Part 5

“The ability to create a plot from this idea,” we have stated as the second important quality. “Plot”--there is the stumbling-block that halts the majority of beginners. “The biggest defect of the plays submitted by outsiders,” says Lawrence McCloskey, a photoplay editor who has handled thousands of such manuscripts, “is that they do not contain real plots. They are usually abstract incidents, more or less interesting, but without complications sufficient to hold the attention of an audience. Or else they are in the nature of long histories, telling the life stories of their characters, without definite beginning, climax, or ending.”

What is plot? In Editor McCloskey’s sentence you have the outlines of a definition. It is not an abstract incident, or even a series of such incidents. It is a story woven around a central theme, which is usually a crisis in the lives of the characters. It has a definite beginning, which is at the time when the causes are born which gradually increase in strength and at the last give rise to the events which produce the climax, the height of the suspense and interest. It has a definite ending, which should come as soon as it has been determined whether the crisis overwhelms the characters or whether they pass through it successfully. The ideal plot is the plot of struggle, whether physical or mental. The struggle may be that of two men for the favor of a girl, a poor man against starvation, an avaricious one for wealth, or it may be the struggle of a woman to keep steadfast her faith in a worthless husband. The climax is the point at which the struggle becomes most bitter, the outcome of which is to decide whether the characters win or lose in their fight against odds. The climax may be in sight to the audience soon after the beginning; in fact, a grouping of the early incidents so that the audience fears the climax produces suspense, but the outcome, the author’s solution of his climax, must be in doubt. Or, if it be sensed by the audience, the means by which he is to bring it about must be the author’s secret until he is ready to say the word. There are students who go further in the analysis of the subdivisions of a plot, and in dividing the different types, but the beginner who uses this definition as a test of his stories will not go wrong.

We will go back to the note-book and seek an idea that may be developed into a plot. Here is a hastily made note written to remind you of a pathetic face: “The wrinkled old woman and the worried-looking daughter who come to the post-office every day.” “Aha,” you say. “Here is a ready-made plot. I’ll have them coming to the post-office in search of a letter from a wandering son. They are in poverty, and just as they are about to be turned out of their home I’ll have the son return laden with wealth.” Beware of the ready-made plot! The studio mails are full of them, but no checks are drawn to pay the authors. The judge who condemns his own son, the little child who reforms the burglar, the upright district attorney who defies his sweetheart’s father, the political boss, all these are old friends of the photoplay editors. “But,” you say, “I saw one of these same stories on the screen only a few days ago.” Perhaps you did, but think it over. Wasn’t there something else besides this bare idea, wasn’t there some new twist, some original turn that lent it freshness and almost made you forget how old the plot-basis was? Let’s see if we can’t take the idea about the old woman and daughter at the post-office and give it a new guise. And before we start to mold our plot remember that we can’t compel the characters to do what we want them to do; we must give them a reason for every action. In real life people do not do things without a motive or an impelling cause, but many photoplay authors would seem to think that the fact that the author wanted his characters to perform a certain action is sufficient excuse for it. To check up: Originality and consistency are all-important. Seek a fresh viewpoint, but when you get something new remember that it must be logical, let it not insult the intelligence of the audience.

Starting out, then, we need a reason for the son going away from home. Suppose we change the young woman’s status and make her, not the daughter, but the girl who was to have married the son. They quarreled, she broke the engagement, and in a state of mingled temper and despair he ran away. Soon after his departure the mother is injured in an accident and her sight destroyed. Blaming her pride for the son’s leaving home, the young woman takes upon her shoulders the care of the mother. The son takes to drink and roistering companions; he descends lower and lower in the scale until finally he is a besotted tramp. We now have our characters drawn; we have a reason for the son’s action in leaving home, an “excuse” for his long absence and apparent indifference to what is happening there, and a motive for the girl in seeking to make the mother happy.

All well enough. We have our characters, but we are still far from having a story. An audience might be mildly interested in such people, but there would be no gripping suspense, no desire to know more concerning them. There would be no “doubt as to outcome” because from all appearances the lives of the characters are to continue in the same channel. We want “complications,” but don’t go after them like the average beginner and throw in action and befuddling incidents just for the sake of mixing things up until you are ready to have the son return home. And don’t fall back on the trite story we have already discarded--the mother in poverty and the son returning in time to save her. Let’s see: Mother and sweetheart are hoping for the son’s return, the audience expects to see him back. Can’t we introduce some element that would make his return also a cause for fear? Steer clear of that thought that tells you, “He went away charged with a crime, and he will brave arrest to come back to his dying mother’s bedside.” The audience knows that story too well. We have it! When the mother met with the accident the doctors despaired of her life. To make her last few weeks of life more happy the girl concocted imaginary letters from the son saying that he was prospering in a distant country. Later, when death seemed near, to cheer the mother and strengthen her faith in her boy the girl’s letters told of his efforts to return home, though the means of travel were difficult. But finicky fate ruled that the mother, though still blind, should recover her health, and the girl has been forced to continue the deception. Now the surgeon holds out hope that within a few months the mother’s eyesight may be restored. Here we have complications and suspense galore. Any way out seems to lead to trouble worse than any which our characters have yet encountered.

