first photoplaywrights to submit what might be called a fully elaborated script—one in which every scene was so carefully worked out that the motive behind every action of every character was made absolutely plain. Notwithstanding the greater length of such a scenario, or continuity, its advantages are emphatic, and directors are, as has been said, approving it more and more as they learn that the author's intention is to assist—to insure a proper interpretation of his thought—and not merely to try to teach the director his business. The script that opens up a way into the very heart of the character so that the actors and the director may be guided in interpreting it, is certainly vastly superior, in that regard at least, to the scenario which concerns itself chiefly with external action. Motives and the whole inner life of the man, set down clearly and briefly, are in the last degree valuable in showing what a character really is and why he does what he does.

Conciseness.—But this desirable sort of scenario elaboration MUST NOT lead to over-expansion. Brevity and conciseness are not necessarily one, any more than are fullness and prolixity. Be concise—cut close to the line; having started your action by setting forth a basic incident at once interesting and plausible, keep the wheels of your story in motion, letting it accumulate speed as it runs on, and never slow down until after the climax has been passed. Keep your eye—your "picture eye"—on your characters as they move about and carry out the actions which you have planned to have them perform; but describe those actions, as well as the motives which actuate them, in just as few words as possible. Do not trifle with the tendency to be wordy, or even to introduce too many scenes.

The time is rapidly coming when the production of a photoplay will mean the earnest and intelligent cooeperation of the author, editor, and director. But there is a very decided difference between including in the paragraphs of action everything really necessary to the proper understanding of the motives actuating the different characters and the indiscriminate introduction of extraneous details that neither assist in telling the story nor help in making it interesting.

Over-Condensation.—On the other side of the golden middle-ground lies the weakness of too great brevity, and this is the very fault that some otherwise good writers at times permit themselves to display. Their plots are strong, and their work is so well and favorably known that their scripts are accepted; but because they have over-condensed it becomes necessary for the editor or director to add to the business of a certain character, or possibly to devise explanatory inserts. Too little is worse than too much. In many cases it is the writer's failure to include a few words describing a bit of by-play or a short piece of business that makes the scenario faulty, even though it may find a grudging acceptance.

The Number of Words.—The question has frequently been asked by amateur writers: "How many words are there in a full-reel photoplay—what is the average number of words to a scene?" and so on. No such consideration as the number of words in a script enters into the production of a motion-picture drama. "Photoplays are put on," said one prominent producer, "with a stop-watch in one hand and a yard-stick in the other." It is the number of feet of film used, and not the number of words contained in the scenario, with which the director is concerned. There can be absolutely no set rule—in from ten to fifteen words you may say all that is necessary in the description of a scene that will use up three hundred feet of film. Another scene which consumes one hundred feet may require five times as many words, or more, to make perfectly clear to the director a short but very important bit of business. If you leave out the non-essentials, you will save on the number of words, but you should never hesitate to tell all that is necessary in order to make clear the motives and actions of your characters.

Simple, Clear English.—The scenario is really nothing more than the synopsis rewritten in detail and divided into scenes. Observe that the paragraphs of action are written in the present tense to help YOU keep the action simple and vivid and PRESENT. Absolutely nothing is to be gained by attempted "fine writing," yet it is true that the best-paid writers today are for the most part the ones who are giving attention to clearness and precision of detail and description when writing the third division of their scripts. But description does not mean hifaluting word painting—it means clear, concise setting forth of exactly what a thing is.

The Uselessness of Dialogue.—Dialogue, naturally, is out of place in the scenario. If Frank asks Ethel where she hid the letter, and she replies by opening a volume which she takes from the bookcase and taking it out, that is all that is necessary. Do not write a line of dialogue which tells just what Frank says to her, except as may be required for an occasional cut-in leader. Neither is it necessary to say what words of hers accompany the action of taking the letter from the book where it has been concealed. Yet there is one way in which dialogue may serve a useful purpose in writing the scenario. If by writing a single phrase you can tell the editor and the director as much as you could by writing several lines of action, there is no reason why you should not use the line—not as dialogue, however, but as stage directions.[20]

[Footnote 20: Note the introduction of occasional bits of dialogue in the "action" portion of the O. Henry story in Chapter XX.]

Exterior Backgrounds Valuable.—In planning your scenario remember that for scenes that do not positively demand indoor settings it is best to provide an exterior background, or location. No matter how well provided with scenery a studio may be there is always a certain amount of time lost in erecting sets. Even though the director does not take the scenes in the order in which they are written, he will be able to save a great deal of time if, between the scene that is done in the library and the one enacted in the court-room, he can take his people out and get three or four, or even more, scenes in the open air, where the setting is ready for him. Carefully plan every scene before you write it, and see, for instance, if Dick could not propose to Stella in the garden, or on a bench in the park, just as well as he could in the drawing room or in the ball-room. Help yourself to more sales by helping the director to easier work.

Human Interest.—In the Biograph photoplay, "Three Friends," previously referred to in this chapter, there was one short scene that was especially effective—one of those human-interest bits that are characteristic of photoplays that sell. After the arrival of the two men, and the reconciliation between the foreman and the young woman's husband, the former hurries the latter off to the factory, promising to "give him back his job." The third friend hangs behind, and, realizing that the wife is without money to buy food, hands her a banknote. She hesitates to take it; but he, noticing the revolver which she now holds, takes it from her and thrusts the money into her hand in its place, indicating that he is only buying the "gun" from her. The woman smiles gratefully, and the kind-hearted friend hurries out after the other two men.

It will pay the student to remember all the little human touches of this kind that he sees in the photoplays of others, and, while by no means copying them, try to work into his own stories bits of similar value.

Human interest must be woven in the plot, and not thrown in in chunks. As for how to do it, "Each mind," says Emerson, "has its own method. A true man never acquires after college rules." But of one thing make sure: Plan your human appeal from the start, so that the actual climax may loom up distinctly from the time you write your very first scene. As Jean Paul has said, "The end we aim at must be known before the way."

In conclusion, we offer a short catechism that the writer will do well to consult before sending out his script:

Is my plot really fresh?

Could it be called a colorable imitation of any magazine story, book, or play?

Is it strong enough?

Is it logical?

Does it suit the time of year?

