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 1921 
 

 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
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 FUND GIVEN IN 1891 BY 
 
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 PRINTED IN U.S.A. 
 
 Cornell University Library 
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 Cinema craftsmanship: 
 
 3 1924 027 109 945 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
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 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
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 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924027109945 
 
CINEMA 
 CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 A Book for Photoplaywrights 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANCES TAYLOR PATTERSON 
 
 niSTEUCTOE OF PHOTOPLAY COUFOBITION^ 
 COLUUBIA UHIVBESIT7 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 SEOOJn) EDITION 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY 
 
 1921 
 
P/v 
 
 f3\ 
 
 \^A 
 
 F\5ioso5 
 
 COPTKIGHT, 1920, 1921, BT 
 HABCODRT, BBACK AND COMPANY, INC. 
 
 cn:. 
 
 PRINTED IN THB U S A BY 
 
 THE QUINN a BODCN COMPANY 
 
 RAHWAY N J 
 
DEDICATED 
 
 TO MY FATHER 
 
 IN APPRECIATION 
 
 OP A LIFE-LONG DEVOTION 
 
FOKEWOKD 
 
 Within the last decade the motion picture has de- 
 veloped to such an extent that it has become a tremen- 
 dous factor and influence in our national consciousness. 
 It is no longer merely the " second largest industry in 
 the world." It is a new art form, the youngest of all 
 the arts perhaps, but distinct and separate from them. 
 Like all new things the photoplay has countless chan- 
 nels imexplored, and many possibilities undiscovered. 
 It is not a dead language, but a vital, a genetic thing. 
 It is impossible, therefore, in this early stage of develop- 
 ment to lay down iron-clad rules to govern the new art. 
 Its growth and progress demand constant expansion and 
 experimentation. 
 
 Yet it is because of my supreme faith in the future 
 of the photoplay and my urgent desire to do whatever 
 little I can toward awakening people to the realization 
 of its latent possibilities that I have endeavored to set 
 down in the following pages some of the thoughts that 
 have come to me in lecturing upon the motion picture 
 at Columbia University. The work there was initiated 
 with the dual purpose of bringing the public at large to 
 a more real appreciation of the best in photoplays and 
 by that appreciation to demand the best that can be at- 
 tained by the producers, and secondly to offer prospec- 
 tive writers of photoplays a short cut upon the road to 
 ultimate success. This book has been written with the 
 
vi FOREWORD 
 
 same aims in mind. Some of the ideas contained herein 
 have already been expressed in lectures to the students 
 of Columbia University from the summer of 1917 until 
 the present time, in the Photoplay Magazine, and in 
 lectures to The Missouri Club and the National Board 
 of Review of Motion Pictures, 
 
 I should like to express my gratitude to the Famous 
 Players-Lasky Company for the privilege of reprinting 
 stills and the continuity of the Columbia Prize photo- 
 play " Witchcraft," and to Mr. Robert MacAlarney of 
 that Company for his unfailing courtesy and kindly 
 spirit of cooperation, which has been of inestimable 
 value. I should also like to acknowledge my indebted- 
 ness to Professor Brander Matthews for the application 
 to the younger art of cinematic expression of some of 
 his theories concerning the art of the theatre. 
 
 F. T. P. 
 New York, June 1, 1920. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTBB PAGE 
 
 I. The Art and the Science .... 1 
 
 ^11. The Plot 5 
 
 III. The Characters 33 
 
 IV. The Setting ., 49 
 
 V. Adaptation 64 
 
 VI. Scenario Technique 96 
 
 VII. Writing a Synopsis for the Photoplay 
 
 Market 126 
 
 VIII. Cinema Comedy 133 
 
 vIX. The Critical Angle .... ;. 146 
 
 ,^X. The Photoplay Market .... 157, 
 
 "Witchcraft." Continuity by Margaret TumbuU 184 
 
 Bibliography 267 
 
 Index 271 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 FACING 
 PAOE 
 
 A dramatic moment in " Don't Change Your 
 Husband" , . 24 
 
 " The Whispering Chorus." An excellent example of 
 " vision within the frame " 24 
 
 An interesting interior from " The Society Exile " . 50 
 
 "A quaint little house on the edge of the town." 
 A setting from " Prunella " 54 
 
 Artificial setting used in the production of " Prunella " 56 
 
 Three locations from " The Copperhead." An example 
 of excellent adaptation 78 
 
 " Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde." Set under construction 
 and the completed set 82 
 
 "The Blue Bird." An illustration of character 
 delineation and artistic setting 158 
 
 From " The Woman God Forgot," a costume picture 162 
 
CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 CHAPTEE I 
 
 THE AET AND THE SCIENCE 
 
 The study of the photoplay may be approached from 
 either of two angles. The first is from the cultural stand- 
 point. A person may desire to learn as much as possible 
 about the photoplay as an art form, its latent powers, 
 its claim to sestheticism. He may take up the study of 
 scenario technique in order to appreciate the more the 
 efforts of producers, or to criticize them intelligently. 
 He may argue that if the photoplay is worthy of the ex- 
 penditure of three or four evenings a week upon it, as 
 a matter of general information, it ought to be worthy 
 of careful study and consideration. Or it may be that 
 people feel that they ought to be able to form new and 
 bright opinions upon the latest photoplay just as well as 
 upon the latest books, or the latest music, or the latest 
 plays, or the latest turn in the political situation. Not 
 every student of art aims to surpass Leonardo da .Vinci 
 or Michelangelo, nor does every student of versification 
 hope to dim the glory of Homer or Virgil. Not every 
 student of military strategy plans to out-manceuver Alex- 
 ander or Caesar or Napoleon, nor every student of the 
 drama expect to steal the laurels of Sophocles, Shake- 
 
2 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 speare, or Moliere. Neither does every student of the 
 photoplay plan to produce plays. Very often their only 
 object in studying the art is to become conversant with 
 the working principles of an art which has become one 
 of the most popular forms of diversion. 
 
 There are, however, a great many students who ap- 
 proach the photoplay with the idea of ultimate produc- 
 tion in mind. And this gives us our second point of 
 view — the practical aspect of photoplay composition. 
 Writing for the screen is an art, but it is also a science. 
 The writer must be at once an artist and an artisan. 
 Theoretical knowledge is essential and forms a strong 
 foundation for later building. It must be supplemented, 
 however, by practical experience. The student must 
 follow the pedagogical principle — " learn by doing." In 
 the case of the photoplay he must not only write 
 scenarios, but he must have them produced. A photo- 
 play has no objective reality until it reaches the screen. 
 Closet drama may exist, if you will — the plays of Tenny- 
 son and Swinburne may be read with the deepest enjoy- 
 ment in the library — ^but there can be no closet photo- 
 drama. A stage play In manuscript form may be 
 literature, although not necessarily so. The dialogue 
 exists exactly as it is to be upon the stage with only the 
 voices and mannerisms of the actors and actresses lack- 
 ing. The action is usually written in. The plays of 
 Shaw, Galsworthy, Barrie, Pinero, Jones, are almost as 
 popular as reading matter in the libraries as are novels 
 and short stories of a like literary flavor. Not so with 
 the photoplay. A photoplay does not actually become 
 one until it exists in film. Its appeal is through the 
 
THE ART AND THE SCIENCE S 
 
 medium of the picture. And although the pictures may 
 be suggested in the manuscript, they do not exist as such 
 until the production is made. The author of the manu- 
 script furnishes the idea which goes through the hands 
 of the scenario editor, the director, and the actors before 
 it appears in picture form. 
 
 There are certain fundamental principles 'which every 
 prospective writer of motion pictures should be familiar 
 with. He must know the stages of development through 
 which the photoplay has passed. He must know the 
 technique of the photoplay, which is individual in the 
 last degree. The photoplay has a language of its own — 
 the language of the camera. If the student is to become 
 a successful scenarioist he must understand the limita- 
 tions and powers of the camera in order that he may 
 treat his subject matter accordingly. This book en- 
 deavors to give the student training in the fundamentals 
 of the art of picture making. It attempts to furnish 
 him with the necessary equipment — the tools of his pro- 
 fession. He must never lose sight, however, of the fact 
 that his ultimate success depends upon his individual 
 effort. Training and academic coimsel may aid in re- 
 casting and in making the most of his ideas. It may 
 even stimulate and awaken thought. But the ideas them- 
 selves he, and he alone, must furnish. Likewise he must 
 furnish the perseverance and the capacity for hard work 
 and sustained effort which is so essential to accomplish- 
 ment. 
 
 In the hands of a trained writer the power of the 
 photoplay is illimitable. There is an ever increasing 
 demand for skilled writers, of original stories, of con- 
 
4 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 tinuities, and of cinematic criticisms, but in order to 
 fill this demand the writer must be trained until his 
 ability is indisputable. Only the sweeping extensiveness 
 of the industry itself can be a fitting gauge of the colossal 
 need for photoplays and photoplay writers. But photo- 
 plays cannot be built in a day, nor photoplay writers in 
 a week nor a month. Perfection is a hard taskmaster. 
 Even the experienced man of letters must cast over- 
 board the equipment that he has been years perhaps in 
 acquiring and learn the new art of motion pictures, 
 which is as different from fiction writing as painting is 
 different from music. After all, art is long and time 
 is fleeting, and the path of the cinema composer is a 
 far and thorny one. Yet the pot of gold which lies at 
 the end of the rainbow which is sometimes called success, 
 ought to be enough to keep hope alive in the hearts of 
 the photoplaywrights. They must prepare themselves 
 now against the day when their services will be at the 
 highest premium. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 THE PLOT 
 
 Plot antedates written literature and drama. It was 
 one of the characteristics of the stories that were de- 
 veloped by word of mouth in the Homeric age. It is 
 that combination of thoughts or actions or ideas which 
 gains and holds the attention of listeners or readers or 
 spectators. Plot interest exists when a state of won- 
 derment is created concerning unfolding events or de- 
 veloping character. In this wonderment there must be 
 present an element of doubt. The audience or reader 
 hopes that certain events will transpire, yet fears they 
 may not take place. Therefore suspense may be defined 
 as a hope plus a fear. 
 
 There is another element which must be present in 
 the plot. All authorities seem to be agreed upon the 
 dramatic necessity of struggle. Goethe in " Wilhelm 
 Meister " says he believes conflict is necessary to all 
 drama. Aristotle says that struggle is one of the essen- 
 tials. Archer claims that climax is the important fac- 
 tor rather than conflicting forces, but as Professor 
 Brander Matthews points out in discussing this opinion, 
 " What is climax but the clash of forces ? " Henry 
 Arthur Jones puts it in the vernacular : " Drama exists 
 when a man is up against it." " Very true," com- 
 ments Professor Matthews, "but when a man is up 
 
 6 
 
6 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 against it he struggles." Stevenson declares that drama 
 exists when "duty and inclination come nohly to the 
 grapple" . . . and once more we have the inevitable 
 struggle. 
 
 Yet this struggle need not be a physical struggle. 
 It may be a mental struggle. It may be the struggle 
 of character against environment, or force of circum- 
 stances, or heredity, or habit, or against his own evil 
 inclinations. In all of the latter cases the antagonist 
 would be an abstraction, an influence, a moral force. 
 Sometimes a character may embody or represent an 
 idea or influence which is the real antagonist. In " A 
 Doll's House," for instance, it is not the struggle be- 
 tween N"ora and Torvald which absorbs us. It is Tor- 
 vald's attitude toward his wife and her reaction to it. 
 In "Les Miserables" it is Jean Valjean's struggle 
 with his past which rises up against him at very turn, in 
 spite of the spiritual heights his present has attained. 
 This past is more or less incorporated into the figure of 
 Javert. 
 
 Plot depends upon suspense and suspense depends 
 upon doubt as to the outcome of circumstances or prob- 
 lems. Governing this outcome, and hence governing 
 all plot interest, is the law of cause and effect. Yet 
 there is no syllogistic precision or surety about this 
 causality, or else the element of doubt would be utterly 
 lost. The plot appeal is the common denominator of the 
 narrative, the dramatic, and the pictorial art. It is the 
 link which binds photodrama and stage drama, and with 
 the exception of character portrayal through action, it 
 is perhaps the only link between the two widely diverg- 
 
THE PLOT 7 
 
 ing media. For, in spite of the prevalent confusion of 
 the two, in spite of the epidemic idea that the screen is 
 step-sister to the stage, or to mix metaphors a bit, that 
 the motion picture is the skeleton in the closet of the 
 respectable theatre family, the photoplay has its own 
 identity as an art form. It is a definite and clear-cut 
 medium of expression. It is not the lowly handmaid 
 of the stage, nor the Tyro of the theatre. It is an 
 amazingly new method of Story-telling. For the first 
 time in the history of the narrative arts a story may be 
 revealed wholly and completely through pictures. 
 
 Concomitant with the youth of the photoplay is the 
 lack of analysis of cinematic plot. But there can be 
 no greater aid to the student of the new photodramatic 
 art than the vast mass of critical material upon the 
 practise and theory of the theatre. The student of 
 plot analysis should submerge himself in dramatic 
 literature from Sophocles and Euripides to Granville 
 Barker and Eugene O'Neil. He should analyze and 
 " blue-print " the best examples of dramaturgy until 
 he is thoroughly conversant with the plot appeal of 
 each. He should consort with the master minds of 
 dramatic criticism. From the Stagirite to Sarcey, 
 from Brunetiere to Brander Matthews. Then having 
 accumulated as much equipment as possible upon the 
 workings of plot he should carefully translate his find- 
 ings from stage craft into screen craft, eliminating all 
 principles not applicable to the development of plot 
 through action, casting aside such methods as the sus- 
 taining of plot interest through dialogue alone, train- 
 ing his mind to recognize and utilize those elements 
 
8 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 of plot which are best fitted to film portrayal. He 
 should bear in mind that the cinematic plot evinces 
 itself in action presentation rather than word presen- 
 tation. It shows itself in pictures rather than in 
 dialogue. 
 
 To the person who has trained himself to think in 
 terms of pictures the cinematic is easily distinguish- 
 able from the uncinematic. Take as a simple illustra- 
 tion the definition of plot itself. Webster defines it as 
 "the plan ... of a play . . . comprising a compli- 
 cation or causally connected series of motived incidents 
 which are gradually unfolded, sometimes by unexpected 
 means." Over this definition one might exclaim with 
 Hamlet " Words, Words, Words." On the other hand 
 take the old French idea of dramatic plot : " In the 
 first act get a man up a tree ; in the second act throw 
 stones at him; in the third act get him down." Here 
 we see pictures immediately. Plot is visualized. It 
 is worked out as it were in charades. It could be acted 
 for the camera, and is therefore cinematic, while, the 
 other is mere theory. 
 
 Authorities on plot are legion. The oldest treatise 
 extant is to be found in Aristotle's "Poetics" VII. 
 
 "A whole is that which has a beginning, a middle, and an 
 end. ... A beginning is that which does not itself follow 
 anything by causal necessity, but after which something 
 naturally is, or comes to be. An end, on the contrary, is 
 that which itself naturally follows some other thing, either 
 by necessity, or as a rule, but has nothing following it. A 
 middle is that which follows something as some other thing 
 follows it." 
 
 (Translation of Professor S. H. Butcher) 
 
THE PLOT 9 
 
 According to Aristotle, then, the structural divisions 
 of plot are the beginning, the middle and the end. 
 Termed otherwise we might call them the exposition, 
 the complication and the conclusion. 
 