We are nearing the climax, and you will find that long ago the plot has taken the reins into its own hands; it needs no more spurring. Through the rooms of the darkened house there one day sounds the mother’s cry, “I see! I see!” After the first glad embrace of the girl her cry is for her son’s letters. Desperate, the girl urges her to wait until the morrow, after the surgeon has said that she may read. While the mother is protesting the girl suddenly tears herself away and flees hysterically from the house. She walks blindly down the hillside to the railroad tracks, then throws herself down on the grass to weep. She hears voices. Peering through a near-by bush, she sees a gathering of tramps hovering over a fire, a whisky-bottle passing around the circle. Frightened, she turns to run, but a slight noise betrays her, and the tramps, drink-crazed, start after her. All but one run only a few steps, but this one, more daring than the rest, continues the pursuit. She stumbles and he comes upon her. With a despairing scream she turns to look into his leering face, and--it is the son and sweetheart.

There is your climax. End your story in any one of the many ways that are possible, but, above all, end it quickly. It is a wise author who knows when his story is done. Withstand the temptation to start another story at the point where this one ends. You do not have to follow your characters to the grave; the interest of the audience is over when the crisis is past. You may spoil the effect of a good story by trifling with its interest after that. That is part of the story-teller’s art that we spoke of as the third essential--the ability to know where to begin the story, so that no time is lost in useless detail, while at the same time making the necessary points clear, a knowledge of what incidents to introduce and how to group them so that they merge smoothly into the climax and the gift of stopping when the story is done.

Thus far our talk has been on points that might apply with almost equal force to any line of literary endeavor. Let us now take up some points more closely identified with the photoplay. We have learned how to look for ideas, we have seen how a plot is built; now we must find out how to tell our story on the screen. It should be unnecessary to tell aspirants that since all photoplays are told by means of pantomime, “action” is a prime necessity. The audience wants to see the characters do everything worth while in the story. It feels cheated if you insert a subtitle saying, “Helen loves John because he saved her from death in a factory fire.” The screen’s purpose is to show the fire, to show John performing his heroic deed. No matter how good your story is, if it is of such a type that it cannot be “acted out,” then it does not belong on the screen. Printed inserts are unwelcome necessities--they are not the substance of which the motion picture’s popularity is made. Cultivate the “picture eye,” the faculty of visualizing each incident in your story, to discover if it is possible of being explained to an audience by means of action without the aid of words.

Make each scene tell its own story, either by carrying the action of the whole a step further, or by giving an insight into the character of a person important in the story. For instance, instead of the bald statement, “John Jenks is a crusty old bachelor,” why not a scene showing Jenks in his home irascibly ordering his servants about?--let the audience see for itself the type of man he is. Have your scenes follow one another logically, but--here the printed insert shows its usefulness--don’t show uninteresting action that can be covered by a brief subtitle. For example, if your characters are at the seashore for one scene, and the next important bit of action occurs at the city home, instead of the uninteresting scenes showing the characters boarding a train, arriving in the city and so on, use a brief insert, “Back in the City,” and take up your action there. The insert saves a lot of uninteresting action that would only bore the audience, while on the other hand, if you were to switch your characters suddenly from the seashore to the city without a word of explanation the spectator would be mystified and in doubt as to just what was happening.

Remember that the more principal characters you introduce in your story the more difficult you make it for the audience to follow the thread of the plot. Of course, you can have all the minor characters, such as servants, that you like, but have your story told by the actions of a few principals. This regard for simplicity should be followed in the manner of telling your story.

“What subjects are in demand?” For the outside writer the market is always best for the shorter pictures, comedies or dramas running one, two, or three reels in length. Comedies of merit are in greatest demand, not because more comedies are produced--the reverse is actually the case--but because less good comedy is written. Follow the pictures that are being shown in the theaters if you would keep in definite touch with the studio demands, or else read one of the trade journals that give theater-owners advance information of the pictures that are to be produced.

The trade journals will also be your guide when it comes to selling your photoplay. By reading the manufacturers’ advertisements there you will learn the type of picture each company is producing, and this is the first and most important lesson in the marketing of photoplays. Follow the players, and if you have a story especially suited to a certain player send it to his company first. The trade papers must also supply you with your list of addresses, for any roster printed in a book is certain to be out of date within a few months after the book is off the press.