Is the plot not only possible but probable?

Is the material desired by the producer to whom I am sending it?

Does the company make that style of story?

Are the points properly brought out, that others may see them as I do?

Can I make it better by altering it?

Will it pass the Censors?

Even if it does, will it offend even one spectator?

Do the synopsis and scenario match properly, or have I hinted at action in my synopsis which is not adequately worked out in the continuity? On the other hand, does the synopsis tell everything that happens in the scenario?

Is it impracticable for the camera?

Have I introduced scenes that would cost too much to produce?

Is the cast too small?

Is it too large?

Finally, some anonymous writer has said: "Don't let go of your script until you are positive that you have made every detail clear, that your layout of scenes has told the story in self-explanatory action, and that you have answered every prospective 'Why?'"



CHAPTER XI

THE SCENE-PLOT AND ITS PURPOSE

It has been said in an earlier chapter that it is optional with the writer whether to submit a scene-plot with his complete script; nevertheless, we believe that it is advisable.

1. Why Prepare a Scene-Plot

The reason is a plain one: Until the writer has become known as a professional, it is the spirit in which the scene-plot is sent rather than its actual value to either editor or director that counts in his favor. It indicates his willingness to help both these busy men so far as lies in his power; further, it shows that he is willing to do at the beginning of his career that which he would never for a moment think of leaving undone after his complete scripts are once in demand; but, most of all, it shows that he has enough confidence in his work to believe that—provided the story is acceptable—it will be produced essentially as he has planned it.

Naturally, it often happens that the director adds scenes to those planned by the author, and even oftener some of the author's scenes are cut out; in either case, however, so much of the scene-plot as remains unchanged will have its value. The author may feel that the director's alterations are unwarranted, but that functionary rarely makes additions or cuts unless he works an improvement.

The writer sends the scene-plot along so that, in case no drastic changes are necessary, the director may have all ready his list of scenes arranged in proper chronological order. From these he will prepare his regular scene-plot diagram, which the carpenters and mechanics will use in building the scenery, and by which the stage hands and property men will be guided in setting the scenes and placing the furniture and other "props."

2. The Scene-Plot Explained

Let us now explain the difference between the only kind of scene-plot with which the photoplaywright is concerned and that which the director means when he uses the same term.

Practically all directors have had experience as theatrical producers, or stage directors, or stage managers, before entering the moving-picture field. What is known as a scene-plot in regular theatrical work is a list of the various scenes, or sets, showing where the different "hanging pieces" (drops, cut-drops, fog drops, foliage, fancy, kitchen, or other borders) are hung, and how all the various pieces of scenery that are handled on the floor of the stage, as wood and rock wings, "set" pieces, "flats," and "runs," are to be arranged or set. Almost every stage carpenter has, in addition to this list, a supply of printed diagrams showing the exact position on the stage of everything handled by the "grips," or scene-shifters, as well as the proper arrangement on the set of the furniture and larger props. Both the list and the diagram are usually printed on one sheet, and this, known as the scene-plot, is sent ahead to the stage managers of the theatres in the next towns to be played. At the same time, a "property plot," being simply a list, act by act, of the various props not carried by the company, is sent to the property man of the house.

Now, the principal difference between the regular and the moving-picture stage is that, in making photoplays, natural exteriors are used, in almost every case. Consequently, landscape and other exterior drops are almost unknown in moving-picture work. As actual drops they are unknown; when such painted backgrounds are used, they are usually painted on canvas or a sort of heavy cardboard, which is stretched over or tacked to a solid framework. So that even in making out his working scene-plot diagram, a director finds that there are many technical terms which he constantly used in his theatrical work but seldom or never employs in his capacity of photoplay producer. Nevertheless, he still uses a scene-plot diagram, drawing it himself on regular printed forms.

As may be gathered from the foregoing, the scene-plot diagram for a photoplay setting is entirely different from the diagram of the setting for a scene on the regular stage. The former shows, printed, the comparative shape and dimensions of the "stage," and gives, in figures, the depth of the stage and the distance from the camera to the "working line," below which (toward the camera) an actor must not step if he wishes his feet, therefore his whole body, to show in the picture.

To say "the depth of the stage" is to say that the printed diagram is marked off in a scale of feet from the camera's focus. The figures at the right side of the sheet indicate the distance in feet from the camera, while those at the left show the width of the field, or range of the camera lens, at different distances. Only that portion of each piece of furniture which is marked a solid black in the diagram is supposed to show in the picture. Thus half of a table may be "in" and half "out" of a picture, or scene. This diagram-form is made out by the director for virtually every set that shows an interior scene, and he frequently draws one also for exteriors, where a building, or even what appears in the picture to be a complete, permanent structure, is set up by the carpenters and mechanics out of doors. Such a scene-plot diagram is reproduced at the end of this chapter.

The scene-plot which you as a photoplay author are called upon to prepare, however, is simply a list of the scenes used in working out your scenario. Here you must distinguish between "scene" and "set" (or setting) in photoplay writing. We know that the scene is changed every time that the camera is moved. One scene or ten may be taken, or "done," in the same set—that is, a half-dozen scenes might be taken successively in a business office without changing the set at all. Therefore, although you have two hundred scenes in your five-reel scenario, only twenty sets may be needed in which to play them.

3. How Scenes and Sets Are Photographed

We know that a scene is ended when the cameraman stops "grinding;" we understand, also, that a change of setting is brought about by moving the camera, even though, in the case of taking two exterior scenes, the camera is only moved enough to take in a new "stage" three or four feet to either side of that shown in the last scene.

The word "scene" seems to be a stumbling block for some beginners. Take for example the setting showing the bedroom in the ranch house, as listed in the scene-plot of "Without Reward," and given in this chapter. In doing the five scenes that take place in that room, Scene 4 would be taken, the camera would be stopped, and, in some studios, a large white card with the figure "9" painted on it in black would be held a few feet in front of the lens. About a foot of film would then be exposed, which would thus register the number of the next scene to be taken in the same set.[21] Then Scene 9 would be done. This scene being ended, the numbering-of-the-scene process would be repeated, the next scene being number 17. Then, in turn, would come scenes 28 and 30—or, rather, although listed on the scene-plot as two scenes, 28 and 30 would really be photographed as one unbroken scene, for, as a glance at the scene-plot will show, Scene 29 is a bust scene, which means that the film would be cut at the proper place after the scene had been taken, thus dividing it into two scenes, separated by Scene 29 in the finished photoplay.