 The exposition busies itself with the preliminaries 
 of the plot. To it is assigned the work of introduction. 
 Its function is to put the audience in possession of the 
 facts and circumstances which it is necessary for them 
 to know in order to follow the plot with the least 
 amount of effort. Herbert Spencer, in his " Philosophy 
 of Style " has worked out certain theories as to econo- 
 mizing the attention of the reader. Mr. Clayton Ham- 
 ilton has an interesting chapter in his book, " The 
 Theory of the Theatre," applying economy of attention 
 to the literature of the theatre. It is no less applicable 
 to the photoplay. The greatest care should be taken 
 in establishing initial facts, facts which are ante- 
 cedent to the action yet are necessary to clarify the 
 plot development. The exposition lays the founda- 
 tion of the play. Upon it depends the solidity or 
 weakness of the superstructure. Dumas calls prepa- 
 ration the art of the theatre. If the exposition be in- 
 geniously handled, no later explanation will be neces- 
 sary in the body of the play, and the audience will be 
 saved bewilderment and confusion. Faulty and inade- 
 quate exposition is less excusable and more disastrous 
 in the dramatic than in the narrative arts, because it 
 is impossible to turn back figurative pages and clear 
 up questions or resolve doubts as to characters or events 
 which have gone by. What has passed upon the screen 
 or the stage has passed. Either memory must serve or 
 
10 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 another performance must be attended. The skill of the 
 dramatist can be measured by his method of handling 
 expository material. 
 
 The exposition should set out countless " finger 
 posts " which point the way to the events that are to 
 take place in the complication, yet do it so surrepti- 
 tiously that the suspense as to their development will 
 not be cut short in consequence. Mr. Archer has for- 
 mulated this law in a striking sentence : " Foreshadow, 
 but do not forestall." 
 
 The exposition of the play is never intensely dra- 
 matic. Any great tension at this time would be antici- 
 pating the climax. A photoplay calted " The Source," 
 in which Wallace Keid starred, opened with a some- 
 what dramatic situation. Before we are introduced 
 to the characters, we are shown a darkened space in 
 which vague figures move about obscurely. By the dim 
 light of a lantern we see that human bodies are being 
 carried and thrown upon the straw of some cavernous 
 interior. The man with the lantern is a burly figure, 
 almost hidden in an immense fur coat and hat. There 
 is something sinister, mysterious, about the proceed- 
 ings. "We are put in a state of suspense immediately 
 as to who these people are. Are they corpses ? If so, 
 how have they met their deaths ? Is it a revolution ? 
 Or a conspiracy? Or wholesale murder? Who is re- 
 sponsible? Presently we find that the figure is a lum- 
 berman from the far North who has been buying intoxi- 
 cated derelicts at ten dollars a head from a saloot 
 keeper and is shipping them in an old cattle ear tc 
 his lumber camp where he makes them prisoners and 
 
THE PLOT 11 
 
 compels them to labor in Lis timber lands. This is a 
 very dramatic scene and under ordinary circumstances 
 might start a picture at too high a tension. But in this 
 instance the story is intensely dramatic throughout. 
 There are moments of suspense to follow which wiU 
 far exceed this initial crisis. Therefore the scene 
 strikes the keynote of the picture, yet in no way robs 
 the climax of its effect. In terms of continuity the ex- 
 position usually takes up the entire first reel. 
 
 The complication is the -kernel of the photoplay. It 
 contains the main dramatic situation. In it the threads 
 are tied, the skein is tangled. In the continuity the 
 second, third and fourth reels are usually given over 
 to the complication. Sometimes it extends to the first 
 half of the fifth reel. 
 
 The climax of the play marks the end of the com- 
 plication. Climax may be defined as that point in the 
 play where the rising forces culminate. Once the 
 climax is reached that which Freytag calls the " fall- 
 ing action " sets in. The tension is gradually eased. 
 The climax is sometimes termed the "turning point" 
 in the drama. 
 
 Although there can be but one climax in the photo- 
 play the plot may admit of several crises. A crisis 
 occurs when there is a clash of antagonizing forces. The 
 way of the plot is not a straight one. Often there is a 
 fork in the road. There is a turn to the right or to 
 the left. When a decision has to be made, when a 
 course of action has to be determined upon, when a 
 situation has to be accepted or revolted against, then 
 there comes a crisis in the plot. A single photoplay 
 
12^ CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 may admit of several crises, but they must all be sub- 
 sidiary in interest to the climax of the play. In the 
 story of Joseph and his brethren, for instance, the 
 favoritism shown toward him by his father, Jacob, re- 
 sults in the brothers' hatred of Joseph. This conflict 
 comes to a bead with the decision of the brothers to 
 kill Joseph. This is the first crisis in the story. It is 
 relieved when, through the instrumentality of Reuben, 
 he is sold into captivity instead. The second crisis 
 comes when Potiphar's wife makes love to Joseph. 
 Here his character is put to the test. In the scales 
 against his natural righteousness is the knowledge that 
 the woman is powerful, that, turned into an enemy, 
 her influence with her husband, the ruler of Egypt, will 
 accomplish his downfall. He repulses her. The third 
 crisis occurs when Joseph, now ruler of Egypt, arrests 
 the brothers, and the silver cup, which he himself has 
 caused to be placed in Benjamin's sack, is found. Here 
 the interest reaches its highest tension and we have the 
 climax of the story. Joseph knows that the young 
 Benjamin is dear to his father's heart. If the brothers 
 allow him to be killed without offering themselves in 
 his stead, Joseph will know that they are still as cruel 
 as they were years ago when they were willing to sacri- 
 fice him. Reuben pleads to die in Benjamin's place, 
 thus showing that the brothers have become regenerate. 
 Joseph forgives them. 
 
 There may be two parts to the complication — there 
 may be a major complication and a minor complica- 
 tion, but the connection between the two should be a 
 yery close one. They must be so interwoven that the 
 
THE PLOT 13 
 
 photoplay shows no break in the dramatic unity. The 
 minor complication must be part of and dependent upon 
 the major; the two should be components of the whole. 
 There must be an insoluble marriage of interests, a 
 weU forged chain irrevocably linking the two. In 
 " Silas Marner " we find a dual complication, two dis- 
 tinct stories skiUfuUy blended together. There is the i 
 Nancy and Godfrey Cass story and there is the story ' 
 of Eppie and Silas. But Eppie is the daughter of 
 Godfrey, and it was Godfrey's brother Dunstan who 
 stole Silas Mamer's gold, for the loss of which Eppie 
 with her glittering curls makes ample amends. There- 
 fore each is a part of the other. Both are needed to 
 make up the full complement of the plot. 
 
 In the photoplay the major and minor complication 
 are often found. This is due to the fact that there is 
 k motion picture law, as strong as the laws of the Medes 
 and Persians, that every photoplay must contain a love 
 interest. Now there are numerous dramatic themes 
 which make excellent screen material but which are 
 completely lacking in love interest. Therefore the 
 photoplaywright, in order to fulfill the commercial law, 
 must needs set himself to insert a bit of love into his 
 story. In the so-called " success " stories, types of which, 
 appear so frequently in the Saturday Evening Post — 
 the love element is usually subsidiary to the success — 
 either moral or financial — ^which is portrayed. The 
 stories in which Charles Ray plays are cases in point, 
 "The Nine O'clock Town," "Greased Lightning," 
 " The Sheriff's Son," and others of this type. In the 
 Byron Morgan stories, interpreted for the screen by 
 
14 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Wallace Keid, the thrill of the plot lies in the action 
 of the automobile races, while the love interest is 
 subordinate, yet linked to the main dramatic situation 
 by providing motivation for the plot. 
 
 When the causes are insufBcient for the resultant 
 action the photoplay is unconvincing. Men do not 
 commit murder for trifles. They do not steal that 
 which they already possess. They do not seek that for 
 which they have no desire. In a photoplay released in 
 the dark ages of the industry the hero had sought 
 refuge in the loft of a barn, the loft being some five 
 feet above the bam floor. The farmer and his hired 
 man enter the bam in the course of the evening, and 
 stand directly below the loft. Whereupon the hero 
 leaps upon them from above and both men fall dead. 
 The audience is entirely unprepared for this. The 
 exaggeration is great enough to throw the whole inci- 
 dent into the realm of the comic. One man who is 
 jumped upon from a five-foot loft might be knocked 
 down and even stunned into unconsciousness. He 
 would scarcely be killed. But in this case not only 
 one man but two died instantly. There must have been 
 giants in those days. 
 
 In another play a wife who is pictured as the spoiled 
 darling of her husband has lost at bridge funds belong- 
 ing to the Eed Cross Society. The husband has a 
 flourishing business and to all appearances is entirely 
 capable of settling his wife's debts. The society asks 
 her for the money which is supposed to be in her safe- 
 keeping. In a panic of fear she seeks out an un- 
 Bcrupulous man who, she has reason to believe, admires 
 
THE PLOT 15 
 
 her. She enters into a dishonorable arrangement with 
 him in order to procure the ten thousand dollars. Here 
 the motivation is insufficient. Were her husband as 
 wealthy as the exposition showed him to be, it would 
 be the most natural thing in the world for the wife to 
 go to him for the money. Otherwise he should have 
 been shown either to be on the verge of financial ruin 
 or to be of such uncompromising principles that she 
 would never dare confess to having played bridge for 
 money. In this event she might turn to someone else 
 rather than incur his wrath. The play could have been 
 further strengthened by making the sinister character 
 of the villain an entirely unknown quantity to the wife. 
 She might then go to him believing he would lend her 
 the money in friendship, and discover too late his real 
 nature. As it stands, no honorable woman would seek 
 out a man whom she knows but slightly, but whose repu- 
 tation is a matter of the commonest gossip, and beg 
 for money from him. 
 
 The third division in the structure of the plot, what 
 Aristotle calls the end and what we shall call the con- 
 clusion, concerns itself with the untying of the knotted 
 threads of the complication. To it is assigned the task 
 of resolving all problems, of removing all obstacles, of 
 answering all doubts and difficulties. Thus plot fol- 
 lows the Socratic method of question and answer. 
 Rarely, if ever, does a photoplay end, leaving the 
 problem raised in the main body of the play still 
 unsolved. This has been done in the short story, 
 notably by Mr. Francis Eichard Stockton. Mr. Stock- 
 ton never revealed to his curious public whether he 
 
16 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSfflP 
 
 himself trusted sufficiently in femininity to believe that 
 the lady would prefer to deliver her lover into the 
 hands of her rival rather than allow him to be devoured 
 by the tiger. One astute hostess tried to fathom the 
 mystery by serving ice cream in forms. But Mr. Stock- 
 ton was not to be outwitted. When he was asked if 
 he would take the lady or the tiger, he answered that 
 he would like one of each. So the question remains 
 unanswered for all time. 
 
 By ending with a question Mr. Stockton gained for 
 his story all the charm of novelty. Yet there is much 
 more than this " new twist " to recommend the story. 
 It is delightfully well written and the conclusion is 
 satisfying. It is not that he has failed to offer us any 
 solution of the problem, but rather that he has gener- 
 ously offered us two. Each reader may make his own 
 choice according as he believes or disbelieves in the 
 traditional theory as to the innate jealousy of woman- 
 kind. 
 
 The unfinished conclusion in the photoplay is rare. 
 In spite of the much-quoted aphorism that nothing in 
 life is terminal, the cinema drama must ordinarily 
 have a definite conclusion. It need not necessarily 
 be a happy ending, although it must be admitted that 
 with the motion picture producer the happy ending 
 amounts almost to a fetish, xhe happy ending is fre- 
 quently illogical. It too often outrages our sense of 
 justice. It is too often inconsistent with the events that 
 have taken place in the complication. Fortunately the 
 epidemic of saccharine endings which swept the moving 
 picture productions for so many years has abated some- 
 
THE PLOT 1*; 
 
 what in virulence. In the old days producers would hav( 
 cheerfully converted " King Lear " into comedy drama 
 This tendency to cap tragedy with a happy ending, b 
 it glaringly out of place or otherwise, has netted i 
 goodly numher of enemies for the photoplay. PeopL 
 of any intelligence resent the distortion of the classics 
 but they resent still more an illogical conclusion. Pro 
 ducers defend the often ill-advised, but always happ^ 
 ending, by contending that the public demands it. Thi 
 is disproved by the fact that the four photoplays whicl 
 achieved high artistic and comparative commercial sue 
 cess in a single season all ended in tragedy. These wer( 
 " Passion," " Deception," " The Four Horsemen of th( 
 Apocalypse," and " The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari." Ye 
 in each case the ending left nothing to be desired ai 
 far as the logical working out of cause and effect i; 
 concerned. -w. 
 
 The Famous Players-Lasky version of " Bdh 
 ' Donna " in which Pauline Frederick played the tith 
 role, preserved the original unhappy ending of th( 
 novel as it was conceived by Mr. Hichens. Strangely 
 enough it was entirely adequate. The audience coulc 
 iiever believe that this woman had become regenerate 
 Poetic justice demanded that she should suffer. Anc 
 when his friend closes the shutters of Nigel's hom( 
 against her and she goes alone into the wilderness, ihi 
 play is complete. 
 
 In " The Man Above the Law," a simple little plaj 
 which was yet a signal step toward pure characteriza 
 tion, the end of the photoplay finds the hero travelin| 
 toward the sunset with his Indian wife and the chile 
 
18 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 of that union, while the girl he is in love with goes back 
 to her Boston home, heartbroken, but strengthened and 
 enriched in spirit. It is the only possible conclusion 
 if the audience is to be convinced of the great moral 
 strength of the girl's love which has raised the man 
 from the depth of vice to the heights of sanctity. Love 
 for the girl was the most wonderful spiritual experi- 
 ence which had come to that man. This had been 
 established through four reels of continuity. The 
 characterization would be entirely lost had not the two, 
 under the circumstances, renounced all physical expres- 
 sion of that love. 
 
 In the drama the balance between the happy and 
 the unhappy ending has been fairly well preserved. 
 Instances of the tragic conclusion are many: the 
 Greek tragedies, Shakespeare, Lope de Vega, Calderon, 
 Echergaray, the Russians, Ibsen, and such plays as 
 "The Second Mrs. Tanqueray," "The Profligate" 
 (this ending was changed for a London audience, but 
 was restored in the printed version) , " Jane Clegg," 
 " John Ferguson," " Beyond the Horizon," and " The 
 Emperor Jones." 
 
 The unanswerable argument in favor of the unhappy 
 ending is that the ultimate aim of all art is to repro- 
 duce life, not as we would have it, but as it is. And 
 no one can deny that the world is full of tragic endings 
 to high hopes; of love longings, unfulfilled and even 
 unspoken; of ill-health and blighted ambition; of the 
 affliction of the just and the punishment of the inno- 
 cent. Yet it is equally true that delight abounds at 
 well as melancholy. There is a broad choice of subject- 
 
THE PLOT 19 
 
 matter outside the realm of tragedy, and photoplay- 
 wrights may, if they cannot solve the commercial doubt 
 as to unhappy endings, at least avoid it by confining 
 themselves to the mid-Victorian belief in the Grood, the 
 Beautiful and the True. 
 
 Sometimes the conclusion may come in the form of 
 a surprise. This gives to the play the " new twist " 
 which is so characteristic of the O. Henry short stories. 
 Usually the surprise ending is something which is en- 
 tirely unforeseen and unguessed on the part of the 
 audience. The new twist, or surprise ending, always 
 recommends itself commercially. But the photoplay- 
 wright who makes use of this device should have two 
 things constantly before hinu First of all he should 
 remember that, although the surprise must be utterly 
 unexpected, at the same time it must be a logical re- 
 sult of what has gone before. It must be a part of the 
 main action of the play. The second thing he must 
 keep in mind is that the chief interest of the play 
 should not rest upon the surprise. Through the medium 
 of critical and advertising reviews, and through the 
 expression of opinion among people the surprise often 
 becomes a matter of common knowledge. If, then, 
 there is no other appeal in the play outside of the 
 amazing twist at the end, the play has no further 
 excuse for being once this becomes known. The author, 
 even though he may have a very clever turn of events 
 at the end, should build his play so that the interest 
 in character delineation or theme will remain, even 
 though the surprise is one no longer. In Bayard 
 Veiller's play "The Thirteenth Chair" the solving 
 
20 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 of the mystery depended upon a knife which had been 
 dexterously thrown into the ceiling. The trick became 
 much talked of. Had the play rested alone upon the 
 discovery of the knife the play would have lost its 
 interest for many people. But this was not the case. 
 