Typewrite your manuscript. Here are other rules of the game which the beginner often disregards: Write on only one side of the paper; use white paper about eight and a half by eleven; put your name and address on the first page of the manuscript; and, most important of all, inclose a stamped and addressed envelope for the return of the story should it be unavailable. Make carbon copies of all your stories.

Make certain that your story is good by all the tests you can devise, and then pin your faith to it and keep it in the mails until it sells. Don’t hesitate to rewrite it, however, if after a few months you feel that it can be improved.

Were we asked to confine our advice to would-be photoplaywrights to one sentence, we could give no better hint than, “Study the screen.” There, in three words, is contained the one big secret of success in the picture field. See all the pictures you can, occasionally see them more than once, and _study_ them.

VIII

TECHNIQUE OF THE PHOTOPLAY

For the purpose of making clear the strictly technical aspects of photoplay-writing it has been decided best to provide a model “scenario,” as the manuscript form of the photoplay is called. Explanatory notations are made on the different points in construction developed. From the model given here the beginner will understand the manner in which he must develop his story, scene by scene, telling of each move made by the characters.

“How many scenes are there in one reel?” is a question often asked by beginners, when a little thought should show them that the number will vary, depending on the length of the individual scenes. The average is between thirty-five and forty. It will be seen that the model runs over forty, but many of the scenes are the briefest of flashes. Remember, “a scene is the action that can be photographed without stopping the camera.” No matter how short your scene seems, if you feel that the camera-man would have to stop grinding, and move his camera to take in the next action, then you know that the next action must be numbered as another scene. The form for photoplays of more than one reel is similar to that given here. The author may suit his own convenience in deciding whether to number his scenes from beginning to end of the story or to number each reel separately.

The author is indebted to the Edison Company for the privilege of using the scenario of the one-reel photoplay, “Across the Great Divide,” by Edward C. Taylor. The notes in brackets are solely explanatory and are not part of the scenario.

If you desire, an outer sheet may carry the name of the photoplay, the number of reels, whether it is comedy or drama, your name and address, and a line, “Submitted at usual rates.” The first page proper of your scenario will read:

(In upper corner author’s name and address)

“ACROSS THE GREAT DIVIDE”

SYNOPSIS

Bob Carson, a young man from the country, leaves for the city in order that he may earn enough money to marry Mary Carter. After several years of plodding effort he is shown as a telegraph operator in a Rocky Mountain station. Black Jack and his band plan to hold up a train carrying a large shipment of gold, and, in order that their crime may be covered up, decide to cause a head-on collision. They force Carson to send the message that will cause the accident, under the cover of their guns, with the certainty that if he refuses he will be killed and Black Jack, an ex-telegrapher, will send the message himself. Immediately afterward he receives a message apprising him that his sweetheart is dead. With nothing left in life to live for he jumps to the telegraph instrument and, before the bandit realizes what he is doing, countermands his orders, saying as he does so: “There will be no wreck now. We will meet across the Great Divide.” As the last click of the instrument ceases, the bandit, realizing what he has done, shoots him dead.

[From three hundred to five hundred words should suffice for your synopsis. Have it tell all the important points of your story, but don’t go into unnecessary detail that the action scenario can explain. The synopsis is the most important part of your manuscript; it is the first thing the editor reads--and often the last. Make it clear, convincing, and brief--your sale depends largely on it.]

The second page:

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Bob Carson--Young country lad, later a telegrapher.

Mary Carter--His sweetheart, country dress, sunbonnet, etc.

Black Jack--Heavy-set desperado.

Bird Stevens--Outlaw, lieutenant of Black Jack.

Red--Shifty-eyed, suspicious-looking character.

Another telegrapher.

Superintendent.

Call-boy.

Four other desperados.

Boy to represent Carson at age of twelve.

Carson’s mother.

[Some of these players will appear for but a few seconds, but you must list every character to appear on the screen. Brief descriptions will suffice unless you want some particular type.]

SCENES

_Interior_:

Attic room--5.

Rocky Mountain despatch-office--8, 11, 16, 20, 29, 31, 32, 33, 34, 36, 37, 38, 39, 41, 43, 44, 45, 46.

Section of day-coach--10.

Section-house, sleeping-bunks, 40.

* * * * *

_Exterior_:

Farm-yard--1, 3, 9.

River-wharf--2, 4, 6.

Western Union city office--6.

Cut through rocky gorge--12, 14.

Woods near railroad track--13.

Clearing in woods--15.

Mountain road--17.

Small station--18, 28, 30, 42.

Clearing on ridge--22.