[Footnote 21: Different studios have different methods for recording the number of the next scene to be taken. Some use the numbered card system—as explained in the body of the text—in which a stand, or tripod, having a rack on top with cards numbered from 1 to 50, and other cards marked "Retake," etc., is placed on the working line between each scene. In other studios the film itself is marked with the number of the scene, just as one writes the name of a picture on the film when using an "Autographic Kodak" camera.]



Now, since Scene 30 is the last to be taken in the bedroom setting, let us suppose that the setting showing the interior of the sheriff's office is standing on the studio floor right next to the bedroom set. The camera is merely shifted over and set up as required to take the two scenes (24 and 26) done successively in that set, and the same process is gone through that was followed in making the five scenes in the bedroom.

This, then, is the one thing that the photoplaywright must remember: All the scenes that are to take place in one setting or location are made before the camera is moved an inch, and, in one way or another, according to the particular studio, the film is marked after each scene so as to show the number of the scene coming next. The reason is plain: because scenes 28 and 30 (which are subsequently divided by the bust picture) and scenes 4, 9 and 17, are all done in the same set, if the camera were not stopped and the film marked before each new scene with the number of that scene, the operators in the cutting room, where the different parts of the film are assembled, would—unless guided by the director—mistake all that part of the film showing the bedroom setting for one unbroken scene.

4. How Scene-Plots Are Handled by Directors

The scene-plot for the writer's story, "Without Reward," just referred to, follows:

Exterior of Sheriff's office, main street of town, 1, 23.

Dr. Turner's office, 2.

Exterior, Freeman and Doctor riding to ranch, 3.

Bedroom in ranch house, 4, 9, 17, 28, 30.

Corner of ranch house, looking toward stable, 5, 7, 16, 22, 27, 31.

Exterior, supposedly at distance from, but within sight of, Ranch, 6.

Kitchen of ranch house, 8, 10, 32.

At door of stable, 11.

Foothill trail, 12.

Rocky part of hillside, showing entrance to cave in side of cliff, 13, 15.

Interior of cave, 14.

Exterior, Steve riding to town, 18.

Road on outskirts of town, 19.

Same road, farther on, 20.

Exterior of Dr. Turner's house, 21.

Interior of Sheriff's office, 24, 26.

Rear of Sheriff's office, showing corner of building and side wall, 25.

Bust of Jess's right hand, holding photograph, 29.

Here, it will be seen, there are four interior and thirteen exterior sets, or backgrounds. Scene 14, the interior of the cave, was counted as an exterior when giving the number of interior and exterior sets following the title in writing the synopsis. This was because, although in the picture it would appear to be taken inside a rocky cave, the chances are that it would really be made in some recess of a rocky cliff-side, where there would be enough light to make the photography distinct, without allowing the rays of the sun to cast any shadows that would make it seem unnatural, since the cave was supposedly dimly illumined from the daylight outside. At any rate, it would not be a studio setting—whether the stage was an indoor or an open-air one—so it would be classed as an exterior.

After the cameraman had taken Scene 3, which shows Freeman and the Doctor riding to the ranch, he could probably find a suitable background for the scene showing Steve riding toward the town, by merely turning his camera half way around. Thus Scene 18 might be taken after Scene 3; after which, by again moving the camera only a short distance, a suitable spot might be found in which to take Scene 12. Scenes 19 and 20 were intended to be taken on a fairly well-kept piece of roadway, supposedly on the outskirts of the town, and it might be necessary to travel some distance to find the desired spot. So it will be seen that the order in which the scenes are written has nothing to do with the order in which they will be taken. Scene 29, so called, is really a part of Scene 28, being simply a bust of the girl's hand holding a photograph. The words written on the back of this picture have an important bearing on the action which follows; therefore it is important that they should be read by the spectators. So, the much enlarged bust picture is introduced, in which, as has been explained in the preceding chapter, the hand with the photograph is held so close to the camera that when the picture is shown on the screen the writing is easily read. In writing out the scene-plot, never omit mentioning the bust picture, if one is used, and give it a number as if it were a distinct interior or exterior, but when giving the total number of interior and total number of exterior settings (which follows your title in writing the synopsis), do not include it as being either one or the other. It is not even necessary to say "One bust picture." On the other hand, close-ups are regarded as regular interior or exterior scenes, and must be counted as such and so mentioned when giving the number of scenes, as described.

5. How the Director Provides the Sets

The director having gone over the author's scene-plot to aid him in preparing his own diagrams of the various settings, it is merely necessary, so far as the exteriors are concerned, to go out himself, or send out his assistant, to pick the natural settings required. In fact, in most modern studios, an elaborate card index system of listing locations, sometimes situated miles from the studio, is maintained. Unless an exterior scene calls for a log cabin, church front, or some building of special construction other than such real buildings as may be easily found in the neighborhood of, or within a reasonably short distance from, the producing plant, he does not have to draw a special diagram-plot for the scene. Even when a new building is needed, it is only necessary to instruct the carpenters to build, say, a log cabin of a certain size on the location he points out, with a door, windows, etc., as determined by him for the requirements of the scene.

With the interior scenes it is different. The sets for these are planned by the director to obtain the very best stage- and scenic effects possible from the standpoints of architecture, lighting, and arrangement of properties.

6. The Director

A first-class company will employ from four to ten, or even twelve, directors. Frequently a new director is recruited from among the actors in the stock company. "Director" and "producer" mean practically the same thing in photoplay parlance; a man will direct the acting of the players while engaged in producing a picture. As a rule, if a man is known as a "dramatic" director, he adheres to that kind of work, just as a first-class comedy man will seldom touch any other kind of production.

There is always a certain amount of friendly competition among the directors in any studio, since they constantly vie with each other in obtaining the most artistic settings for the various scenes of their respective stories.