 Plays that turn out to be a joke or a lie or a dream 
 may all be grouped in the category of the surprise 
 ending. Generally speaking, however, this is not the 
 best sort of a conclusion. It seems to indicate that the 
 author gets his characters so hopelessly involved in the 
 mesh of circumstances that it is beyond even his in- 
 genuity to rescue them. So he pretends that none of 
 these things happened at all. It is an easy way of 
 getting out of his difficulties. The conscientious author, 
 having entangled his characters, carefully extricates 
 them. A mere tyro can multiply difficulties, but it re- 
 quires the skill of a practised hand to unravel them. 
 When the author simply waives them by declaring that 
 they never really happened the audience remains un- 
 satisfied. The play has been for naught. It is merely 
 a return to the statiLS quo. 
 
 The stage play " Seven Keys to Baldpate " made use 
 of the surprise ending and the device proved to be 
 ce of its drawing cards. In this play we see the old 
 keepers of a hunting lodge on Baldpate Mountain light- 
 ing the fires and preparing for a guest. It is winter 
 and Baldpate Mountain is a desolate, eerie place, with 
 the winds howling through the chimney and the snow 
 flying everywhere in the heavy gusts of wind. Pres- 
 ently a young man arrives. He is a writer and has 
 come to the quietude of this mountain fastness in order 
 
THE PLOT 21 
 
 to write a book which must be finished in twenty-four 
 hours. He has a bet with some friends that he can write 
 an entire novel in a day. If he can do it anywhere it 
 ought to be here at Baldpate Mountain — where the 
 solitude is intense. He withdraws to his room which 
 is upstairs off a little balcony above the living-room. 
 He sets to work. But he is not long to be left in peace. 
 Strange events begin to take place. Queer people 
 arrive, each one letting himself in stealthily with a 
 key. It seems there are some sort of documents in the 
 living-room safe that someone is scheming to obtain. 
 There are thieves and detectives on the trail. There is 
 a beautiful young woman in ermine involved. There 
 is a ghostly personage with a lantern. It is as if the 
 place were haunted by a dozen spirits. The man is 
 distracted. He finds the beautiful girl bound and 
 gagged and apparently dead in the cellar. Then her 
 corpse disappears only to be found in another place. 
 He spends a terrorizing night. He finally rescues the 
 girl, falls in love with her, traps all the others and 
 covers them with a revolver. Whereupon it is disclosed 
 that the whole thing has been nothing but the story 
 which the young man is writing. He calmly finishes 
 it and departs to collect the bet. The audience is taken 
 by surprise. They are amazed and dumbfounded. 
 This particular example of surprise has two points in 
 its favor: it solves its problems before the surprise is 
 disclosed. The surprise is not a trick to escape the 
 results of the complication. And secondly, the surprise 
 is a direct result of the exposition — the laying down 
 of the wager witnessed in the first act. 
 
22 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Mr. Gilbert K Chesterton relates the following as a 
 good example of the story with the surprise ending. 
 Two travelers were journeying up through the moors 
 of Scotland one cold, rainy night. The wind was howl- 
 ing outside in weird moans and the blackness was im- 
 penetrable. " It is a terrible night," said one to the 
 other. The second stranger agreed. " It is the sort 
 of night one might see a ghost," went on the first. 
 " But," replied the second, " I don't believe in ghosts 
 and that sort of thing." " Oh, don't you ? " said the 
 first — and vanished. 
 
 This little story illustrates two other dramatic prin- 
 ciples. First of all, it relies upon its setting for its 
 effect. The story could not be divorced from the wild- 
 ness of the night and the blackness of the moors over 
 which the strangers were traveling. Secondly, as Mr. 
 Chesterton points out, it affirms the philosophical truth 
 that people are of little faith. Unless they see a 
 miracle they will not believe. 
 
 Costume may sometimes be used to complicate the 
 plot with great effect. In Cecil de Mille's " Whispering 
 Chorus " clothes are used for purposes of motivation. 
 The husband has saved up to buy his wife a dress for 
 Christmas. She has been watching it in the window of 
 the shop for weeks. As he is about to buy it, a friend 
 invites him into " a little game." Foolishly hoping to 
 double the money, he goes and loses it all. On Christ- 
 mas Eve he sees his wife's simple little preparations, her 
 little gift packages ready for each one. The knowledge 
 that he has nothing for her, stings him to the quick. 
 ""She bravely pretends not to care about the dress, but he 
 
THE PLOT 23 
 
 can read disappointment back of her twisted little smile. 
 Goaded beyond endurance, he sits at his desk pouring 
 over his employer's books. He works for a big banking 
 firm to whom a few dollars must mean so little . . . 
 just a slight change in the figures. The employer is 
 passing through the office. Someone delays him. He 
 pauses and turns to speak to his questioner, laying his 
 arm upon Trimble's desk. There is a close-up of a rich 
 beaver cuff on his fur coat. Trimble looks at it fasci- 
 nated. He takes his pen and runs the handle over the 
 fur. It rises again richly, luxuriously. The employer 
 finishes speaking and passes on to his private office. 
 Trimble takes a knife and carefully starts to work over 
 the figures in the ledger. We need no leader to tell his 
 decision; we understand his action. 
 
 In another one of Cecil de Mille's productions, " Don't 
 Change Tour .Husband," clothes were used as a factor 
 in the plot, but in a different way. Instead of for 
 motivation, they were used for identification. The 
 husband, always looking for comfort, hides in a niche 
 under the stairs at a dance, unloosens his collar, takes 
 out a big black cigar, and abandons himself to pure joy. 
 He is disturbed by the voice of his friend who is evi- 
 dently standing upon the steps of the stairs making love 
 to a girl on the landing above him. The audience can 
 see the girl, but the husband cannot. He is chuckling 
 with glee that he has caught his friend in the act. The 
 lover departs and the husband gathers himself up for 
 another attempt at the ball-room. A heavy tassel of 
 pearls from the girl's dress has fallen to the ground just 
 at his feet. He slips it in his pocket, still laughing at the 
 
A DRAMATIC MOMENT IN CECIL B. de MILLE'S "DON'T 
 CHANGE YOUR HUSBAND" 
 
 The husband has pulled the tell-tale tassel from his pocket 
 and is laughingly reminiscing over last night's incident. In 
 another moment he will discover that it matches the gown which 
 is still lying on the chair. The wife's expression already shows 
 apprehension and fear, and is in marked contrast with his all 
 too unwitting merriment. 
 
 " THE WHISPERING CHORUS " 
 
 An excellent example of the " vision within the frame." " The 
 Whispering Chorus," which represents our impulses for good and 
 evil fade in and out upon the walls of the cell as John Trimble 
 is torn between the desire to save himself from death or to 
 preserve his wife's happiness. The calendar upon which the 
 doomed man has marked off the days of his life as they pass 
 onward toward the fatal day can be seen upon the wall. 
 
 {Bee page IIS) 
 
■ The Wliiaporiiig t'lioriis.'' 
 
 Hoc oj>p(>fsili- page. 
 
THE PLOT 25 
 
 joke on his love-sick friend, and intending to tell him he 
 means to identify the lady of his choice by means of 
 the tassel. He forgets all about it, however, until he 
 is at home with his wife. She has laid her evening dress 
 across a chair, A pearl tassel lies upon the cushion. He 
 looks at it startled, then pulls the other from his pocket. 
 It fits into an empty end on the sash, matching exactly. 
 The tassel has told its own story. 
 
 In the stage play " The Jest," in which the Barry- 
 mores played, a cloak is used as an agent in the plot 
 as a means of identification. "We have become accus- 
 tomed to seeing Gianetto Malespino in a white cloak. 
 In the last act, a figure closely muffled in a white cloak 
 steals into Neri's house. Neri, lying in wait, stabs the 
 figure, thinking it is Gianetto. It is his brother, Gabri- 
 eUo. In a Japanese play there is something of the same 
 idea. A wife madly in love with her husband is 
 pursued by a former lover, who holds a sword of Damo- 
 cles over her head. He threatens to kill her husband if 
 she will not go away with him. She acquiesces. She 
 shows him her husband's cloak, and tells him where 
 he will lie that night wrapped in the cloak. The lover 
 is to enter and stab the husband. That evening she 
 urges her husband to take a trip he has long been plan- 
 ning. When he has gone, she takes the cloak and goes 
 and lies dovra. in her husband's place. The stage is 
 darkened. There is a sound of the cry of a whippoor- 
 mll. There is no need of further action. The play is 
 over. 
 
 In the Triangle production of Earl Der Biggers' story 
 the " Gown of Destiny " the gown is made the protagon- 
 
26 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 ist of the story. The characters are subsidiary to the 
 dress. It enters into the lives of four sets of people, and 
 radically changes their destinies. The gown is the only 
 thing that holds the dramatic unity of the story to- 
 gether. Otherwise it would break up into four separate 
 parts. It was a clever story, and unique. The use of 
 the inanimate object as the main element in the plot 
 was ingeniously handled. Andre, a little dapper designer 
 of women's gowns, is on fire to fight for his native 
 France. But because he is little and frail, they laugh 
 at him at the French Consiilate. The Americans also 
 refuse his services. Imagine a man like him a soldier ! 
 That night he goes home, crushed and sad. He dreams 
 of a gown that will startle the world, and gets up and 
 sketches it. The next day he shows the sketch to the 
 owner of the shop. She is enraptured. They make 
 it up, and it is beautiful beyond expectations. A woman 
 comes into the shop. She is searching for something 
 which will bring back her lost youth and her husband's 
 love. She takes the gown. It is their anniversary, but 
 her husband has forgotten, and planned to dine with a 
 young girl with whom he is in love. He is about to 
 go out when his wife appears upon the stairs. He is 
 amazed at the way she has blossomed out. He comes 
 back, stays to dinner, and falls in love with his wife 
 all over again. The gown has wrought the miracle. The 
 wife, feeling that she will never profane that wonderful 
 night by wearing the gown again, sends it across the 
 continent to her niece who is trying to uphold a fine 
 family name without any funds to aid her. She is in 
 love with a young Englishman whom she sometimes 
 
THE PLOT 27 
 
 meets, but she is poor and shabby, and he scarcely knows 
 of her existence. She wears the gown to the country 
 club, and he promptly falls in love with her. She re- 
 fuses to marry him until he returns to England and per- 
 forms the military duty which he is slacking. Urged on 
 by the vision of her in the gown, he goes and makes good. 
 Andre's father is a mayor in a little Belgian town. He 
 and his wife are held as hostages. A fanatic shoots a 
 German soldier and the mayor is ordered shot in re- 
 prisal. That night the young Englishman enters the 
 town with his men and takes the town, rescuing Andre's 
 father from his impending doom. Andre never knows it, 
 but he has done his part in the war through the gown 
 of destiny. 
 
 There are, then, innumerable ways of using inani- 
 mate objects, especially costumes or clothes, as an agent 
 in the plot. Torn clothes tell the story of a struggle. 
 They may be used as circumstantial evidence. Prosper- 
 ous clothes condemn a suspected thief. Shabby clothing 
 may bridge over a lapse of time and tell the events of 
 the intervening months or years all too vividly. 
 
 Costume may complicate the plot through the device 
 of disguise. What would Eosalind in " As You Like 
 It " have been able to accomplish without disguise ? Or 
 Viola in " Twelfth Night " ? Or Portia in " The Mer- 
 chant of Venice " ? What could Lady Harriet have 
 done as " Martha " were it not for disguise ? And 
 Goldsmith's "She Stoops to Conquer"? And Sheri- 
 dan's " School for Scandal " ? — down to " Cheating 
 Cheaters " and " Good Gracious Annabelle," there 
 are no end of stage plays which depend upon disguise 
 
28 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 for their dramatic interest. The same device can be 
 used with equal effect in the photoplay. Julian Eltinge 
 made use of it in a group of plays which he did for the 
 screen impersonating women characters through means 
 of disguise. Norma Talmadge did it in "She Loves and 
 Lies." Mary Pickford did it in "How Could You 
 Jean " ? and in " The Hoodlum " ; Douglas Fairbanks 
 did it in " Wild and Wooly " and " Headin' South." 
 Charles Eay did it in "The Millionaire Vagrant"; 
 Charlie Chaplin used it in " The Adventurer " and in 
 " Shoulder Arms " where he becomes a tree. 
 
 Costume, therefore, is not to be entirely ignored by 
 the cinema writer. Costumes sometimes speak louder 
 than words. Used skilfully it may become a powerful 
 ally in intensifying dramatic situations. 
 
 Postponing the resolution of the diflBculties in the 
 plot by introducing thrilling incidents which may be 
 exciting enough in themselves but which are irrelevant, 
 incompetent and immaterial to the complication is not 
 to be encouraged. The automobile which breaks down 
 when the heroine is on the way to the scaffold with a 
 pardon; the gates of a railroad crossing which close 
 just as the pursuers are upon the villain; the man who 
 finds his cartridge chamber empty just as he is about 
 to fire upon his enemy; these and a hundred other de- 
 vices for prolonging the agony of an audience, can be 
 thought up with little effort and incorporated into a 
 photoplay. In a screen play lately released nearly all 
 these temporary thrills might have answered " pres- 
 ent." 2l man who believes he is dying of heart failure 
 takes upon himself the crime of the brother of the girl 
 
THE PLOT 29 
 
 he loves. The girl discovers that her brother never 
 committed the crime, but that it was the deed of an 
 insane uncle, who has told the hero he has heart failure 
 purely out of sardonic glee. The girl reaches the Gov- 
 ernor with her evidence on the very day of the execu- 
 tion. The Governor, however, is oiit to lunch. "When 
 she finally obtains an audience she convinces him of 
 the man's innocence. The Governor is afraid it is too 
 late. The execution is scheduled for 6 :45. They look 
 at the clock. It is only 6 :30. There is time enough. 
 But to their horror they discover that the clock is 
 stopped. In reality it is 6:40. They dash to the tele- 
 phone. The wire is busy. Almost frantic, they wait for 
 a connection. The picture cuts to the death-house. The 
 warden has left the office to witness the execution. We 
 see the telephone ringing violently but there is no one 
 there to answer it. A policeman is sauntering leisurely 
 up and down outside of the office. He hears the bell 
 ringing and makes a move to answer it, but changes 
 his mind with a shrug of his shoulders, indicating that 
 it is not his business to answer the telephone. We go 
 back to the frantic girl on the other end of the wire. 
 Then we are given a gruesome glimpse into the death- 
 chamber where the man has been strapped to the chair 
 and the electrician is arranging the levers. Then we 
 go back to the policeman. We know perfectly well 
 the man will escape in the end, but the suspense is ter- 
 rible. The policeman finally makes up his mind to 
 answer the telephone. He strolls leisurely toward it. 
 When he understands the message, however, he makes 
 a wild dash for the death-chamber. The door is locked. 
 
30 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 He pounds upon the panels, but inside no one pays any 
 attention. We see the electrician as he throws on the 
 lever . . . and the door is opened. Even yet the di- 
 rector, or author, is not content. The picture fades 
 out, giving the impression that the pardon came too 
 late. It is not until the next scene when the lovers are 
 shown together that suspense is relieved and the audi- 
 ence can breathe freely again. The end of the play 
 really comes about the end of the third reel with the 
 girl's proof that the insane uncle is guilty. The re- 
 maining two reels are given over to temporary moments 
 of tension which cheapen the picture. 
 
 Mr. Griffith frequently uses temporary thrills to the 
 last extreme. It must be said in extenuation, however, 
 that he usually makes them subsidiary to his main sus- 
 pense. In " Hearts of the World " his rescue of the 
 girl and man from the clutches of the Germans is pro- 
 tracted so long it becomes almost ridiculous. Escape 
 seems imminent when lo ! another band of Germans 
 appears, and the fight starts all over again. In " The 
 Great Love " the same temporary tension is created 
 when Lillian Gish is trying to escape from a burning 
 house. She has locked herself in the bathroom with 
 the intention of taking poison, but when real death 
 confronts her in the form of fire, she decides she wants 
 to live. When she reaches the door the key is missing. 
 It had caught in the lace of her negligee when she first 
 locked the door. She throws herself in a frenzy against 
 the door, while all the time we see the key hanging 
 down her back. The flames begin to creep into the 
 room. In her terror she wrings her hands and tears 
 
THE PLOT 31 
 
 the lace in shreds in wild excitement. Her hands pass 
 within an inch of the key as she does so, but each time 
 she fails to touch it. The audience is about ready to 
 shout at her in their excitement when her fingers finally 
 come in contact with the key. 
 
