Chapter XV

, in which is discussed the matter of expense in picture production. Some of the very companies who a few years ago were warning the beginning writer against introducing action that would necessitate too great an outlay of money are today producing features seemingly regardless of expense. Yet most concerns are really exercising a wise economy and getting some wonderful results with cleverly planned trick-camera work.

[Footnote 19: See Homer Croy's _How Motion Pictures Are Made_.]

For example, in one episode of the Wharton serial, "The Eagle's Eye," the German conspirators in New York, seeking to injure the cause of the Allies and lay the blame on the American 'longshoremen at the same time, arrange to have a train of freight cars, crossing on barges from Manhattan to Jersey, dumped into the North River by removing the means by which they are held in place on the tracks of the barge and "letting 'em slide." The effect on the screen is wonderfully like what a long-range photograph of such an actual event would show. All that was needed to produce the scene was a tank of water with a miniature barge pushed along by a tiny tug-boat, the latter steaming up very realistically. When the toy barge and tug-boat were right in the middle of the "stage," three or four toy freight cars were allowed to slide off into the water. Above the tank, as a background, was hung some white or light colored cloth, making everything from the waterline up a white blank. Against this blank was superimposed, by running the film through the camera twice, a picture of the New York sky-line as seen from the Jersey shore. The unruffled surface of the water in the tank--so unlike the wavy North River--was almost the only thing to show certain of the spectators that the scene was not the real thing. In another episode of the same serial, after the German spies have caused an Allied grain ship to be loaded on one side only, so that she will turn turtle as soon as released from her moorings, another very realistic scene shows the ship actually turning over, as much as the comparative narrowness of the slip will let her, after they have cut the ropes holding her to the dock. Here, again, a model vessel in a built-up miniature slip supplied the means of obtaining a startlingly realistic effect. The scene lasted only a few seconds, so that little opportunity was given the spectator to see how it was worked, but the effect of the brief scene was very convincing.

In scores of feature productions models or miniatures of various kinds have been resorted to to obtain startling or novel effects, and have saved the outlay of thousands of dollars in the production of certain pictures. Double photography, or superimposure, is a ready ally when the director wants to get an effect showing a specially arranged fictitious scene played against a real and frequently well-known background, as in the North River scene just described. In the same picture, "The Eagle's Eye," the Whartons, who produced it, displayed a new feature in photography--a genuine photographic device rather than a trick--in what they described as "the triple iris"--three diaphragms opening at once and disclosing the heads of Boy-Ed, Von Papen and Dr. Albert, and then fading and showing a scene in which these three characters were seen grouped in conversation.

Another effect which might, perhaps, be classed as a trick was used in the Mary Pickford feature, "Amarilly of Clothes-line Alley." It was in reality merely a clever scene intended to take the place of a leader, while being also an improvement on a leader because of the fact that to almost everyone in the audience it instantly "put over" the idea back of the action at that point of the story. At the time that Amarilly's good-hearted but socially impossible mother, with her little brothers and sisters, are being entertained by the rich hostess who desires to shame the little girl from the tenements in the eyes of her son, there is flashed on the screen, against a dark background, an empty glass gold-fish bowl with the fish themselves wriggling and gasping on the table beside it. The idea of "fish out of water" was very apparent to the spectators. Later, when the tenement-bred family had returned to their humble home, another picture showed the gold-fish contentedly swimming about in a well-filled bowl. It is such an effect as this that any clever writer might think of suggesting in his scenario, and it is legitimate in every way--far more so, in fact, than some of the tricks of diaphragming and fading so frequently made use of by certain directors.

A startlingly novel effect was shown some time ago in the Vitagraph Company's production of Arthur Stringer's story, "Mortmain." Just as Mortmain was put under ether the scene proper faded out, giving place to a dull blur in which the faces of the doctor and his attendants were brought right up to the lens of the camera and then withdrawn for several feet, the action being extremely rapid, and being repeated several times, by means of the camera mounted on a truck, as already described. This was accompanied by another dark-background strip of film, across--or rather down--which shot fiery streaks, like the tails of discharging sky-rockets. The whole effect of anæsthesia was vividly reproduced, and the effect on the audience was most marked. The idea of what Mortmain experienced in his last conscious moments "got across" in no uncertain way. Especially startling and realistic--to those who have been there--was the effect of the patient's feeling himself dropping, dropping, dropping through space into--oblivion.

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

_15. Dual-Character Double Exposures_

Undoubtedly, the gradual perfecting of the double exposure (superimposure) device in motion-picture making has made possible the screening of innumerable good stories which would otherwise have been almost impossible of production. When only a few years ago the Vitagraph Company made their very creditable production of Charles Dickens's "A Tale of Two Cities," the two leading male characters, Sidney Carton and Charles Darnley, were played by two different actors--the final action of the plot turning on the fact that these two were "doubles," for this fact makes possible Sidney Carton's supreme sacrifice for his friend and the woman he loves. There was a fairly close facial resemblance between the two actors who played these parts--enough, with the aid of the wigs they wore and other make-up, to make the picture convincing. Today, no director would think of putting on such a picture with two different actors in the dual rôles of Carton and Darnley. When, in 1917, the Dickens classic was released as a William Fox feature, William Farnum played both rôles, and some really remarkable results were obtained in scenes where both characters were present at the same time. Almost everyone has seen pictures containing examples of the possibilities offered by double exposure in making pictures of this nature.

In the first place, when two characters are supposed to be "doubles," it is certainly more convincing to have one player portray both rôles. Again, any additional trouble that is attached to making pictures of this kind, on account of the double exposures involved, is confined to those scenes in which both characters are present in the scene at the same time, and even then the difficulty is minimized by the use of close-ups.

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

## action that is always demanded of the wide-angle double-exposure

scene, in which one man, playing two different characters, must face himself and keep the action natural and convincing at all times.

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

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

_16. Features_

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

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

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

The Famous Players "Monte Cristo," however, was not, at any point, "padded." It might have been two reels longer--and probably would have been three reels longer had it been produced a little later--without giving too much of the wealth of picture-material contained in the complete story of Edmond Dantes. We mention these two pictures solely for the purpose of drawing a comparison between the kind of stories put out in 1908 and those that were beginning to appear about six years later. But "padding"--the filling up of the picture with non-essential and often very extraneous details or pictorial effects--has steadily increased with the yearly increase of the so-called "features," and has unquestionably been responsible for the falling-off in interest among countless former photoplay "fans." They have gone into the theatres expecting to see a "big star" in a "big story"--and have come out after having seen only the "big star." Just who is responsible for this very unsatisfactory state of affairs it is sometimes hard to say. Occasionally the story, if written by an "outside" writer, is lacking in plot-material in the first place, and, having been purchased on account of its having, none the less, several good situations, is allowed to go into production without being built up in plot (which is quite another thing from "padding") by one of the studio staff-writers. Or it may be that, the logical length of that

## particular story being five thousand feet, the director lets it run on

for another reel, or even two, in order to be able to work in several hundred feet of quite unnecessary close-ups of the female "lead," who chances to be his wife, and whose popularity he is naturally anxious to maintain. This actually has happened; but even a conscientious and otherwise artistic director may occasionally "stretch a picture out a little" in order to take advantage of the beautiful natural locations of the part of the country in which he is working.

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

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

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

We need only repeat here one other thing that we said in