7. Writing the Scene-Plot

The actual writing of the scene-plot should come after the scenario has been completed. One way of doing it is to go over the scenario and write out the various settings, and then give the numbers of the scenes played in each. This, however, is a very roundabout and tiresome method. The best and simplest way is to keep a slip of paper, similar to the one on which you make note of the characters when writing the cast, and jot down the settings as you come to them, adding the number of the scene. In this way as you work on the scenario you have before you a list of every setting used, and can see at a glance what scenes are played in each different setting. Then when your scenario is finished you have simply to slip a fresh sheet of paper into your typewriter and make a neat copy of the complete scene-plot. As a safeguard, it is better, before recopying, to check up so as to make sure that you have every scene accounted for, by counting from "one" to whatever may be the number of your last scene.

In writing the scene-plot it is only necessary to give a list of the exterior and the interior settings; at the same time, it is sometimes advisable, especially in the case of exterior scenes, to add a few words that will help the director to understand just what the setting is intended to be without having to refer to the scenario, where such details would naturally appear.

The following example is selected from the scene-plot of "Sun, Sand and Solitude," a scene-plot diagram from which we reproduce on a succeeding page. The theme of this story is the discontent of a young wife, caused by seeing, month in and month out, the sun-baked stretches of the Arizona desert.

Exterior, showing desert, 17. For this scene, select an extremely barren and unpleasing bit of desert landscape.

Another exterior, 24. A stretch of desert landscape; if anything, more barren and solitary than 17.

Another exterior, 28. While still typical desert landscape, it is much less barren and desolate than either 17 or 24.

There is no law of writing, and no studio rule, to compel you to do any of these little things to help a busy editor or an earnest director, but, just because they are busy men, why not try to help them? So long as the "help" is not overdone, and is intelligent, clear, and concise, it is sure to help your script toward an acceptance.

]

The scene-plot diagram reproduced on the opposite page is the author's original diagram for the "Living room of ranch house" setting in his photoplay, "Sun, Sand and Solitude." With a little study of this diagram the reader will be able to judge just how the scene would appear in the picture on the screen. Of course, it is neither customary nor necessary to send such a diagram as this when you are submitting your script. There is a possibility, however, that the producer might use the author's diagram as a guide in preparing that particular setting, should the photoplaywright send one similar to the one here reproduced.

The dotted lines show the dimensions of the enlarged stage for special very large sets. Since the line E represents the background of this enlarged stage, it will be seen that it is almost twice as wide as the background for the interior setting here shown. By "background" is meant the space on the diagram between B and D, not the "desert backing," which, if the scene were taken inside the studio, would be simply a painted background, taking the place of the "drop" which would be used on the regular stage. It will be noticed that, although there are a couple of steps leading to the veranda, there is only one post indicated on the diagram. This, of course, is because a post at the other side of the steps is unnecessary, that point being "masked" by the piece of scenery representing the back wall of the room. The open door shows a portion of the veranda railing and the post on the left of the steps. As the scenario shows, Dean is carried up these steps, and into the bedroom on the left, after he has been thrown from his horse. To the right of the door, and looking out upon the veranda, is a bay window, forming a window-seat. Attention is called to the fact that what is so frequently called a "bay window" is, properly, a "bow window," the three sides of a bay window being at right angles to each other. The sideboard at the right of the stage is absolutely essential to the climax of the plot, though only half of it—enough to show the upper left-hand drawer distinctly—need appear in the picture.



CHAPTER XII

THE USE AND ABUSE OF LEADERS, LETTERS AND OTHER INSERTS

A full reel contains approximately one thousand feet of film. The ordinary five-reel feature is therefore somewhat less than five thousand feet in length. With far less stress laid upon the admonition to "Make your leaders and inserts brief" than formerly, the writer still must keep in mind the fact that the major portion of a five-thousand-foot film must be devoted to scenes—to action which the spectator merely watches—and that the inserts, of whatever nature, must never be allowed to crowd this action-part of the picture.

At the same time, any story with the average amount of plot-complication can be told—the action-portion, that is, can be fully worked out—in from 3,800 to slightly over 4,000 feet; which means that something less than one thousand feet of film may be, and frequently is, given up to the various inserts.

This matter of footage is one which demands the attention of both director and cameraman. On the side of the motion-picture camera is an indicator, by which is computed the exact number of feet exposed each time the cameraman turns the handle. At the conclusion of each scene the director cries "Cut!" The cameraman stops turning, looks at the indicator, and announces "Seventy-five!" or whatever the number of feet used. In some cases it is necessary to take the scene again, altering the "business" slightly or hurrying the action a little to reduce the footage consumed in a certain scene. A point worth noting is that the director can seldom figure in advance the exact amount of footage a certain scene will require—even after it has been rehearsed and timed several times; whereas he can always tell the exact number of feet he must give to each of the various inserts, because "insert footage" is reckoned in advance, a certain number of feet being allowed for each word.

Photoplay audiences have gradually been educated up to an appreciation of sub-titles, or leaders, when they are all that they ought to be (a point which we shall presently discuss); and less attention is paid to the rather selfish cry of the illiterates in the audience who insist that "they came to look at pictures, and not to read a book." As one of the most prominent theatre managers in San Francisco recently said in the Motion Picture News: "In many pictures the big scene is 'put over' by a sub-title. The wording of a sub-title in a big situation can make or break a picture, and it is therefore false economy to allow this work to be done by any person other than one with real literary talent, who is thoroughly conversant with the art of expression."

We have already pointed out that in most studios the work of writing leaders and inserts is now attended to by one specialist—the "sub-title editor," as he is usually called. Just as much care is put into the preparation of everything in the nature of an insert as attends the making of the scenes of the picture.

1. Why Inserts Are Used

Before the advent of pictures of five and more reels, with their consequent greater room for inserted matter in addition to the necessary scenes, the general opinion was that the perfect photoplay had no leaders and needed none. Certainly, such a picture would be ideal if a photoplay were to be a motion picture and nothing more than that, since it would be so perfectly acted and so self-explanatory that no inserted explanation of any kind would be necessary. Practically, however, the only photoplay that can be made without the aid of at least a few leaders or other inserts—that is, that can be nothing but pictured action—is one on the order of the Vitagraph Company's one-reel release of several years ago, "Jealousy," in which the entire picture was made in a single set. In it Miss Florence Turner was the only actor, telling the whole story clearly, coherently, and with strong dramatic force, and making every phase of the plot clear, the only outside assistance she received being the momentary appearance of two other hands than her own—a man's and a woman's—through the curtains covering the doorway. This, of course, was pure pantomime, and most artistically performed; the woman's every thought, so to say, was portrayed, and understood by the spectator as if the play were accompanied by a printed synopsis of the story.