 " Way Down East " is another example of over- 
 sustained suspense. The rescue of the girl who is being 
 swept away upon a glacier-like floe outlasts probability 
 and the patience of the spectator. In order to prolong 
 the excitement Mr. Griffith pictures a feat which is 
 beyond physical powers. The girl, unconscious from 
 cold and exhaustion, lies on a cake of ice which comes 
 nearer and still nearer to the torrential falls. Close-ups 
 are shown of the waters dashing with mad force to the 
 rocks fifty feet below. Had the girl actually come so 
 near to the brink of the falls as she is pictured no 
 human being could have saved her from being swept 
 along with the current. The laws of volume, pressure 
 and gravitation demand her death, but the happy end- 
 ing demands that she be saved, and Mr. Griffith needs 
 prolonged suspense to shore up his climax. The three 
 are mutually contradictory. Mr. Griffith prefers to 
 sacrifice artistry to the excitement of the moment. In 
 addition to over-sustaining suspense these climactic 
 scenes further sin against the laws of the drama by 
 their irrelevance to the main complications of (he plot. 
 However grave the danger of Anna Moore may be, this 
 danger is not likely to break down the life-long preju- 
 dices of the squire, nor to alter the ambiguity of Anna's, 
 status. 
 
 In conclusion it may be well to recall to the photo- 
 
32 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 playwright that famous piece of advice to dramatists: 
 " Make them laugh ; make them cry ; make them wait." 
 This sagacious imperative sums up the three cardinal 
 principles of plot. There is the idea of conflict in the 
 constant warring of laughter and tears. There is the 
 idea of suffering in the provision " make them cry." 
 And in the stricture " make them wait " there rests the 
 whole law and the prophets — the principle of suspense. 
 
CHAPTEE in 
 
 THE CHAEACTEES 
 
 The history of the motion picture up to the present 
 time shows us that emphasis has been laid upon plot 
 and plot structure, rather than upon the delineation of 
 character. Writers busied themselves with the problems 
 of arousing and sustaining suspense in the minds of the 
 audience and cared little whether their characters were 
 appealing, logical, or consistent. This exaggerated em- 
 phasis upon plot is an indication that the art of the 
 motion picture is stUl in its infancy. It may be 
 paralleled by the early examples of fiction writing. 
 " Pamela ; or Virtue Eewarded," published in 1740 by 
 Samuel Eichardson and the first English novel that can 
 be strictly so-called, took its name from the main char- 
 acter of the book, but in reality is given over to incident, 
 situations, and negative character drawing. " Joseph 
 Andrews," by Eielding, and the novels of Tobias Smol- 
 lett, with their exaggerated caricatures are little bet- 
 ter as far as characterization is concerned. Then 
 came the school of mystery, romance, and terror, 
 of which Mrs. Eadcliffe, Maria Edgeworth, and 
 Horace Walpole are the best exponents. These novels 
 are rich in plot interest, thrills and mystery, and cor- 
 respond to the motion pictures that have been shown 
 
 upon the screen for the last seven or eight years. None 
 
 33 
 
34 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 of these novels has given us any one character which 
 stands out in startling prominence and becomes immor- 
 tal as the characters of the later novelists have — Thack- 
 eray's Becky Sharp, or Dickens' Mr. Pickwick or Uriah 
 Heep. Skill of character portrayal in the novel came 
 with time and experience. The first novelists had no 
 pattern to go by. They had to create one for themselves. 
 Their immediate successors found the pattern ready 
 made, and not having to exert their wits upon its crea- 
 tion, set about improving and embellishing it. The 
 pioneers who had, as it were, stumbled upon the form 
 of the novel were busy with the main structure. They 
 had no time for detail. Later, however, when the form 
 and the structure were well established, masters of the 
 art of writing gave themselves up to creating and per- 
 fecting character types with the wonderful results that 
 readers of to-day marvel at and enjoy. 
 
 So it was with the early beginnings of the drama. 
 " The Suppliants " of ^schylus contained no char- 
 acter development. Yet a later play of the same author, 
 " Prometheus Bound," shows strong characterization, 
 with the play actually built around the character of the 
 protagonist. 
 
 As it was with the drama and the novel, so has it 
 been with the photoplay. The first cry was for plot, 
 more plot, and always plot. There must be exciting 
 races and chases, intrigues and counter intrigues, con- 
 spirators in the cellars and on the roof-tops, innumer- 
 able, never ending, with the result that subtle and care- 
 ful character development was entirely disregarded. 
 Motion picture producers were so overcome by the fact 
 
THE CHARACTERS 35 
 
 that they could produce motion that they produced 
 nothing else. The typical " chase " picture was the re- 
 sult. Gradually motion for motion's sake alone came to 
 he left out of the pictures and action took its place. Iso-w 
 motion becomes action, of course, when it accomplishes 
 a definite purpose or is given a special significance. A 
 boy walking down the street has no particular signifi- 
 cance. His perambulations would be purely a physical 
 act. But if he is going to the telegraph office with 
 a telegram that will tell the heroine her lover is dead, 
 his movements have a special import, and automatically 
 become action. After a while action came to be applied 
 to the characters. How would a person of such a type 
 act under this particular set of circumstances? If he 
 runs away he is a coward. If he stays and takes his 
 punishment he is courageous. Therefore, if the author 
 shows him taking the next steamer for the South Sea 
 Islands the action in itself reveals him as a moral 
 weakling. 
 
 The pendulum has now swung in the other direction. 
 The tendency in the field of photoplay writing is to 
 make character paramount. The typical " movie " stoiy 
 with its regulation plot and its all too well-known situa- 
 tions, is passing rapidly away, and soon wiU be seen no 
 more. The more progressive and ambitious motion pic- 
 ture firms are looking for stories containing noble 
 thoughts and sparks of enthusiasm, with real human 
 people who have real purposes in life, and with the 
 dramatic situations springing from the clash of wills, 
 or ideals. More and more companies are producing 
 plays in which almost the entire interest centers upon 
 
36 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 character delineation. The inseparable connection be- 
 tween plot and characters is best illustrated by Pro- 
 fessor Pitkin's definition of plot. " A plot is a cli- 
 mactic series of events, each of which both determines 
 and is determined by the characters involved. The 
 student will please observe that the determination here 
 spoken of is reciprocal. This fact is the significant one. 
 If the determination is one-sided, there results no plot, 
 in the strict dramatic sense." (Short Story Writing, 
 p. 24.) 
 
 The well constructed short story, novel, or play 
 predicates clever characterization. But the photoplay 
 takes on an added burden. The characterization must 
 reveal itself in pantomime. The people in the photo- 
 play must be endowed with qualities that are capable 
 of screen expression. Of Spinoza's forty-eight emo- 
 tions only about three-fifths of them have any cinematic 
 value. Jealousy, for instance, is more screenable than 
 suspicion, because jealousy usually manifests itself in 
 exterior action, whereas suspicion as such, exists only 
 in the mind. Leontes in " The Winter's Tale," and 
 " Othello " are types of jealousy readily translated 
 into terms of action. Vacillation (Hamlet), impulsive- 
 ness (Hotspur), ambition (Macbeth), courage (Richard 
 III), untruthfulness (lago), all of these have screen 
 equivalents. But complex and abstruse qualities like 
 intellectual pride should be left to purely psychological 
 studies. The people in the novels of George Meredith 
 whose mental processes are largely introspective are 
 rather thought characters than action characters. 
 
 The axiom that character shall express itself through 
 
THE CHARACTERS 37 
 
 action applies to the stage drama as well as to the 
 photoplay. But the drama relies upon the aid of dia- 
 logue in delineating character. By a few well-timed, 
 well-worded speeches put into the mouths of other per- 
 sonages in the play, a character may be sketched. This 
 may be called the indirect method of delineation and 
 corresponds to the author's analysis in the novel. The 
 writer stands off from his characters, takes a scrutiniz- 
 ing glance at them and jots down what he observes. 
 Or in other words he generously shares his more in- 
 timate knowledge of the characters with the reader in 
 order that the latter may not be under a disadvantage. 
 This method would, and, alas, often is employed in the 
 photoplay by commandeering sub-titles to do the work 
 of character exploitation. This method, however, is 
 too didactic. It is not sufficiently dramatic. It denotes 
 a lack of fineness in workmanship. If character must 
 be revealed in words in the photoplay, let the photo- 
 playwright rather use the spoken title which corresponds 
 to dramatic dialogue, than the narrative sub-title cor- 
 responding to the viewpoint of an onlooker. 
 
 In delineating characteristics more or less intangible, 
 the photoplaywright may call in the aid of certain 
 physical qualities which have been long accepted as 
 connoting mental or moral traits. Shifting eyes con- 
 note dishonesty; slouching shoulders and shuffling feet 
 suggest laziness; curly hair, irresponsibility; arched 
 eyebrows, superciliousness; a lantern jaw, tenacity of 
 purpose. Yet on the other hand, in spite of these ac- 
 cepted connotations, there are many people who possess 
 characteristics in diametric contradiction to face, gait 
 
38 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 or manner. The strong man who is an abject coward, 
 as Falstaff is in " Henry IV " ; the simple and un- 
 trained woman who confounds the wisdom of judges as 
 Portia does in " The Merchant of Venice " ; the 
 dnmkard who exhibits strong moral fibre, as Sidney 
 Carton does in " A Tale of Two Cities " ; these char- 
 acters in outward appearances reveal no signs of in- 
 ward grace. Yet for that very reason, perhaps, they 
 show more inventiveness on the part of their creator. 
 Originality in combinations of traits is to be encour- 
 aged unless it is carried to the point of unplausibilitj. 
 
 An author often may delineate character and moti- 
 vate the plot at the same time. In the stage play " The 
 Law of the Land " the cruelty of the father is shown 
 when he locks the door upon the mother and beats the 
 child brutally with a horsewhip. The agonized screams 
 of the child are terrible to hear. The mother writhes in 
 horror, flinging herself against the locked door. Later 
 the same night the mother and father quarrel. The 
 father is incensed, and since he cannot beat the woman 
 he threatens to do that which will hurt her more — 
 beat her child. The horror of the first beating is still 
 upon her mind. Snatching a revolver, she stands be- 
 fore the door. The man thrusts her aside and goes in 
 but she shoots him before he crosses the threshold. 
 Here the character of the father and the motivation 
 for the murder were accomplished simultaneously in 
 one scene. 
 
 Sometimes character may be delineated by means of 
 inanimate objects. We have already spoken of dress as 
 an aid to plot and as an agent therein. Dress may 
 
THE CHARACTERS 39 
 
 proclaim the character of a person more loudly than 
 words. The shy, the sensitive, the shrinking girl does 
 not array herself in low cut dresses and form fitting 
 gowns. In Cecil de Mille's " Why Change Your 
 Wife " the contrasting characters of the wife and the 
 model, are shown by the high necks and conservative 
 modes of the one and the backless, sleeveless trans- 
 parent creations of the other. Later when the solution 
 of the picture is reached and the director desires to show 
 that the wife's strict ideas have been modified as a eon- 
 cession necessary to holding her husband, the point 
 is carried across to the audience by her change of 
 costume. 
 
 Mr. GriflSth often uses costume to delineate his char- 
 acters. In " The Great Love " the unsophistication 
 of little Susie Broadplains is brought out by her out- 
 landish clothes. She is so anxious to be beautiful in 
 the eyes of her youthful lover. She has heard of ladies 
 wearing tulle as an adornment, but she does not know 
 how they wear it. She manages to get some and she 
 ties it around her head like one might tie a bandage 
 for a bad toothache. With her short dresses and her 
 hair down her back the effect is perfectly ludicrous, but 
 infinitely pathetic. She is so young, so innocent, so 
 childishly appealing. 
 
 In " True Heart Susie " outlandish clothes once more 
 figure in the characterization, but this time they stand 
 for sacrifice. In order to put the boy through college — 
 an ambition he has cherished since his earliest days — 
 Susie sells her cows and chickens and mortgages her 
 little farm, allowing the boy to believe the money comes 
 
40 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 from a stranger in the city ■who at one time showed a 
 spark of interest in him. Poor Susie has nothing left 
 to buy clothes with and so must wear the old things that 
 were left in her mother's trunk in the attic. Presently 
 when the boy is finished college, and Susie is poorer 
 than ever, on account of her last efforts, a little milliner, 
 dressed in the prettiest and daintiest of new-fashioned 
 clothes, comes to town. The boy completely loses his 
 heart to her. The contrast between queerly dressed, 
 old-fashioned Susie, and the little new-fashioned mil- 
 liner is a constant reminder of Susie's sacrifice for the 
 boy. Yet through that very sacrifice she loses him. 
 She has no more money to compete with her rival, and 
 though she slaves night after night feverishly trying 
 to remodel old clothes, it is hopeless. The boy marries 
 the little milliner. Again there is that pathos that pulls 
 the heartstrings. She has struggled so long and so 
 bravely, only to be met with bitter defeat, defeated by 
 her own faithful generosity. 
 
 In " The Romance of Happy Valley " we have again 
 this vain striving to measure up to Ms standards. He 
 is ambitious to go to the city, and she works vainly but 
 valiantly with fashion pictures, paper patterns, and 
 cambric to make herself so beautiful that he will want 
 to stay with her and not seek beauty in far places. But 
 on the very day when she achieves her creation — a poor 
 ill-fitting gown it is, but marvelous in her eyes — he 
 leaves fiappy Valley. Again there is the pathos of 
 failure. The dress comes to symbolize all her fallen 
 hopes. It has taken into its fabric the deadly dis- 
 1^ appointment of the little wearer. There could be no one 
 
THE CHARACTERS 41 
 
 in the audience so callous as not to feel it, or so obtuse 
 as not to understand its sad and subtle little appeal. In 
 eacb case the heart interest of the picture centers upon 
 those queer clothes and all they stand for, sacrifice, strug- 
 gle, and failure. In " Broken Blossoms " even the bit 
 of ribbon and the comb, lone relics of a one-time mother, 
 which Lucy keeps hidden away, are symbolic of her 
 craving for beauty, of her instinct to reach out for 
 something beyond the ugliness and squalor of her life 
 with " Battling " Burrows. Just as the cheap little 
 treasures that were so precious in her eyes were hidden 
 away from him, so was the beauty of her childish soul, 
 her thoughts and her dreams. This is brought out 
 again when the Chinaman takes the wonderful silken 
 robe that he has long cherished and puts it on her. He 
 appreciates the beauty in the little drudge, and this is 
 symbolized by his attempt to clothe her in fitting rai- 
 ment. The silken garment stands for his conception of 
 her character. 
 
 Another way in which character can be expressed ia 
 by the attitude of the other persons in the play toward 
 the hero or heroine. In " Alarm Clock Andy," a 
 Charles Ray picture, the lackadaisical and timid nature 
 of Andy is cleverly brought out in the premise by the 
 way in which the other boarders in the cheap boarding- 
 house impose upon him. When he is already late for 
 work the boarding-house mistress tells him to drop little 
 Izzy at the kindergarten on his way. Andy rages while 
 she waits to find Izzy's hat and rubbers, but he says 
 nothing. Dinner is cleared away when he comes home 
 from work, so he goes to bed hungry because he has not 
 
42 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 suflScient courage to ask for a piece of bread. The old 
 maid uses his room during the day for her sewing and 
 leaves it untidy -with the bed full of pins. When even 
 the proverbial worm fails to turn, the audience is con- 
 vinced of his lack of will power and self-respect. 
 