Railroad tracks near station--23.

Another section of mountain road--19.

Cross-roads--24.

Tree with swing--21.

Woods, with despatch-office in sight--25.

Bushes at side of railroad track--26.

Down railroad track as seen from 26--27, 35.

[The figures denote the number of the scenes in which the different locations are used. List every location or setting used in this scene plot. Be sparing in your use of interior scenes where exteriors will serve the purpose equally well. Interiors increase the cost of a production in time and expenditure for scenes.]

Start a new page:

“ACROSS THE GREAT DIVIDE”

Scene 1. _New England farm-yard._

Carson with old-fashioned portmanteau on scene. Calls Mary, she appears, they embrace. He bids her good-by, telling her he is going West to make a home for her. She breaks down as he exits.

Scene 2. _On a Chicago River wharf._

SUBTITLE: SIX WEEKS LATER. IN CHICAGO DESTITUTE.

Carson dejected, clothes baggy, gazing into river. Dissolve into--

Scene 3. _Farm-yard, same as 1._

Mary stands alone. Wistful expression. Dissolve back to--

Scene 4. _Wharf, same as 2._

Carson still on wharf. Express despair. Brightens. Dissolve to--

Scene 5. _Attic room._

Carson, twelve years old, studying telegraphy, picking at instrument, following instructions in book. Mother enters and scolds, making him study school-books. Dissolve back to--

Scene 6. _Wharf; as in 2._

Carson goes off to follow up inspiration.

[The subtitle is here inserted before Scene 2 to prepare the audience for the break in the action. While it says that Carson is destitute, the action of the scene carries the explanation still further. Don’t let your subtitle spoil the scene by telling too much. By dissolving the other scenes, that is, narrowing the lens so that they “fade” in and out, the audience knows that they represent Carson’s thoughts. An abrupt change of scene would mystify the audience. In practice the director may decide to use double exposure for these scenes, but it is best for the author to leave these special effects to the producer’s discretion.]

Scene 7.

_Exterior Western Union city office._

Carson comes out of office with long tickets in hand. Pauses to register, “Thank God!” and happiness. Exits.

[To “register” means to convey a certain feeling to the audience. The long tickets let the spectator know that Carson is going a great distance, without the necessity of an abrupt subtitle stating the fact.]

Scene 8.

_Interior Rocky Mountain despatch-office._

SUBTITLE: SIX YEARS HAVE PASSED.

Other telegrapher at instrument receiving message. Carson enters, with dinner-pail, to relieve him. Greetings, etc., other telegrapher exits. Carson reserved and thoughtful. Lights pipe, and settles in chair. Fade to--

Scene 9. _Farm-yard, same as 1._

Carson bidding Mary farewell.

[The author desires to show us that, though he is far away in the wilderness, Carson’s thoughts are still true to Mary.]

Scene 10.

_Close-up of seat in moving day-coach._

Red finishes writing note. Handwriting to be irregular owing to train motion.

FLASH--note: _Big haul on No. 5, first car. Fargo shipment. $300,000 yellowbacks, no guard except messenger. (Signed) Red._

After tying note on spear-handle, conceals same, and exits.

Scene 11. _Despatch-office, as in 8._

Close-up of Carson receiving message.

FLASH--message on official blank: _No. 5 carrying pay-car East_--

[These “flashes,” unlike subtitles, are not to be printed statements, but are reproductions of the particular object, a newspaper clipping, letter, telegram, etc., and are inserted in the body of scenes as indicated. Make them brief; long letters mean many feet of film to give the audience time to read them.]

Scene 12.

_Rocky gorge. Railroad tracks._

Rear of day-coach pulling out of scene. Informer Red on platform, slings spiked stick into telegraph post from steps of car.

Scene 13. _Woods near Scene 12._

Branches of bush part. Black Jack peers through. Plows through bushes.

Scene 14. _Railroad tracks, as in 12._

Receding train in distance. Black Jack comes on, yanks spike from post.

Scene 15. _Clearing in woods._

Desperados lounging about. Black Jack enters, unrolls note, reads, and gives orders.

SUBTITLE: “STICK NO. 5 UP AT MASON’S CUT. WE’LL COVER UP THE JOB BY MAKING THE DESPATCHER DRIVE NO. 2 INTO NO. 5.”

At his last word four desperados exit left. Black Jack and Bird Stevens go off right.

[Note the strength gained by inserting the subtitle in the action of the scene and having it a speech by one of the characters. How much weaker would it have been had the author put his subtitle before or after the scene, and said, “The desperados decide to hold up No. 5 at Mason’s Cut and cover up their crime by forcing the despatcher to drive No. 2 into No. 5.”]

Scene 16. _Despatch-office, as in 8._