But it would seem to be impossible to produce a photoplay having changes of scene, plot complications, from six to a dozen or more characters, and lapses of action-time between the different scenes, without employing any inserts. Even in a small group of scenes it is often extremely difficult to make a certain important point in the action "register"—that is, show the spectator what is in the minds of the characters as the scene is worked out. In such a case, even though the scenario as planned by the author does not contain an insert at that point, the director may deem it advisable to introduce one to make the situation clear. The use of inserts, then, is necessary.

2. The Over-Use of Inserts

The over-use of them, on the contrary, is not only entirely unnecessary but a positive drawback to the director, and frequently one of the reasons why an unavailable manuscript is returned to the writer. A good rule is to employ inserts only when it is impossible to progress and still make every point of your plot clear and effective without their aid. This need for an insert of some sort at a given point may be inherent in the material and therefore desirable as well as needful, but do not admit such a necessity without serious thought. Ingenuity accomplishes wonders. Remember, the use of a leader is in most cases a frank confession that you are incapable of "putting over" a point in the development of your plot solely by the action in the scenes—you must call in outside assistance, as it were. A scenario written by a novice often contains many leaders which he considers necessary to tell his story, yet the same plot in the hands of a trained writer could be made into a photoplay with many less sub-titles. Like fire, the leader is a good servant but a bad master. Once you discover that you are getting into the habit of introducing an explanatory insert before almost every scene, it is time to remodel your idea of what constitutes proper technique.

But when a leader can be used to advantage, do not hesitate to insert it—it has a distinct value and that value must not be despised. True, any leader halts the action because it destroys the illusion to some extent, and diverts the attention from the picture to the explanatory words. But it is also true that it puts the mind of the spectator in a mood to accept and appreciate the action which is to follow. Therefore, use the leader, or any other insert—discreetly.

We have repeatedly advised the would-be photoplaywright to study the pictures as he sees them on the screen, and to gain therefrom a knowledge of what is required by the manufacturers. At this point, however, we would warn writers not to copy the example of certain companies whose pictures are nearly always overloaded with sub-titles which appear to have been introduced for no other reason than to afford the sub-title editor an opportunity to do some clever writing.

Many critics have asserted—not entirely without cause—that the type of photoplay comedy-dramas originated by Douglas Fairbanks are less than one-half action, the rest being merely clever but often unessential sub-titling. While this criticism is rather severe, it cannot be denied that certain stories of the kind mentioned, featuring this star and others, have been far too dependent for their appeal to the spectator upon the humorous, epigrammatic sayings of the characters. True, it is usually after leaving the theatre, and reviewing the picture in retrospect, that the spectator realizes that the accent has been too definitely on the sub-titling and not enough upon the action, but when he does realize it, he feels disappointed—and watches the next release featuring the same star to see if it will be repeated. More than ever before, in this day of feature photoplays, there is a constant opportunity to use leaders and other inserts with telling effect. The point simply is that with more leeway than the writer has ever been given before, you should learn to take advantage of every shining opportunity to work in a really effective sub-title, while constantly guarding against the temptation to introduce one on the slightest excuse.

Let such inserts as you do use be phrased in clear, terse language. The old example in the schoolbook, that it is simpler and therefore better to say, "A leather apron" than, "An apron of leather," holds good with inserts, and especially leaders. Short, clean-cut sentences strike the eye and penetrate the mind the most quickly and effectively. If you doubt this, look at a good advertisement. So do not only dispense with every needless insert, but cut out from each insert every needless word.

3. The Danger of Over-Compression

In cutting, do not go too far. Use enough words to be clear and definite. Vagueness is an abomination and confusing pronouns make an author as ridiculous as his scene is unintelligible. Remember that the leader is shown on the screen for only a moment, and it is for you to assist the spectator by making your leader so plain "not that it may be understood," as Quintilian used to say, "but that it must be understood."

It is quite as possible to use too few inserts, especially leaders, as it is to use so few words in them as to mar their meaning. Young writers are often more eager to follow the advice of their mentors than they are bold to use their own common-sense; and having had the importance of brevity well pounded in, they produce scripts with the double fault of not having enough action to make the plot clear, and not enough inserts to help out the action.

As an example of this tendency toward over-compression, take the script of one amateur writer. It contained a scene in which Mary, the heroine, constantly abused by a drunken step-father, steals out of the house at night as if about to start for some other town where she can make her own living and be free from the step-father's abuse. In Scene 7, Mary, carrying a suit case, leaves the farm-house where she had always lived. Scene 8 shows her "plodding wearily" along the road leading to town. Then in Scene 9 we are back in the kitchen at the farm-house. "The room is deserted. (Everyone supposed to be in bed.) The door opens and Mary enters, carrying suit case, which she puts down just inside the door. She staggers to the rocking chair and drops wearily into it, as if completely fatigued." And so on.

On reading the script, one's natural supposition is that Mary has thought it over while "plodding wearily" toward town, and, remembering the comfortable bed which awaits her at the old home—even though the next morning will bring more ill treatment at the hands of the step-father—has returned to make the best of it. After reading three more scenes, however, we learn that Mary had not only reached the town, but had gone so far as "the big city," from which she had returned after a fruitless search for work. Scene 9 is really supposed to take place two weeks after Scene 8!

Now, laying aside the fact that no scenes are introduced to show what happened to her after she went to the city, the script does not even give a scene showing her boarding a train to go, so there is nothing even to hint that Scene 9 did not take place on the same night that Mary left home.

The point of all this is that, had this script been accepted at all, and even had not the producer chosen to introduce any scenes showing Mary in the city, a leader of some kind between Scenes 8 and 9 would have been absolutely necessary. This, of course, was an amateur script, and the whole story was impossible from the standpoint of logic and the sequence of events; but in more than one picture that has been shown on the screen we have noticed the omission of a leader at a point in the action where one was very necessary, as a consequence of which the spectator was left—for the space of two or three scenes at least—to guess at what was what.