 Drama demands centralization of interest. This 
 centralization usually expresses itself in the chief 
 character, around whom the plot revolves and to whom 
 all other personages in the play are subordinated. This 
 stressing of a salient character gives the play a unique 
 appeal for those who are interested in histrionic inter- 
 pretation. It is the appeal that Shakespeare's plays 
 had for Henry Irving, for Mrs. Siddons, for Richard 
 Mansfield, for Sothem and Marlowe, for Walter 
 Hampden, for William Faversham and Julie 0pp. It 
 is the appeal that " Electra " had for Edith Wynne 
 Matthison, that " Medea " had for Margaret Anglin, 
 that " Hedda Gabler " had for Nazimova, that " Peter 
 Ibbetson " had for John Barrymore, that " Deburau " 
 had for Lionel Atwill. Strong character studies recom- 
 mend themselves automatically. This is as true of the 
 photoplay as it is of the drama. There are not enough 
 plays written solely for the screen to list them for their 
 character appeal. " The Cheat," by Hector Turnbull ; 
 " Joan the Woman," by Jeannie Macpherson ; " The 
 Gilded Lily," by Clara Beranger; "The Love Light," 
 by Frances Marion; "Idols of Clay," by Ouida Ber- 
 gere; "The Old Nest," by Rupert Hughes, and the 
 foreign productions " Passion," " Deception," " The 
 Cabinet of Dr. Caligari " and " The Golem " are the 
 main instances of note. Yet meagre as the list is, it 
 
THE CHARACTERS 43 
 
 still furnishes a brief for characterization. In each 
 case paramount character interest makes the play. 
 
 Characterization in the photoplay must be simpler 
 than it is in either the dramatic or the narrative arts. 
 This is especially true while the feature picture remains 
 a matter of measurement by reels. There is much to 
 be accomplished in the allotted five thousand feet. 
 There is no space for the minute dissections of the man- 
 ners and morals of the hero and heroine that are so 
 frequent in the type of novel popular in contemporary 
 English literature. Samuel Butler, H. Gr. Wells and 
 Somerset Maugham may take an Ernest Pontifex, a 
 Joan and Peter, a Philip Carey from the cradle to the 
 grave in their novels. But in the photoplay, even were 
 it possible to compress years of character growth into 
 five brief reels, it would be unconvincing. Novels are 
 seldom read through at a single sitting. But photo- 
 plays must be absorbed within the hour. The scenes 
 flit by in rapid succession, thus giving the photoplay an 
 atmosphere of immediacy. Therefore, it is the part 
 of wisdom to choose a character that is already partially 
 developed. This development can be suggested in the 
 exposition of the photoplay and in the work of inten- 
 sification. If it be desired to adopt the genetic method, 
 to follow characters from infancy to maturity, let the 
 "writer choose the novel or the epic poem. 
 
 Character exposition ordinarily occupies itself with 
 the establishment of a " dominant trait." The stress 
 may be gained by reiteration. Repetition of a combina- 
 tion of notes in a musical score will imprint a motif 
 deep in the mind of the listener. Often the combination 
 
44 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 of notes is worked out on varying scales and with dif- 
 ferent chords. So with the dominant characteristic It 
 may manifest itself in a dozen different ways. The 
 stressing of a salient trait is axiomatic in the art of char- 
 acter delineation. Yet there must he no geometric pre- 
 cision ahout it. It is the accurate balance between. 
 dominant traits and impetuous impulses, between a 
 nascent instinct toward evil and a reasoning effort 
 toward right, which establishes the relation of character 
 delineation to plot. As much suspense may be awak- 
 ened by a developing character as by a tightly wound 
 complication. Place a character in a given situation 
 and immediately the question becomes acute: will he 
 remain true to type ? Will he revolt from type ? Will 
 the dominant trait prevail ? Will he be fired to hitherto 
 unguessed heroism or villainy? In the case of Sydney 
 Carton, occasion made a hero of him. Tito Melema had 
 his opportunity for sacrifice and passed it by. Hester 
 Prynne bore her burden alone rather than disclose the 
 information that would bring suffering on the com- 
 panion of her guilt. Many human actions are the re- 
 sult of the impulse of the moment ; many are the result 
 of reasoning at the moment of committal. But most 
 actions are foreordained by the texture of the moral 
 fibre built up by years of habit, thought and environ- 
 ment. The character which has become regenerate may 
 revert to type. This is one of the points of dramatic 
 interest in " Les Miserables." Jean Valjean has suc- 
 cessfully buried his past. The offense which he com- 
 mitted long ago has been relegated to oblivion. After 
 untold anguish he has transformed himself from a con- 
 
THE CHARACTERS 45 
 
 Tict to a saint. He has prospered. He is now Monsieur 
 le maire, respected and beloved. Above all lie is the 
 self-appointed father of Cosette. Suddenly the past 
 confronts him. An innocent man is about to be con- 
 demned for the act of Jean Valjean. He is put to the 
 supreme test. Will he reveal his identity as the escaped 
 convict? "Will he ruthlessly pull down the fabric of 
 social respectability which it has taken him years to 
 build up ? If he is to maintain the spiritual integrity 
 which he has won he cannot bear false witness. What 
 could be greater than the breathless interest in the 
 revelation of his character which the subsequent events 
 bring forth? 
 
 Overstressing of the dominant trait results in carica- 
 ture. Exaggeration has its purpose — it is effective in 
 the province of humor or of moral instruction, but on 
 the whole it destroys proportion and balance. Dickens 
 has been accused of reducing all of his character por- 
 traits to caricatures. But Simonds vindicates the great 
 story-teller thus : " Exaggeration is a legitimate feature 
 of Dickens' method, a sort of natural hyperbole which 
 does not spoil the reality of his creations: it is the 
 natural exaggeration of the artist who throws the fea- 
 tures of his subject into high relief. . . . Dickens' 
 characters are something more than mere characters of 
 men and women — ^they bear all the marks of lif&" 
 ("History of English Literature," p. 421.) 
 
 The last sentence, after all, is the key to characteri- 
 zation. The characters should bear the marks of life. 
 They must be real. Dickens wrenched his life-like 
 traits from his own bitter misfortune. Mr. Micawber's 
 
46 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 ineffectual attempts at finance and his experiences in 
 the debtor's prison were the unfortunate experiences 
 of Dickens' father. His mother supplied material for 
 the portrait of Mrs. Jellyby, while the childish traits, 
 sentiments and emotions of David Copperfield are 
 largely reminiscent of his own childhood. Jane Austen 
 drew upon the country congregation of which her 
 father was pastor. Ibsen modeled upon the natives of 
 Skien. Authors must of necessity inject something of 
 the personal into their creations. They cannot but wax 
 auto-biographical. George Eliot's own traits of char- 
 acter are to be found in the Dorothea of " Middle- 
 march," and George Henry Lewes appears unmistak- 
 ably in Will Ladislaw. In the last analysis the source 
 of characterization is not of great moment. The impor- 
 tant thing is that they be made consistent, absorbing 
 and life-like, and that they be made necessary to the 
 plot of the play. 
 
 Character material may be found ready made by 
 going to historical sources. Dramatists frequently 
 make people who belong to the past live their lives over 
 again for the interest, the amusement, or the edification 
 of audiences of the present. Such plays are Shake- 
 speare's " Julius Caesar," " Eichard III," and " Henry 
 VITI," Rostand's " L'aiglon," Shaw's " The Man of 
 Destiny," Drinkwater's " Abraham Lincoln," and 
 " Mary Stuart," and the photoplays of Ernst Lubitsch, 
 "Passion" and "Deception." The dramatist or 
 photodramatist may give a new interpretation or throw 
 added light upon the historical personages he is dealing 
 with in his plot, but he must not spread heresies or 
 
THE CHARACTERS 47 
 
 overthrow known facts as to character portraiture. 
 Shaw may, and does, make Napoleon a ridiculous 
 egoist, small, petty, tireless in self-aggrandizement. 
 Yet such a portrait might well be a life likeness. Self- 
 ishness and egotism often go hand in hand with civic 
 or national greatness. Anne Boleyn may be made and 
 is made a martyr to circumstances and Madame du 
 Barry may be and is given her tender moments despite 
 her notorious callousness, at the pleasure of the photo- 
 playwright. Yet he may not make Henry VIII. a 
 celibate nor Louis XV. a model husband. In spite of 
 a certain dramatic license allowable in dealing with 
 historical characters, liberties should be taken in the 
 main only with peccadiloes and mannerisms which do 
 not run athwart the fundamentals of character as they 
 have been recorded in history. 
 
 Characters should never be made mere types of moral 
 qualities. Many of Shakespeare's characters, as for 
 instance those listed above, are types, but they are a 
 great deal more besides. They are individuals, they 
 are human beings of flesh and blood. Personages in 
 the photoplay should not be merely animated princi- 
 ples. They should not be marionettes strung up on 
 wires, puppets dancing at the will of the author. They 
 should be rational, suffering, loving people. The photo- 
 playwright may make his characters life-like by taking 
 general abstract qualities and reducing them to the 
 specific. His treatment must be individualistic rather 
 than generic. It is the same method of capturing in- 
 terest that is used in literature. To write upon a broad 
 subject like music would be to baffle interest. There are 
 
48 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 80 many and such varied angles of treatment. There is 
 the technical treatment, there is the emotional treat- 
 ment. There are all the sub-divisions of music, as oper- 
 atic and chamber music. There is vocal music and 
 instrumental music, with a hundred variations ac- 
 cording to the instrument upon which it is produced. 
 But if the writer were to choose one phase of music, 
 if, for instance, he were to make a minute study of the 
 preludes of Chopin, he would at once capture attention. 
 An essay upon " Paradise Lost " intrigues interest 
 more quickly than an essay upon English poetry. 
 " Everyman " was interesting enough in the days of 
 the old morality plays, but he is not so interesting as 
 Lear or Macbeth. Kevenge is not so interesting as 
 Shylock. Sacrifice is not so appealing as Antigone. 
 
 The photoplaywright should aspire to loftiness of 
 thought and moral tone in his character delineation. 
 It has been charged against the photoplay that it dis- 
 torts our ethics and perverts our sense of moral values. 
 Unfortunately the accusation has but too many instances 
 to substantiate it. The blame, however, rests with the 
 negligible morals of the people who are responsible 
 for the production of such plays rather than with the 
 photoplay as an art form. 
 
CHAPTEE IV 
 THE SETTING 
 
 In writing a story whether it be for the magazines, 
 the stage, or the screen, there must be present three 
 cardinal elements: the plot, the characters, and the set- 
 ting. They are not, however, listed in order of impor- 
 tance. The setting is by no means last or least. It is 
 co-ordinate and co-equal with plot and characters. All 
 three must be irrevocably boimd together, forming a 
 powerful triple alliance. In " A Study of Prose Fic- 
 tion," Bliss Perry speaks of setting in the following 
 terms : " In the ideas of setting are involved the back- 
 ground, the milieu, the manners and morals of the age, 
 the all-enveloping forces of historic movements. Or 
 the background is the circumstances or events envelop- 
 ing the characters and action of the tale. The charac- 
 ters and plot may sometimes count for nothing if the 
 atmosphere, the time and place — the background — is 
 artistically portrayed." 
 
 In this paragraph Professor Perry has stressed the 
 tremendous importance of setting. It cannot be over- 
 emphasized. It may be said to bear the same relation 
 to the characters and plot that music bears to the art of 
 dancing. It is the very essence of the story. But im- 
 portant as it unquestionably is in the domain of prose 
 fiction, the setting assumes almost incalculable propor- 
 
 49 
 
50 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 tions in the motion picture. The photoplay is a series 
 of pictures. It consists of action which is taking place 
 before a constantly varying background. For the back- 
 ground to be unrelated, or but dimly related, to 
 the events which it circumscribes is plainly a grievous 
 waste of kinetic and potential energy. The background 
 of the action should be made to intensify the meaning 
 of the action and to add to it whenever possible. Pro- 
 fessor Perry in the above paragraph unites atmosphere 
 and setting. Let us for the purposes of the photoplay 
 consider the two as separate factors, both of which may 
 be used in creating a specific effect. The difference 
 between atmosphere and setting may be briefly sum- 
 marized as follows. The setting is the locus where cer- 
 tain events transpire. The atmosphere is the impres- 
 sion which the place plus the customs and manners of 
 the people make upon the spectator. The atmosphere 
 is the feeling that the play creates. It surrounds and 
 permeates the setting, and is usually the direct result 
 of the setting, although not necessarily so. Atmosphere 
 includes the idea of local color, or more correctly, local 
 color aids in creating atmosphere. The setting is an 
 entity complete in itself. It provides the loci for the 
 action. Setting is a place. Atmosphere is an effect. 
 The setting is often the cause of which the atmosphere 
 is the result. 
 
 As an illustration of atmosphere created by setting 
 no picture furnishes a more illuminating example than 
 does " The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari." This photoplay 
 utilizes throughout its entirety the cubiatic setting. The 
 backgrounds are hopelessly awry in proportion, pe^ 
 

THE SETTING 51 
 
 spective and detail. The booths at the Fair, the lodg- 
 ings of the young students, the home of the beloved, 
 the walks and paths, the streets of the town, are all 
 weird and strange. They succeed in creating upon the 
 mind of the spectator an impression of confusion, of 
 bewilderment. But the story is delineating the proc- 
 esses of a mind diseased. The hero is looking out upon 
 the world through the eyes of a madman. Small won- 
 der that things should appear unbalanced, unrelated 
 and unnatural. The confusion in the mind of the man 
 is reflected in the grotesqueness of the settings. With- 
 out the cubistic backgrounds the effect of madness 
 could never have been created. " The Cabinet of Dr. 
 Caligari " is not a pleasant play. It has all the mys- 
 tery and gruesomeness of the murder stories of Poe. 
 It has the maniacal motivation which often actuates his 
 tales of horror. Critics may believe that the atmos- 
 phere of Poe's stories cannot be translated to the screen, 
 yet all of the subtleties with which he wrought his 
 effects have found pictured reactions in " The Cabinet 
 of Dr. Caligari." This photoplay stands out perhaps 
 as a single instance of a psychological process trans- 
 lated into film. It is not merely a glimpse into the 
 workings of the human mind. It is the subjective 
 attitude sustained throughout. In its way it is a per- 
 fect thing. Undoubtedly it marks a milestone in the 
 progress of the setting as a factor in the photoplay. 
 
 Two other foreign productions which have been 
 attracting to themselves keen comment and searching 
 analysis are illustrative of the power of setting to create 
 atmosphere. These are Mr. Ernst Lubitsch's twin 
 
62 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 productions "Passion" and "Deception." Various 
 scenes in " Passion " are like exquisite bits in a mosaic 
 ■which, set with the minutest care, conjure up the pomp 
 and splendor of Versailles in the reign of Louis XV 
 and cause to live again the glories of a Court long since 
 gone to its grave. All the scenes have been chosen to 
 suggest an historic background. It has been rumored 
 that the pictures were not taken at Versailles but at 
 Potsdam. However, with a little stretch of the imagina- 
 tion and a little directorial camouflage Sans Souci 
 might satisfactorily understudy The Trianon. But 
 wherever the pictures may have been taken, the illusion 
 is perfect and art can ask no more. The Tudor era is 
 likewise accurately re-created in " Deception." The plot 
 is borrowed from the story of Anne Boleyn and Henry 
 the Eighth. Here there is a heaviness, a pompousness, 
 in keeping with the English period. The settings are 
 more ponderous, and are changed less often than in 
 the French play where they flash back and forth after 
 the fashion of the levity and frivolity of the day. Aside 
 from the scene in which the door catches and holds the 
 dress of Anne as she goes from the presence of the 
 Queen, thus giving the King his first opportunity to 
 look closely upon the fairness of her face, there is no 
 setting in either play which individually affects the 
 plot. But taken as a whole the settings form a vast 
 background so vital to the action that without them the 
 photoplay would be non-existent. Still another produc- 
 tion which utilizes the setting to produce atmosphere is 
 " The Golem." In this photoplay an old Jewish legend 
 is retold in pictures. The story belongs to the age of 
 
THE SETTING 63 
 
 fable. Therefore it is appropriate that the settings 
 should be unreal, monstrous and unproportioned, be- 
 fitting giants and hundred-leagued boots. The settings 
 are as mythical as the story and its chief character. 
 And they serve to bring home to the spectators the 
 legendary nature of the tale that is being told. 
 