It is worth remembering that you are not an accomplished photoplaywright until you can produce a story that is thoroughly understandable all the way through by action and inserts. You are a clever writer, undoubtedly, if you can produce a "leaderless" script. But it is no indication of cleverness merely to leave out a leader—only to find, when your story is produced, that the director has found it necessary to add what you have simply cut out or never put in. He is a foolish and short-sighted writer indeed who gives any director such an opportunity to doubt his knowledge of photoplay technique.

In this connection, let us quote Mr. Frank E. Woods, who, besides being well known as a critic, photoplaywright, director and supervisor of productions under Mr. David W. Griffith, is an acknowledged expert in editing motion pictures.

"Many a picture," says Mr. Woods, "has been ruined by inadequate sub-titles. The makers of the picture have assumed that because they understood the meaning of every action, the spectators should also understand, forgetting that the spectators will view the picture for the first time. The moment a spectator becomes confused and loses the sense of what he is seeing on the screen, his interest is gone. While he is wondering 'What are they talking about now?' or 'Who is the chap in the long coat?' or 'How did he get from the house in the woods?' the film is being reeled off merrily and the spectator has lost the thread of the story. Going to the other extreme and inserting sub-titles where the meaning is perfectly obvious, or telling in sub-titles that which is to be pictured immediately after, should also be avoided, although pictures are sometimes criticized for having too many titles when in fact the keen-eyed critic is the only one who finds them too many. The average spectator is none too alert.... The sub-title should be in complete harmony with the story and should never divert interest from the story. It should never be obtrusive. It should be there only because it belongs there. Therefore all sub-titles should be couched in language that harmonizes with the story. Every word should be weighed. Nothing should ever shock the spectator out of his interest in the picture by its incongruity, extravagance or inanity. Too much in a sub-title is as bad as too little—like seasoning in a pudding. The function of the sub-title is to supplement and correct the action of the picture, to cover lapses in the continuity, and to supply the finer shades of meaning which the actor has been unable to express in pantomime."[22]

[Footnote 22: "Editing a Motion Picture," by Frank E. Woods, in The Moving Picture World.]

In passing, let us note one point of considerable moment. Notwithstanding the fact that many pictures are shown in which a leader immediately follows the title, it is much better not to arrange it so. Let your title be followed by a scene—by action—even though the scene be a short one. Then, if necessary, introduce your first leader. If when the photoplay opens the title is flashed upon the screen, and immediately a leader is shown, there is a chance that, having taken in the title almost at a glance, the spectator may momentarily divert his gaze and so miss your first leader, only turning his eyes toward the screen again when he notices that a scene is being shown. Again, even though he may be watching closely, the spectator is seldom quite so attentive to an explanatory insert which is shown before the opening scene as he is to one introduced later, when he has already become interested.

Most critics are also agreed that the use of leaders introducing the principal characters (usually accompanied by a few feet of film in which the character named is also pictured, perhaps in the act of bowing to the audience, or in some pose characteristic of the part he plays) is a mistake, when such "introducing" is done before the first scene of the story has been shown. Undoubtedly anything coming before the first scene is really out of place—so far as its being part of the story is concerned. Again Mr. Sargent stated a fact when he said that "What goes before the first real scene of a story is no more a part of that story than the design-head is a part of the fiction story. No magazine editor expects the author to be his own artist and supply an illustrated title. Start your story with the first scene of action, and let the director supply the preliminary scenes [close-ups of the principals] and leaders to suit himself."

As a matter of fact, though, the very best reason for not introducing from three to six or eight characters before the opening scene is that by the time the story has advanced a little many of the spectators have forgotten "who is who," whereas they have a much better opportunity to fix a character's name and occupation—so to speak—in their minds if that character is briefly but properly introduced at the point of his first entrance into the action of the play. Only the fact that we were already familiar with the faces of the contemporary historical characters shown in such features as Ambassador Gerard's "My Four Years in Germany" made it possible for us to keep track, during the first few scenes in which each one appeared, of the persons shown. No one could possibly have memorized the "panoramic" leader giving the cast, with its thirty or more names of characters and players.

4. Four Special Functions of Leaders

Properly used, leaders can accomplish four results very satisfactorily: (a) Mark the passage of time; (b) clear up a point of the action which could not otherwise be made to "register;" (c) "break" a scene; and (d) prepare the mind of the spectator to enter into the scene in the right spirit.

(a) Marking the passage of time. In the amateur script previously discussed, we found the need for this use of the leader. The introduction, between scenes 8 and 9, of a leader telling the spectator that the events in Scene 9 were supposed to happen "Two weeks later" than those taking place in Scene 8, would have gone a long way toward clearing up the plot of the story. In this case, of course, it would have been necessary to add to the statement concerning the passage of time another statement as to what had happened in the interval, the complete leader reading: "Two weeks later, Mary returns home after failing to get work in the city." Or, better still: "After two weeks of fruitless search for work in the city, Mary returns to her old home."

Try to get away from the monotonous use of the "Next day," "The next day," and "Two years later," style of leader. Say: "The following afternoon," "After five years," "Later in the evening," or "Six months have passed." Even though you find when your story is produced that the director has seen fit to omit altogether the leader that you "wrote in" at a certain point of the action, you have the satisfaction of knowing that, had he used one there, he could not have improved upon the one you wrote.

(b) Clearing up a point in the action is too obvious a use of the leader to require much discussion. Some things mere actions cannot express, and some explanations must be verbally made because pantomime suggestion is inadequate. To take their proper place in the photoplay all such leaders should be more than merely explanatory: they should have genuine dramatic value—just as much as an important speech would have in a "legitimate" dramatic production. In the pictured drama the leader really fills in a significant part of the plot which could not be portrayed by wordless action.

Miss Lois Weber, a well-known photoplay author who has also produced some very fine feature photoplays, says in The Moving Picture World: "Often the right words in a leader or other insert are the means of creating an atmosphere that will heighten the effect of a scene, just as a tearful conversation or soliloquy, at a stage death-bed will move the audience to tears where the same scene enacted in silence would leave it dry-eyed. Naturally, the wrong words may have the opposite effect, but that is no argument against the leader; it only argues that the wrong person wrote it."

(c) "Breaking" a scene with a leader may be explained by an illustration, which at the same time will serve to exemplify how the mind experiences a more or less unconscious (d) preparation for the ensuing scene.

Suppose you have a comedy scene showing a bathtub gradually filling with water because the faucet was left open. In the time required to fill the bath and cause it to overflow, five or six hundred feet of film would be used up if the scene were not changed. Instead of this waste of film, you could, after registering the fact that the running water was rapidly filling the bath, introduce a leader: "Ten minutes later—the tide rises."

Such a leader prepares the spectator for the funny scene that is to follow; and when the next scene is shown, in which the water is overflowing the bath and turning the bathroom into a miniature lake, the spectator realizes what has happened in the ten minutes which, according to your leader, has elapsed since the last scene was shown.

Or, in your story, a lumberman may be injured by having a tree that he is chopping down fall on him. To show the whole process of felling a good-sized tree would take too long—it would consume too much footage, and be monotonous to the spectator. Also, it is the effect and not how it is obtained that makes a picture of this kind successful. For these reasons the man should be shown as he starts to chop down the tree. Then after he has made some perceptible progress you might introduce a leader. "The accident;" and, following the leader, show the man pinned to the ground by the fallen tree; then proceed with the succeeding action. You may be sure that the audience will understand that the man has been knocked down by and pinned under the tree as it fell; it is only necessary to show these two scenes.

A leader, however, should never be employed to "break" a scene unless there is absolutely no chance to introduce in its stead a short scene, the showing of which will help the progress of the plot; or unless a leader will serve the double purpose of breaking the scene and supplying the audience with an explanation that is important just at that time.

Taking the two examples just given, in which a leader is used to break the scene, there is scarcely any doubt that, were you writing these scenes in scenario form, you might easily substitute scenes that would help the action of the story and allow you to dispense with the leaders altogether. For instance, you could show the scene in which the absent-minded man leaves the water running into the bath and goes out of the room. Then, show a scene in his bedroom, where he is contentedly removing the studs from his shirt. Suddenly he remembers that he has left the water running. With an expression of dismay, he jumps up and runs out of the room. Flash back to the bathroom scene. The tub has overflowed and the room is filling with water. As the excited man opens the door, the flood pours out into the hall. The short scene in the bedroom makes the leader unnecessary. Better fifteen feet of film showing the bedroom scene than five feet of leader.

Again, after the lumberman had started to chop down the tree, you might flash a short scene showing a couple of other men at work in another part of the forest. All at once they both stop work and register that they have heard something that startles them. One speaks excitedly to the other, and both run out of the picture. You then show the scene with the man lying beneath the fallen tree. Presently the two men who heard his cries for help come running up to him.

5. Cut-in Leaders

One very effective form of the leader is the cut-in, described in Chapter X. It takes the form of the speech of one of the characters, being written in quotation marks. This device of throwing on the screen the supposed words of a certain character at the moment of action enables the photoplaywright to tell all that is necessary much better than he could by a long statement of what is going on—a point that is well worth remembering. Directors are now using the explanatory cut-in leader as much as possible, to the exclusion of the ordinary one which merely states facts. This does not mean that they are trying to substitute "dialogue" leaders, but that wherever the newer form can be used to advantage it is less objected to by the audience than is the bald statement-sub-title—doubtless because it is in line with the illusion of reality in using the player's words, and is not merely an insertion by the director or the author, as other inserts evidently are.

For the reason that all leaders more or less interrupt the action of a scene, some directors prefer decidedly not to use cut-ins more than is necessary, their argument being that for a few seconds following the right-in-the-middle-of-the-scene leader, the mind of the spectator is engaged with the import of what he has just read on the screen, and the action immediately following the leader is at least partially overlooked.

Yet a cut-in leader is usually one that suddenly discloses an important point of the plot. It may be that one of the characters, when the scene is about half through, unexpectedly makes a statement which amounts to a confession of some crime. We read on the screen, "Judge, she said that to save me. That is my revolver!" No sooner has the cut-in been shown, and the action resumed, than the eyes of every spectator are fastened upon the face of the character in the scene who should, by all logical reasoning, be most affected by that confession. If a scene is important enough to require a cut-in leader, it is reasonable to suppose that it has the full attention of the spectator after the first few seconds of action. This being so, it would seem that the spectator is far less likely to miss a point of the action immediately following a cut-in than he is to miss what occurs at the beginning of a scene, following an ordinary between-the-scenes leader. It is a fact that a few directors drag the action of a scene for the first few seconds following an ordinary leader for the purpose of again centering the attention of the beholder on the action itself, before developing—in action—another point of the plot.

We have already referred to "panoramic" leaders giving long casts of characters, the leader moving upwards on the screen instead of sidewise as in panoramic scenes. Today, the panoramic sub-title, as well as the panoramic letter or other insert, is quite common, especially in feature pictures. Those directors who, notwithstanding all, still favor the use of introductory matter before the first scene, frequently resort to long panoramic sub-titles as a means of making the spectator familiar with the theme of the story before starting to tell it, just as Kipling has so frequently introduced an introductory paragraph of the same nature in his short fiction. To our way of thinking, a thematic sub-title of this kind, used before the opening scene, is far less out of place than the ordinary introductory titles merely having to do with the characters, because it really does help prepare the spectator for the kind of story he is about to view.

Then, again, it may be added that the present-day length of leaders greatly modifies what we say—as a sound guiding principle—in Section 7 of Chapter XVII. A great many excellent detective-story films have been produced, either from original synopses or as adaptations of the work of fiction writers. In these, there has been no hesitation on the part of the director and sub-title editor to use just as many words in a leader as might be necessary to make every point of the story entirely clear and interesting. Paramount's "The Devil Stone," showing the train of tragic events that followed the stealing by a wicked Norse queen of the great emerald belonging to a certain Breton priest, was one example of an intensely interesting detective story in which sub-titles supplied much more than a third of the story—and supplied it, apparently, quite unobtrusively. Here, again, only common sense and experience can show you what to do.