 Settings such as those in " The Golem " and " Dr. 
 Caligari " may be grouped under the heading of the 
 fantastic setting as distinguished from the real setting. 
 It must not be supposed, however, that the foreign pro- 
 ducers were the first to conceive the idea of representing 
 the unreal or the supernatural through the medium of 
 the fantastic setting. At least three or four years ago 
 the Famous Players-Lasky Company produced " Pru- 
 nella." This little play had been written for the stage 
 by Messrs. Granville Barker and Laurence Housmau. 
 The play itself is an allegory. It transports the audi- 
 ence into the realm of the imaginary. The play has no 
 definite locus. Its home is really in the heart of the 
 individual. Hence it would break the illusion to place 
 the action in a typical city or suburban tovra, or even 
 in a country village. The authors saw the possibilities 
 of the fantastic setting to augment the theme of this 
 particular play. Mr. Maurice Tourneur whose vision 
 is always through the beautiful, transposed the unique 
 settings of the original into terms of the screen. In 
 the first script of the play the continuity writer made 
 the setting frankly Dutch. There were Dutch wind- 
 mills cut out of cardboard and there were rows and 
 rows of tulip gardens. This was confining the lesson 
 of the story to one particular locality. It endowed 
 
64 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Pierrot and Pierrette with nationality whereas they are 
 citizens of the world. So Holland was eradicated and 
 the quaint settings were allowed to express the nehulous 
 land of the unreal. Symbols were set here and there 
 as sign-posts pointing out the path of the allegory. The 
 quaint little house itself stood for the human heart ; the 
 garden wall and gate its barriers. When Pierrot finds 
 the key and opens the gate he enters as love into the 
 heart of Prunella. The queer little house is gay and 
 sweet on the night when Pierrette and Pierrot go away. 
 Time flies by. The lovers drift apart. Prunella, whom 
 love has transformed into Pierrette, broken-hearted, 
 wanders away after making a grave for their love and 
 marking it " Here Lies Pierrette." Pierrot is repentant 
 but he is unable to find her. Coming upon the grave 
 he is at last poignantly conscious of the quality of his 
 love. Thinking he may find solace at the little house 
 where love first came to him, he returns. But the little 
 house tells all too plainly what has happened in the 
 meantime. Its windows are broken, its gardens wild 
 and unkempt. And a sign " To Let " hangs from the 
 door. Love had gone out of the little house as it had 
 vanished from their hearts, leaving the empty shell, 
 forlorn and desolate. Where spring had reveled in the 
 garden with flowers and climbing vines, winter held 
 bleak and icy sway. Pierrot remembers how he brought 
 a rose-embowered ladder to climb to Prunella's window. 
 So again he asks for the ladder, thinking be hears her 
 calling, but the roses have dropped away from it. Only 
 the bare and ugly wood remains. The room above is 
 empty. She is not there. The statue of Love still 
 
" In a quaint little house on the edge of the town 
 There once lived a maid who was taught to look down. 
 
 Prunella !Mi^s Marguerite Clark." 
 
 (From the soennrio of " Prunella ") 
 
THE SETTING 66 
 
 stands in the garden but his bow is broken. His music 
 is silenced. And so the setting tells the story that love 
 is dead. " Prunella " was as perfect a little photoplay 
 as the screen has ever shadowed. Even had it been 
 written directly for ciaematic presentation it could 
 scarcely have been more gracefully pantomimic. 
 
 The fantastic setting was also used by Mr. Tourneur 
 in his production of " The Bluebird." Here again we 
 have setting in its most artistic manifestation: as an 
 exponent of imagery, capturing the richness of thought 
 and idea. 
 
 Thus far we have been considering setting in its 
 totality of effect. We have been considering the setting 
 as a whole, but the setting may be still more effective 
 when it makes dramatic use of individual scenes. The 
 background of the play in toto may not have any dra- 
 matic significance and yet some one part of it, as the 
 door in " Deception " mentioned above, may add to the 
 complication. " Daniel Deronda " is not a story of the 
 sea. No one reading the novel would carry away the 
 general impression of a sea-faring tale. Yet in one 
 place in the novel the ocean, as setting, becomes more 
 than mere background. Grandcourt and Gwendolen, in 
 spite of her vehement protests, put out from the coast 
 of Genoa in a boat without a skilled oarsman to guide 
 them. The sea is running high and a sudden trick of 
 the wind causes Grandcourt to be swept into the water. 
 He perishes. The accident, instead of removing Grand- 
 court as an obstacle from the plot, only gives rise to 
 fresh complications. Gwendolen's conscience rises up 
 and tortures her. In her hatred she had wished Grand- 
 
66 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 court dead. His cruel will had forced her to go out in 
 the boat like a galley slave. It seemed to her that her 
 desire so suddenly fulfilled made her a murderess. Had 
 she been quicker in throwing him the rope he might 
 have been saved. In her self-condemnation, in her 
 anguish of soul, she throws herself upon the spiritual 
 strength of Daniel Deronda. She is free now. He 
 feels the obligation of her dependence upon him. Yet 
 in his heart there is the awakening of an incipient love 
 for Mirah. Hence the sea furthers the complicationi 
 
 In " Kenilworth " the trap door through which the 
 beautiful Amy Robsart goes to meet her tragic fate 
 is made the instrument of death, and Leicester, although 
 morally guilty, is legally free to pursue his machina- 
 tions for the favor of the Queen. 
 
 In " Silas Mamer " the stone-pit near his dwelling 
 becomes an agent of justice. Duncan Cass, burdened 
 with the weight of his stolen gold, staggers into the pit 
 under cover of darkness and is drowned in its stagnant 
 waters. Thereafter his disappearance and the theft 
 of the miser's money bags are alike veiled in mystery. 
 But the stone-pit had risen up and punished the thief. 
 Later the pit unravels the threads of the complication. 
 The water in the fissure has run dry and reveals the 
 skeleton of Duncan with the silver-handled riding crop 
 as identification and Silas' bags of gold as condemnation. 
 
 In the plays of Ibsen the setting often sums up the 
 spiritual import of the theme. This is especially true 
 of " The Master Builder." The lofty structure, from 
 the dizzying heights of which the master falls, is sym- 
 bolic. It has a second dramatic function in the play 
 
The artificial setting used Ijy ilr. Maurice Tourneur, director, and 
 Mr. Ben Carre, scenic artist, in the production of " Prunella " is illus- 
 trated above. The tree and moon are painted eardlioard. the grass is 
 of cloth with the flowers sewed on at set intervals. Yet the effect is 
 an exquisite pictorial moment in the production. Xote how costume 
 is used to gain emphasis in the composition by throwing the white in 
 high relief against the black background. It is also used to show the 
 change of character when love transforms Prunelhi into I'ici'ette. 
 
THE SETTING 67 
 
 in that it precipitates the catastrophe. The fiord in 
 " Little Eyolf," where t^e " Eat Wife " lures the lame 
 boy into " the long sweet sleep," likewise fulfils a dra- 
 matic and a symbolic purpose. The narrow confines of 
 the " Doll's House " connote the cramped vision and 
 stunted understanding that exists between Nora and 
 Torvald. And so on through the lists of Ibsen's plays. 
 
 In the matter of setting the screen has this advan- 
 tage over the stage: the setting of the stage play must 
 be always artificial, no matter whether it represents an 
 interior or an exterior. The author of the photoplay, 
 however, has all of the great out of doors to choose from 
 and a great deal of indoors as well. The settings are 
 real. Flowers and trees can be seen actually growing 
 in gardens instead of being merely painted upon canvas. 
 Houses are made of brick and wood and concrete and 
 not merely of laths or card-board. Moreover, the stage 
 play must usually confine itself to two or three settings, 
 while in the photoplay there may be two or three hun- 
 dred. The film may travel from the Orient to the 
 Occident, from Iceland to the Tropics, from the Arctic 
 Ocean to the southern seas. 
 
 In addition to this there is the ethical importance 
 of setting. In real life surroundings are of indeter- 
 minable weight. People are infiuenced by their environ- 
 ment, they succumb to it, or revolt from it. Crimes 
 have been committed because of distressing surround- 
 ings; suicides have resulted from location; destinies 
 have been changed because of an accident of place. Why 
 should not the setting be of equal importance to the 
 characters who move upon the shadow stage? Mr. 
 
58 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Thoiiia3 Ince, Director and Producer of Motion Pic- 
 tures, in speaking to the students of photoplay compo- 
 sition at Columbia University, said that he believes 
 that the day will come when natural settings will be 
 entirely done away with and only a black back-drop 
 will be used. Should such a day ever arrive the director 
 and author will have lost one of the most potent factors 
 in the photoplay. Such a substitution would mean a 
 reversion to the primitive stages in the evolution of the 
 drama. In the theatre of Dionysus, at Athens, where 
 the masterpieces of Sophocles, ^schylus and Euripides 
 were first produced, there were no settings. The low 
 dressing-house, facing the concentric circles of seats, 
 was the only stage or background the Greeks knew. 
 And great as is the literary and dramatic value of 
 those fine old Greek dramas, who can gainsay that 
 " Agamemnon " or " Medea " might not have been 
 even greater in their production had they possessed the 
 advantages of our modern stage lighting and scientific 
 equipment? Is not a modern presentation of a Shake- 
 spearean play with a Henry Irving or an Ellen Terry 
 in the cast, with the settings as carefully worked out 
 as our present day leaders in stagecraft can make them, 
 infinitely more interesting and even more realistic than 
 the plays as Shakespeare and the Burbadges produced 
 them at the old Globe Theatre in London ? If they were 
 not, we should be slavishly trying to resuscitate the 
 " apron stage," " the pit," " the groundlings " and all 
 the other concomitants of an Elizabethan production. 
 To return to these early crudities would be to retrogress. 
 It would entail an admission that the drama has been 
 
THE SETTING 59 
 
 standing still for all these years. The photoplay, even 
 more than the drama, can utilize the effectiveness of 
 setting. It borrows from the old miracle plays the idea 
 of the natural setting as background. The miracle and 
 morality plays traveled from town to town throughout 
 the shires of England giving performances on the vil- 
 lage green. But very often the natural setting did not 
 blend very well with the subject-matter of the play. 
 Usually the theme of those early plays were bits of 
 dramatic action taken from the Bible. ISTow an Eng- 
 lish green, or common, does not in any sense suggest 
 Palestine or the Holy Lands, and so the imagination 
 of the spectators had to be taxed for the creation of 
 the swirling waters of the flood with Noah's Ark riding 
 in triumph upon it, or for the hills beyond Bethlehem 
 where shepherds watched their flocks. In the photo- 
 play we have banished this self-imposed deception for- 
 ever. We do not have to imagine the natural setting 
 for the action. We really see it. The story is shown 
 exactly where it took place and as it took place, and 
 since the screen has achieved this wonderful advantage, 
 this illimitable power for dramatic appeal, why should 
 it be relinquished in favor of the black back-drop? 
 By definition and nature the photoplay is a sequence of 
 pictures. Without pictures it cannot exist. In real 
 life there are high seas upon which storms arise and 
 men go to their death. There are houses to shelter us 
 from the elements, to harbor domestic tragedy, to go up 
 in flames; there are country roads for farmers' wagons 
 or automobiles or nature-loving pedestrians; there are 
 woods for lovers to plight their troth or to provide a 
 
60 CINEMA CRAPTSMANSHIP 
 
 hiding place for those hunted by the law. These scenes 
 can be reproduced upon the screen in the minutest de- 
 tail. Why, therefore, should directors resort to the arti- 
 ficial? The black back-drop would do away with one 
 of the especial glories of the photoplay. 
 
 The " Garden of Allah," by Robert Hichens, is an 
 excellent example of the skilful use of setting. In this 
 story the desert plays an important part in bringing 
 the young hero to the momentous decisions which form 
 the plot. The silence and the solitude of the great 
 waste places drive the young Trappist monk nearly 
 mad, until he decides he must break away from them 
 and get back to the peopled world. Years afterwards, 
 when he and his wife are come into the desert, a ter- 
 rible sandstorm arises. In the stillness of the night 
 and in the presence of death he is brought to realize 
 anew the power of the Deity and the obligations which 
 he had wantonly cast aside. In that long night he de- 
 cides that he must return to take up again his broken 
 vows and the monastic life. Without the desert the 
 story would have no power or force. It is a story of 
 the desert evolved from its setting. 
 
 Mrs. Humphry Ward, in one of her novels set in the 
 Canadian Rockies, used the setting as symbols of the 
 characters. The Englishman in the story was repre- 
 sented by the quiet, mild, charming pastoral scenes of 
 English rural life. His character was of the same mild, 
 quiet, conservative order. The other man was a product 
 of the Canadian Rockies: wild, rugged, full of fresh- 
 ness and strength. His character suggested the gran- 
 deur of the mountains, and his breadth of view savored 
 
THE SETTING 61 
 
 of the vjistness of the magnificent country around him. 
 The girl is endeavoring to decide whether to return to 
 England or to remain in Canada. But her decision 
 is really between the two men — the settings and char- 
 acters are so closely identified. In the end, she chooses 
 the magnificent new country, and the pioneer who is its 
 exponent. 
 
 Many of our hest writers have set the precedent by 
 starting with a setting and building their story to fit 
 it. The story is told of Robert Louis Stevenson that 
 when first he went to Saranac Lake in search of health 
 he was almost overcome with the mystery and romance 
 of the dark Adirondack woods. He pondered and pon- 
 dered what sort of a story ought to grow out of such a 
 marvelous setting. Finally he said : " 'Now to my 
 engine " — his signal for beginning hard work — and set 
 about writing " The Master of B'allantrae." 
 
 Scott and Dickens and frequently Poe relied greatly 
 upon the power of setting. " Eob Roy," " The Heart 
 of Midlothian," "Oliver Twist," "Old Curiosity 
 Shop," " Great Expectations," " The Gold Bug "—in 
 none of these could the setting be entirely divorced 
 from the plot. There is a mutual dependence. And 
 if the wielders of the pen can turn the setting to 
 such good account, how much more of an asset is the 
 setting to the maker of photoplays which are going to 
 be seen in every detail instead of read. The cinema 
 dramatist should realize the possibilities of the settings 
 as an exponent of beauty, and as a potent auxiliary to 
 dramatic effect. He should study pictorial arrange- 
 ment, color values on the screen, shadows, tones, archi- 
 
62 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 teetural effects — everything pertaining to the art of 
 making settings. Beauty of setting does not in any 
 way predicate expense. There may be beauty of line 
 and purity of period in simple houses and furniture. 
 As for exteriors, nature is a gift to all the world. 
 This outdoor beauty should not be confined to the 
 Bruce Scenics, the Chester-Outing Picture, or the Para- 
 mount Post Nature Series. Instead of compressing 
 beauty into their thousand feet of film, let the audience 
 assimilate beauty and drama synchronously. It is not 
 necessary that the scenic be a separate element in the 
 program, served to the public as their evening ration of 
 beauty. Loveliness, harmony and fitness should he in- 
 corporated into photoplays until they contain scenes as 
 beautiful as any canvas, scenes that will be as inspiring 
 and as provocative of thought as the pictures that hang 
 upon the walls of the art galleries. An occasional picture 
 seems to step over the threshold of art : " The White 
 Circle " with the scenes showing the mists blowing over 
 the links, and the old woman with a flickering lantern 
 making her way along the sandy shore — scenes that 
 almost seem to be F. Hopkinson Smith's drawings of 
 London vivified ; or a picture like " The Conquering 
 Power," which brings to life Balzac's pen pictures of 
 the vault-like chamber where the miser hoards his gold, 
 and the quaint street scenes so typical of the French 
 provinces. Such pictures do for the screen what some 
 of the productions of Robert Edmond Jones and of 
 Arthur Hopkins have done for the etage. True, there 
 are hundreds of pictures which never approach even the 
 threshold of art, but the ranks of photodramas which 
 
THE SETTING 63 
 
 utilize possibilities of setting will be constantly increas- 
 ing as the art grows older. Directors cannot remain 
 forever blind to the vision. The great pictorial story 
 medium must eventually draw to itself apostles of the 
 beautiful. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 ADAPTATION 
 
 The development of the photoplay has not quite com- 
 pleted the cycle of its evolution. In the early days of 
 the motion picture industry there were only pictures 
 and no plays. Niagara Falls, railroad trains in motion, 
 a boxing-bout, these were the most common of the pic- 
 tured subjects. Gradually the idea came of using pic- 
 tures to tell a story, of injecting a little drama into the 
 new invention. At first the merest incidents were told 
 by pictures. Then these were enlarged upon until a 
 story occupied a whole reel of film. From that day 
 dated the era of the original story in the motion 
 picture. Everyone who could write was sending in 
 ideas for photoplays. These ideas were bought up for 
 five or ten dollars. Sometimes the price went as high 
 as twenty-five dollars. Sometimes it dropped as low as 
 two or three. The old Patents Company, the Kalem, 
 Selig, Mutual, and later Triangle, were all eager pur- 
 chasers of these original ideas. 
 