Before leaving the subject of leaders let us say once more that you must seek to find the golden middle ground between the leader that is too flowery in its language and the other that is too stilted and prosaic. Again, in connection with the length of leaders, study the two following from Universal's feature, "The Kaiser, the Beast of Berlin," the first of which contains only seven words, while the second contains fifty-five.

Joy died, Hope fled. Desolation became supreme.

Then came the Master crime. An unoffending people was ground into extinction beneath an iron heel. A nation was destroyed. The Crime against Belgium being completed to its fullest, the Prussian stalked onwards with his twin comrades, Frightfulness and Horror. A new blotch of infamy—the Lusitania—was added to the Black Name of the Beast.

Notice, also, that as is being done with many feature pictures of this or similar type today, the producers have adhered throughout to the past tense in wording their sub-titles.

6. The Use of Letters, News Items and Similar Inserts

The great thing in using inserts other than leaders is to be able to tell what would be most effective in scoring a point of the plot at an important place in the story. You may start to "write in" a letter and then suddenly get the idea that the same point might be better explained if a newspaper paragraph were used. But no matter what other kind of insert you employ, it will doubtless seem to be more a part of the action than will a plain leader. For this reason it is best, whenever possible, to use a letter, telegram, news item, or some similar insert, in place of a leader. A carefully worded letter introduced at just the right time will sometimes tell the audience as much concerning the complications of the plot as would five or six scenes.

Letters should be short and to the point, but they should also tell as much as possible of what can not be told in action. Better a single letter of thirty-five words which tells everything than two or three notes of a line or two each that only suggest what the writer means. Some of the so-called "letters" which are seen on the screen are simply ridiculous on account of their very brevity. If it is a mere note that is dashed off and sent to one of the characters, or a note left where it will be found by someone after the writer has gone away, its brevity is allowable; but when a "letter" is written by a man to an old friend of his—a friend who, he is told, is living in a distant city, when for years he has supposed him to be dead—and contains but seventeen words, it is likely to make the spectator doubt the strength of the former friendship.

It is not always necessary actually to write a long letter; but it is best in such instances to suggest that a long letter has been written. This may be accomplished in two ways: You may either show a paragraph in the body of the letter, with a line or two just before and just after it, thus:

On screen, letter.

and it was from him that I learned the truth.

I'll leave for Wheeling on the first train tomorrow, and hope to clasp your hand again before Monday night.

Honestly, old man, it seems too, etc.

or you may write out the ending of the letter in such a way as to suggest that much more has been said in the forepart of the message, thus:

On screen, letter, folded down to show only this:

so I'll leave for Wheeling on the first train tomorrow, and hope to clasp your hand again before Monday night.

Honestly, old man, it seems too good to be true. I won't be able to believe that what Morgan told me is true until I see you with my own eyes.

Until then, believe me to be

As ever, your sincere friend,

Stephen Loring.

To illustrate the way a letter will consume footage, we reproduce one for which fifteen feet were allowed.

Lord Cornwallis:

Am now within forty miles of Charlottesville. Thomas Jefferson and the entire Virginia Assembly will be my prisoners today.

Tarleton.

As we know, a letter will sometimes be written by a character in one scene, but the spectators will not learn its exact contents—though they may know just about what he is writing—until a scene or two later, when the letter is delivered to and read by the one to whom it is addressed. On the other hand, we sometimes see an actor write a letter, immediately after which, as he reads it over, it is flashed on the screen. Then, later, we see it delivered, but although the one receiving it is seen to read it, it is not flashed upon the screen again, because the beholder has so recently been shown what it contains. But it sometimes happens that more than one letter enters into the development of the plot at a certain point, and hence there may be some slight confusion caused by the spectator's not knowing which of two letters the player is supposed to be reading. It is to avoid this confusion that directors generally flash a few feet of the letter a second time, simply to identify it. Thus, if the letter that Tom wrote to Nelly in Scene 6 is delivered to her together with one from her friend Kate in Scene 8, you may write:

Postman hands Nelly two letters. She registers delight upon noticing handwriting on one envelope. Opens it immediately and reads:

On screen. Flash two or three feet of Tom's letter, same as in 6.

Back to scene.

Few spectators will object to the introduction of letters, telegrams, newspaper items, and the like—provided there are not too many such inserts—because these seem to fit into the picture as a part of the action, and are not, like leaders, plainly artificial interpolations by the author. It need hardly be pointed out, however, that letters and other written messages must not be introduced except for logical reasons. More than one case has been known in which the scenario submitted to an editor specified that one character was to write and hand to another a note which the second character was to read—the note, of course, was to be shown on the screen—when the contents were simply the words which, on the regular stage, the first actor would speak to the other! Of course, no director would allow such a thing to take place in his picture. In a situation where the story could actually be advanced by showing the beholder what a certain player was supposed to be saying to another, it would be only necessary to introduce a cut-in leader, as previously described.

We have spoken of substituting a newspaper item for a letter. Wherever this can be done, it is well to do it; the newspaper item, being printed, is at least readable. One or two of the studios use letters in which the handwriting is so poor that before all the spectators have read the contents of the letter it has disappeared and the scene has been resumed.

Let us suppose that Edith—not knowing that her friend Eleanor has fallen in love with Jack Temple, whom they met at a resort the previous summer—writes Eleanor a letter in which she says:

On screen, letter.

and I'll send it in my next letter.

By the way, I heard a report that Jack Temple—the fellow that you thought was so bashful—was seriously injured in the wreck of the Buffalo Express last week. I

Back to scene.

The expression on Eleanor's face, as she reads this, would be the same as if she had picked up a newspaper and read:

at the time of the collision.

Among those reported injured are James T. Appley, Syracuse, N.Y.; Lloyd W. Stern, Boston, Mass.; Mrs. Geo. P. Rowley, Bangor, Me.; and John Temple, New York City.

Conductor Thomas Hammond told a World reporter that as soon as the report

Of course, at some point in the action previous to the scene in which Eleanor reads this report in the newspaper, you will have made the spectators familiar with the hero's name by means of a leader or some other insert.

"Where the information is brief," says Mr. Sargent,[23] again, "it may be better displayed as a newspaper headline. A two-column display head is better shaped for use on the screen than the deeper single-column head. A deal of information may be conveyed in a headline and the spectator seems to read the item over the character's shoulder rather than to have been interrupted by a leader."