 Productions became more and more ambitious, and as 
 the companies began to put larger sums into the actual 
 making of the picture they cast about for story mate- 
 rial which would cost them nothing. Thus came the 
 classical era of photoplay development. Eanging from 
 
 the " Medea " and " (Edipus Eex " to the tales of Guy 
 
 64 
 
ADAPTATION 65 
 
 de Maupassant and the plays of Victorien Sardou, these 
 early pirates pillaged the classics, plundering and steal- 
 ing plot ideas or making attempts at dignified adapta- 
 tions. You might meet Hamlet in any guise. Cleo- 
 patra was caUed by a hundred names. History fur- 
 nished themes for spectacle pictures culminating in 
 "Intolerance," "Joan The Woman," "The FaU of 
 Babylon." 
 
 But everyone had access to the encyclopedia, to 
 Prescott and Parker, to Gibbon and Hume. Producers 
 were loath to invest money in material which others 
 might imitate or duplicate. Once more there was a 
 general shifting of policy. Copyright material, safe 
 from depredations, newly brought to the public eye, 
 widely advertised, became le dernier cri. And it is in 
 this copyright stage of development that the photoplay 
 still is. The final segment in the cycle of evolution, 
 the return to original stories written directly for the 
 screen, is near at hand. Prognostications of it are 
 many. Such able directors as Mr. William de Mille 
 openly proclaim it. 'Yet, in spite of the fact that the 
 day of the original story is just beyond the horizon, it 
 cannot burst into full splendor because the new gen- 
 eration of writers, either from lack of inclination or 
 ability, or because the art is too new, has not been 
 trained to express itself in terms of pantomime. 
 
 Lately there has been a concerted effort on the part 
 of prominent writers of fiction and drama to study the 
 principles of cinematic composition, to go Into the 
 studios and see the directors and cameramen at work, 
 to become conversant with the vast technique of picture- 
 
66 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 making. This is especially true of the little group of 
 writers who belong to the " Eminent Authors " of the 
 Goldwyn Company, and to the staff of the Famous 
 Players-Lasky Corporation. Mr. Eupert Hughes and 
 Mr. Clayton Hamilton, Mr. Channing Pollock and Mr, 
 Avery Hopwood, Mrs. Rinehart and Mrs. Atherton, 
 Mr. Edward Knoblock and Mr. Henry Arthur Jones, 
 Mr, Somerset Maugham and Sir Gilbert Parker — ^these 
 are illustrious names in contemporary fiction, drama 
 and criticism. Yet, because of their very excellence 
 in using the medium of prose fiction or dramaturgy, 
 because they have been trained by years of finished 
 artistry to express themselves in words rather than in 
 pictures, some of these writers are predestined never 
 to become great writers of the screen. True though it 
 is that they have a marvelously developed sense of plot 
 and that they have attained a certain perfection in the 
 delineation of character, nevertheless, great assets as 
 both of these unquestionably are, they still must learn 
 to develop plot in terms of action and to delineate char- 
 acter through the medium of pictures. It is, therefore, 
 too early to speculate upon who wiU and who will not 
 be the true screen exponents of the next decade. For 
 present needs and purposes it is suflicient to know that 
 there is a dearth of material composed directly for the 
 screen, and that while the present demand on the part 
 of the producing companies for copyright books and 
 plays persists there must be a constant translation from 
 fiction into photoplays, from stage dramas into pictures. 
 And while the work of adaptation goes on there is the 
 concomitant call for trained continuity writers to 
 
ADAPTATION 67 
 
 transpose the material. Hence the field of adaptation 
 has become a profession in itself. It is a phase of 
 photoplay writing which merits the attention of the 
 photodramatist. 
 
 From the artistic standpoint, of course, adaptation 
 has no excuse for existence. It has been consistently 
 maintained that photoplays should be composed directly 
 for the screen with screen possibilities and screen needs 
 in mind. The story, from its primal inception, should 
 be thought out in terms of pictures and not in words. 
 Material that has been written to be read rather than 
 acted is usually far from fitted to cinematic presenta- 
 tion. The work of the adaptator, then, is a matter 
 both of discrimination and of improvisation. The con- 
 tinuity writer was long looked upon as a mere hack. 
 This attitude is now taking its place among other van- 
 ished illusions. There is as marked a difference in the 
 work of adaptators as there is in the work of original 
 writers/ The facility for cinematic portrayal is a gift, 
 not an acquisition. To scrutinize several adaptations 
 made by various people is to be convinced of the truth 
 of this statement. The main principles of adaptation 
 can be acquired and a certain dexterity can be gained 
 in practising and applying them. But underlying all 
 this there must be an inherent ability, little short of 
 genius, for selecting, for enlarging, for improvising, 
 according to the nature and needs of the story to be 
 adapted. Sometimes one and sometimes another of 
 these processes must be applied to a single story. In 
 the case of a stage play the action almost without ex- 
 ception must be enlarged upon, or must be evolved from 
 
68 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 the dialogue, or from suggestions of off-stage action. Id 
 the ease of the novel there is usually an embarrassment 
 of riches, and the selective process must be used. The 
 novel is of slow development and concerns itself with 
 many characters. The plot development in the photo- 
 play is accelerated and the dramatis personae are 
 fewer. Hence situations and characters must undergo 
 selection. Only those which have preeminent cinematic 
 qualities should be chosen. In the case of the short 
 story improvisation is a dire necessity, because the 
 short story in its original form has seldom enough 
 action, either developed or suggested, to convert into a 
 feature picture. The stage play usually confines itself 
 to two or three settings, while the photoplay must have 
 a constant progression of scenes. Therefore, in trans- 
 forming a drama into a raotion ^picture, it is imperative 
 that the scope of the action be enlarged with a free 
 hand. The action must be taken out of the " picture 
 frame " of the theatre and be allowed to wander about 
 in the rooms, meadows or places of business which 
 would form its natural background. Take Mr. St. 
 John G. Ervine's play " John Eerguson." There is in 
 this play a single setting — the simple farmhouse kitchen 
 of a cottage in the North of Ireland. The play is tense 
 with dramatic interest, yet the scene never changes. 
 The dialogue, however, is constantly calling up vivid 
 pictures of places elsewhere in which incidents are 
 occurring. And it is only the reflex of these incidents, 
 their influence, as it were, upon the central character, 
 that Ave witness in the quiet farmhouse kitchen. If 
 " John Ferguson " were made over into a photoplay, 
 
ADAPTATION 6Sf 
 
 the places which are only suggested would be actually 
 shown. There would be the field where John Ferguson 
 drove his hay-wagon and met with the disaster which 
 invalided him for the rest of his days. There would 
 be the streets of Belfast and the lodging house where 
 Andy is living the life of his heart's desire in study- 
 ing for the ministry. There would be Jimmy's gro- 
 cery store, and there would be the path or lane where 
 Hannah had her fatal meeting with the squire in the 
 gathering dusk ; there would be the little loft-like room 
 above the kitchen where she sobbed herself into un- 
 consciousness; there would be the home of the squire 
 and the grounds of his estate where the shooting 
 took place; there would be the county jail where 
 Jimmy, and later Andy, was incarcerated. All of 
 these settings in the photoplay would call for a variety 
 of camera angles and camera distances, thus multi- 
 plying themselves into a hundred different scenes. This 
 translation of settings mentioned into settings seen 
 is an impe rative part of the process of changing dia- 
 logue into action. The audience is given an opportunity 
 of witnessing the off-stage happenings instead of hear- 
 ing about them. 
 
 There area^great-anany -stage- plays, iowever, of 
 which the~3ialogue is incapable of being converted into 
 action.^ An adaptation of Mr. Shaw's " Heartbreak 
 House," for instance, could end in nothing but failure. 
 The constant play of ideas, the lightning sallies of 
 wit, the inimitable Shavian twists of thought, would 
 vanish utterly in the metamorphosis. It would be like 
 using a Leyden jar for a drawing-room vase. The 
 
70 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 family and guests at " Heartbreak House " literally 
 talk themselves and the audience through an entire 
 evening — and " Heartbreak House " conversation is of 
 the sort that cannot be photographed. 
 
 Perhaps the most faithful adaptation of a stage play 
 I to the screen is Mr. William de Mille's version of 
 J " What Every Woman Knows." The photoplay might 
 ' be called a perfect photograph of the original. And 
 yet for all its meticulous adherence to detail, for all its 
 constancy in preserving the totality of effect, somehow 
 the personality of Barrie, that breath of life with which 
 the author endows his own, evaporated in the transi- 
 tion. This, despite the fact that Mr. de Mille en- 
 deavored with all the intense concentration of a chemi- 
 cal analyst performing a critical experiment, to repro- 
 duce Earrie's play exactly as it was written. The re- 
 sults have convinced him as well as other close ob- 
 servers of the " copyright age " in motion pictures, that 
 it is futile to try to reproduce literature, be it of the 
 'library or of the theatre. 
 
 In speaking of Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree's screen 
 interpretation of " The Merchant of Venice " one critic 
 remarked that Shakespeare without words is akin to 
 Niagara Falls without water. This stricture might 
 well be applied to the works of lesser writers than the 
 " Bard of Avon." Certainly the whimsy and imagina- 
 tive beauty of Barrie gain nothing by screen portrayal. 
 " Sentimental Tommy " lost much of its native humor 
 and the " Admirable Crichton " became so no longer 
 once the Midas touch of Mr. Cecil de Mille came upon 
 
ADAPTATION 71 
 
 it. Of these three Barrie plays, considered solely as 
 adaptations, " What Every Woman Knows " alone has 
 a claim upon excellence. Fortunately no one has yet 
 attempted " Dear Brutus " or " A Kiss for Cinderella." 
 
 A praiseworthy instance of a novel faithfully adapted 
 to the screen is " The Four Horsemen of the Apoca- 
 lypse," directed by Mr. Eex Ingram. The photoplay 
 is a literal translation of Ihanez. It begins where 
 Ibanez began ; it ends where Ibanez ends. A thousand 
 details which are used in the novel to create the atmos- 
 phere of the Argentine or the horrors of the Marne, 
 a thousand incidents which reveal the character of the 
 old Centaur, of Marcelo Desnoyers, of Julio and of 
 Marguerite Laurier, were incorporated into the film 
 with such a sureness of touch and such a delicacy of 
 presentation that the novel literally lives. The play 
 might truly be called a screen epic. The young director 
 will undoubtedly go far. 
 
 There is, perhaps, a single flaw in the picture. Col- 
 ored photography is used in two instances, one when 
 Marguerite plays with a pink rose during her meeting 
 with Julio in the " tango parlor " ; the other when the 
 savant, Argensola, peels a red apple. In the first case 
 color is not essential and does nothing to enhance the 
 idea. In the second it has a certain illustrative value, 
 since the scholar is comparing a woman's reputation to 
 the brilliance of the apple. But the introduction of a 
 single colored object into the blacks and whites and 
 greys which make up the whole picture is incongruous. 
 It violates the unity of the tonal effect. Until we can 
 
72 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 have motion pictures colored in their entirety and 
 colored artistically, let us have none at all. No true 
 artist would introduce a blue forget-me-not done in oils 
 into a charcoal drawing. Yet this is analogous to the 
 red apple and the pink rose in " The Four Horsemen 
 of the Apocalypse." 
 
 Mr. GriflBth is guilty of the same violation of artistic 
 integrity in "Way Down East." There are many 
 colored close-ups of Anna Moore and her Boston cousins. 
 Had color been given definite plot appeal in the original 
 story and had that color been used to retain or inten- 
 sify the appeal in the photoplay, its introduction would 
 be at least explainable, if not justifiable, artistically. 
 As the picture stands, the use of color is purely inci- 
 dental. We might almost say irrelevant. 
 
 Whatever perfection the future may bring to the art 
 of colored photography the fact remains that at the 
 present time reproduction of color is at best artificial. 
 The Kinemacolor Company, Prizma Films, The Urban 
 Company and many others have been obtaining fairly 
 satisfactory results from their color experimentation. 
 In each instance, however, the subject matter treated 
 has been limited in scope to nature reels and scenics. 
 No pictures of any great length and no dramatic sub- 
 jects have thus far been produced. Perhaps it is better 
 so. The colorings of nature cannot be captured as they 
 exist. And as for costumes, it is often wiser not to 
 attempt to immortalize them on the screen. The taste 
 of one person in blending colors may gi-ate harshly upon 
 the taste of another. An unhappy color combination 
 would ruin the entire picture for a sensitive audience. 
 
ADAPTATION 73 
 
 It is better to let the imagination have full play, to let 
 each spectator clothe the characters in the colors that 
 appeal to him, to let him apply his individual prefer- 
 ences without disturbing the same process in the mind 
 of his neighbor. It will add little and take away much 
 when the soft tones of present cinematography are 
 superseded by color. In the meantime to all intents 
 and purposes, color may be looked upon as imcinematic. 
 
 In adaptation it is not alone sufficient to make _cer- 
 ta in that t he jIoFajnid. the characters jClin„he.tr£in§p.osed 
 into the langua^ of the screen^ It is_also necessary 
 to see to it that the details of the story have camera 
 equivalents. Sound like color is not translatable; but 
 whereas color either exists on the screen or it does not, 
 sound may be suggested. This is done in a variety of 
 ways. The violinist with his instrument connotes music. 
 The slow swinging of a pendulum represents the tick- 
 ing of a clock. The .hammer vibrating against the 
 gong suggests the ringing of a bell. A musical score 
 thrown upon the screen recalls a definite tune. The 
 suggestion of sound is especially important when the 
 sound has a significant bearing on the plot. In Tol- 
 stoy's " Resurrection," which Pauline Frederick acted 
 for the screen, the music of some wandering gypsies 
 works so strongly upon the emotions of the girl as to 
 motivate her subsequent action. 
 
 It is Easter Day, and the girl is shown throwing open 
 her casement window, wondering what the day will 
 bring to her. The lure of the road calls potently to 
 the gypsy blood within her. She has fallen in love with 
 a young Russian officer who is spending his holiday 
 
74 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 in the house. The restlessness of love is upon her. 
 Down the road comes a band of gypsies, playing upon 
 their instruments as they journey along. The film cuts 
 hack to the heroine leaning from her casement window. 
 The gypsies come into the picture and halt opposite 
 the window to play. The girl lilts back and forth in 
 sheer joy of the music, and taking a coin from her 
 pocket throws it impulsively to the singers. Thus is 
 the emotional note struck at the beginning of this day 
 which is to have such fatal consequences. Night comes 
 on. The last few hours of the young officer's visit are 
 at hand. The gypsies have encamped in a field by 
 the roadside. Their fire burns with bright abandon, 
 casting fitful shadows upon the ' white snow. The 
 heroine looks upon the scene from her window. The 
 musicians are playing again while the gypsies sway 
 back and forth keeping time to the music. A lithe, 
 young girl is dancing in the firelight. The picture re- 
 turns to the girl at her window. Her hand is on her 
 heart as she listens. We can almost hear the music 
 with her, so startling is the suggestion of sound. It is 
 as if the music were visualized. The audience realizes 
 that the girl is stirred to the depth of her being and 
 their appreciation of the fact is strong enough to win 
 their sympathy for the heroine. Without this under- 
 standing of the effect of the music upon her hot, im- 
 pulsive heart, it would have undoubtedly been lost. 
 
 Darkness is a detail that often has to be changed in 
 adapting a story to the screen. Oddly enough darkness 
 can be shown in film only by the presence of light. 
 Sometimes the entire action of a short story may take 
 
ADAPTATION 76 
 
 place in the dark, or if not the entire action, at least 
 some of its most dramatic moments. But total dark- 
 ness is impossible to screen presentation. Therefore, 
 a single ray of light from a lantern, the flame of a 
 candle, a lamp-post standing in the street directly oppo- 
 site a window, a torch-light flashing about, or some 
 other such device, must be introduced to make the dark- 
 ness visible. In " A Tale of Two Cities " ^ the chateau 
 of the Marquis St. Evremonde is enveloped in the pall 
 of midnight. A mender of roads who scales the fagades 
 of the stone exterior and enters the chamber of the 
 sleeping Marquis could neither see nor be seen. In the 
 photoplay the moon is obscured by clouds racing across 
 the sky. For a moment they break apart and a gleam 
 of moonlight filters through and flashes upon the steel 
 blade of a knife. A single ray sliding across the floor 
 reveals the Marquis asleep in his bed. Morning flnds 
 the knife fast in the heart of Monsieur le Marquis with 
 its frill of paper " Bear him swift to his tomb. This 
 from Jacques." 
 
 The element of motivation frequently has to be either 
 changed or strengthened fn adapfalioh. Causes in the 
 photoplay '^iisf~be "outlined more blackly than in 
 fictionar narrative. In the latter, motives may be 
 subtly "Biiilt up through pages of carefully wrought 
 verbiage — a mental process, cleverly described, and the 
 motivation is complete ! In the photoplay there is need 
 for more definite reasons for crime. Stevenson's story, 
 " The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,'" shows 
 Mr. Hyde as a fiend of incarnate evil, wantonly mur- 
 dering a kindly old gentleman. There is no connec- 
 
76 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 tion between this gentleman and Mr. Hyde. He is as 
 much of a stranger to his murderer as he is to the 
 reader. There is no motive for the murder except 
 the manifestation of pure evil. In adapting the story 
 to the screen, Mrs. Beranger felt that this motive was 
 too abstruse to be expressed in film. Therefore, she 
 endows the murdered man with a personality. She 
 shows him to be the first to lead Dr. Jekyll, " The St. 
 Anthony of London," into temptation. Furthermore 
 she allows Carew to witness the transformation of Dr. 
 Jekyll into Mr. Hyde. Fury possesses Hyde, because 
 Carew now knows his secret, and because Carew is in 
 a measure responsible for his downfall. The combined 
 emotions actuate the murder. 
 
 This version of " Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde " offers 
 other points illustrative of methods of adaptation. The 
 first is the enlargement of the cast of characters. 
 Millicent Carew is added to give the play a love interest. 
 Her presence strengthens the plot. The fact that it is 
 her father whom Jekyll murders increases the enormity 
 of the crime. Eichard Enfield, who in the original is 
 merely the companion of Mr. Utterson's Sunday walks, 
 becomes a hardened man of the world. Mr. Utterson, 
 the lawyer, is made younger and is developed as a 
 suitor for Millicent's favor. By this device the horror 
 of the ending is lessened, because there is the sugges- 
 tion that Millicent will turn to him after time has 
 assuaged her grief. The second radical change made by 
 the screen version is the change in the order o£ eveats. 
 In the Stevenson story the plot is pieced together. 
 First, Mr. Enfield contributes information which is 
 
ADAPTATION 77 
 
 added to and built upon by Mr. Utterson. Next, events 
 are unfolded from Dr. Lanyon's point of view. It is 
 only at the end of the story that we get the true story 
 from the confession of Dr. Jekyll himself. The letters 
 and documents thrust the order of the action forward 
 and backward as a battledore throws a shuttlecock. 
 The photoplay, however, follows the chronological order. 
 The events unfold themselves in natural sequence. 
 
 Entirely new is the episode of Mr. Hyde and the 
 dancer, Gina. The introduction of this incident serves 
 the purpose of visualizing the villainy of Hyde. The 
 history of the poison ring is rather irrelevant. It fur- 
 nishes Hyde with a means of destroying himself at the 
 end. But this purpose scarcely justifies its existence • 
 since his suicide took place in the laboratory which was 
 lined with shelves of drugs. Perhaps the greatest 
 change of all is the transfer of stress from the mys- 
 tery surrounding the murder of Dr. Jekyll to the 
 mystery surrounding the murder of Sir George Carew. 
 Only for a single instant in the film version is it 
 thought that Hyde has murdered Dr. Jekyll, whereas the 
 main dramatic interest in the story is the seeking of 
 Hyde for the murder of Jekyll. The motive for this 
 supposed murder was well established by Stevenson in 
 the beginning of the story when the will of Dr. Jekyll 
 drawn up by Mr. Utterson shows Hyde to be the sole 
 beneficiary. 
 
 It ia often n ecessary in adaptation to change the rela- 
 tive importance of the characters. When this is done 
 the type of story may be entirely altered. In Joseph 
 Hergesheimer's novel, " Java Head," there are two 
 
"THE COPPERHEAD" 
 An example of excellent adaptation which faithfully preserved 
 the spirit of the original. 
 
 First Location 
 
 Exterior for the Town of Millville, Illinois, built on Long 
 Island for the screen production " The Copperhead," in which 
 Lionel Barrymore was starred. This picture represents the 1846 
 period, the time of the Mexican War. 
 
 Second Location 
 
 Millville as i!> was remodelled for the 1S61 period. It is an 
 example of how the setting may enter into the story by showing 
 the passage of time and the changes that have taken place. Note 
 the addition of fences, piunp and boardwalk. This set was 
 changed still further for the 1863 period to show the ravages of 
 War in the little town, the fences fallen into decay, the paint 
 peeling off, dingy and ill-kept yards, etc. 
 
 Third Location 
 
 Millville remodelled for the 1904 period. Note the significant 
 addition of telegraph poles, wires, asphalt sidewalks and curb- 
 stones, post-oflSce and corner store. Care was taken to paint out 
 the stars in the flag flying from the courthouse, to correspond to 
 the number of states in the Union at that time. 
 

 -i^^^p-wtkl^ 
 
 "^m- 
 
 m 
 
 • ig 
 
 ■-■ilcl***c 
 
 ^ 
 
 > — -v^ 
 
 
 ' The CoDDerliead." ■ 
 —e opposite page 
 
ADAPTATION 79 
 
 women characters. One is a Chinese woman of high 
 degree, whom Gerrit Ammidon marries and brings 
 home to the little town of Salem. The other is the 
 character of Nettie Vollar, with whom Gerrit had been 
 in love earlier in the story. Both women offer fascinat- 
 ing possibilities as character studies. It was rumored 
 that Madame Nazimova considered the purchase of the 
 play. She intended to play the part of Taou Yuen. 
 In that case the play would automatically have become 
 a tragedy because the Manchu lady, realizing the mesal- 
 liance, takes opium and dies. In the original the end- 
 ing is a happy one because with her death the obstacle 
 to the union of Gerrit and his love is removed. 
 
 The student of adaptation will find it profitable to 
 study Shakespeare whose ability to borrow and,lrans- 
 figure mediocre plots into masterpieces was little short 
 of geniug^. " Coriolanus " and " Timon of Athens " 
 came from " Plutarch's Lives." " Hamlet " is Kyd's 
 " Spanish Tragedy " resuscitated. The historical plays 
 owe their sources to Hall and Holinshed's chronicles 
 of England, Ireland and York. The " Menaechmi " 
 of Plautus is the basis of " The Comedy of Errors." 
 And many of his other plays are traceable to French 
 and Italian romance. But so marvelous were the char- 
 acters which he created out of the puppets of the 
 originals, and so strong and virile were the themes 
 which he worked into the plots that we regard him as 
 an artist of the first rank. The photoplaywright who"' 
 reads the sources and makes an analytical comparison 
 between them and the finished plays of Shakespeare wUl 
 enrich his knowledge of adaptation. 
 
80 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 The paragraphs above list all changes that may be 
 made in adapting material to the screen. It is not 
 recommended, however, that all of them be applied to 
 any one manuscript. The discretion and discrimina- 
 tion of the writer must decide just what changes it is 
 absolutely necessary to make in a manuscript. Ideally, 
 a story or play ought to be altered as little as possible. 
 
 If a novel or play is altered beyond recognition, it 
 can scarcely be called an adaptation. Not long ago 
 the Vitagraph Company adapted the " Tale of Two 
 Cities " to the screen. But since war stories were not 
 wanted and the restriction would apply to stories of 
 The French Revolution as well as the World War, they 
 decided to transport the story from London and Paris 
 to the Blue Grass region of Kentucky. Instead of a 
 conflict between the aristocrats and the people, the con- 
 flict is a Kentucky mountain feud. The only relics of 
 the original seem to be the characterization of Sydney 
 Carton, and his sacrifice for the girl he loves. He saves 
 her lover at the cost of his own life. The character of 
 Sydney Carton is summed up in the title " The Man 
 Who Might Have Been." Such a deviation from the 
 original is to be condemned. In this category also was 
 the adaptation of " Jane Eyre," known as " Woman and 
 Wife." The setting was changed from an English 
 manorial background of the early Victorian period to 
 a modern New York apartment. The comment of the 
 critics upon this adaptation was that they were glad 
 that the title was changed so that the memory of a good 
 book was not ruined by the reality of a poor photoplay, 
 because, since had it not been called " Jane Eyre " no 
 
ADAPTATION 81 
 
 one could possibly recognize it as such. The adaptation 
 could not preserve the spirit of the original, discarding 
 as it did Thornfield Hall and the mysterious green baize 
 door which led to the unfrequented portion of that 
 rambling old house — a fitting setting for any dark 
 tragedy. "Eebecca of Sunnybrook Farm," in which 
 Mary Pickford played, was a good adaptation, the 
 evidence of its excellence lying in the fact that even its 
 original author was pleased with it. " The Copper- 
 head " was likewise admirably done. 
 
 As far as the photoplay market is concerned, adapta- 
 tions of books upon which the copyrights have expired, 
 are rarely, if ever, saleable. Such books are the property 
 of everybody, and producers do not feel they ought to 
 buy material which is already at their disposal. They 
 have a staff of writers who can adapt non-copyright 
 material, they believe, much better than can any hap- 
 hazard individual. If an adaptation of an uncopy- 
 righted book is made and sent to a company, it may give 
 them the idea of screening that particular story, but no 
 price is paid for the suggestion. They would in aU 
 probability return the script, and have a staff writer 
 make a new adaptation. On the whole, however, not a 
 great deal of non-copyright materials is used. There is 
 a further reason why companies dislike to produce 
 material of this sort. Suppose they are at work on 
 a splendid production of one of the classics, and indulge 
 in an expensive advertising campaign. A lesser com- 
 pany may hear of this and produce an inferior version 
 of the same play or story. The cheaper photoplay 
 would profit by the advertising, as well as the company 
 
" DR. JEKYLL AND ME. HYDE " 
 
 The first picture shows the set under construction to be used 
 In the filming of Stevenson's " Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," Para- 
 mount-Artcraft production, in which John Barrymore was starred. 
 Because of the difficulty of obtaining suitable locations typical 
 of the days of 1860 in London it was necessary to film the entire 
 story in the New York City studio. 
 
 The completed set shows the rear of Dr. Jekyll's home, and at 
 the right is his famous laboratory. Note the care for detail 
 taken in order to make the picture true to type — the lighting, 
 the cobblestones, etc. The atmosphere created is in harmony 
 with and intensifies the dramatic action of the story. 
 
' Dr. JekrU and ilr. Hrde-" Set midor construction. 
 
 " Dr. Jekyll and Jlr. Hyde." The completed set. 
 
 See opposite page 
 
ADAPTATION 83 
 
 that had incurred the expense. The first company would 
 have ahsolutely no protection. An instance of this 
 occurred recently in the filming of the Stevenson story 
 "The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde." 
 Two versions appeared at the same time, one a notable 
 photoplay, one of the most artistic screen productions of 
 the season, employing the talents of a great actor, and 
 profiting by the scenario and art experts of a good 
 company. The other was a mediocre affair that might 
 ordinarily have passed by unnoticed were it not that 
 the public were waiting anxiously to see the " Dr. 
 Jekyll and Mr. Hyde " production. Great was the 
 resultant confusion, due to the fact that people in 
 general usually carry away the name of the production 
 itself, rather than the name of the company that is 
 producing it. 
 
 Titles cannot be copyrighted, a fact of which many 
 unreliable companies take" advantage. Several years 
 ago a play was announced outside of some of the Brook- 
 lyn theatres as " The Inside of the Cup." Many people 
 thinking it must surely be an adaptation of Winston 
 Churchill's novel of that name, went to see the play. 
 It had not the remotest connection with the novel which, 
 it transpired, had just been produced by another com- 
 pany. Of course, it may have been pure coincidence, 
 but, " The Inside of the Cup " is an odd title, and its 
 reduplication would be almost a supernatural phe- 
 nomenon. 
 
 It may be in order to avoid this chance of deliberate 
 reduplication of titles that the companies so frequently 
 change the names of the copyright novels, short stories, 
 
84) CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 and plays that they buy and produce. Otherwise it is 
 inexplicable. Why should a company pay thousands of 
 dollars for a famous stage play in order to profit by the 
 advertising value of its name, and then retitle it so that 
 no one can or will associate it in any way with the 
 original ? George Weston's story, " Salt of the Earth " 
 was bought by the Famous Players-Lasky Company and 
 appeared under the title "Eyes of the Soul." Now, 
 of course the original was by far the better title, and 
 since it appeared in the Saturday Evening Post, had 
 good advertising value. The company realized both 
 of these facts and had no intention of changing the 
 name until they discovered that there had been a novel 
 published under that name which another company had 
 purchased and were at work producing. Hence it was 
 absolutely necessary to search about for a different title. 
 In instances of this sort the companies are entirely 
 wise in re-titling their photoplays. Unfortunately, how- 
 ever, changes are often made without any rhyme or 
 reason. Take " The Bird's Christmas Carol," by ETate 
 Douglas Wiggin, for example. The name has become 
 almost a household word throughout the United States. 
 The book was bought by one company for more thou- 
 sands of dollars than is usual on account of the popu- 
 larity of the author and the book. When the photoplay 
 was finally released it was under the title " A Bit of 
 Heaven." No one had ever heard of, or was the least 
 interested in " A Bit of Heaven," with the result that 
 the picture was a dismal failure. The reason given 
 for the change was that " The Bird's Christmas Carol " 
 was too seasonal. People would go to see it during the 
 
ADAPTATION 85 
 
 Christmas holidays, perhaps, but not on Washington's 
 Birthday or the Fourth of July. 
 
 If the adaptation has been so altered and combined 
 with original material that it is practically a new story, 
 an author may seU it as his own product. Not long 
 ago the courts sustained the claim of an author upon 
 this point. Companies have been known to buy such 
 adaptations at the market price of original material. 
 
 As for copyright books and plays, it is useless for the 
 photoplaywright to make adaptations of those because he 
 does not own them, and therefore is powerless to dispose 
 of them. His only interest in them is either as an agent, 
 in which case he would get probably a ten per cent 
 commission, provided he had the permission of the 
 publisher or author to negotiate a sale, or as a profes- 
 sional continuity writer. In this capacity he can com- 
 mand at least one hundred and fifty dollars a reel. 
 But before the production editor will entrust the making 
 of a continuity to an individual, he or she must prove 
 that he is a trained and skilful scenarioist. 
 
 It would be useless to schedule the prices that a 
 copyright novel or story may bring. The sum depends 
 entirely upon the popularity of the book, the popularity 
 of the author, and the money at the command of the 
 purchaser. 
 
 A person who has a good knowledge of continuiiy 
 may get an opening in professional work by asking a 
 producing company to allow him to make a continuity 
 of some work they intend to produce. If he makes 
 one as good or better than their regular writers can, 
 he may be offered a position on the staff, or be placed 
 
86 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 upon the list of those to whom they " farm out " as it 
 were, the continuity they want done from time to time. 
 These people work in their own homes, coming in to 
 the offices of the company from time to time for consul- 
 tation and instruction. Eve Unsell, Frances Marion, 
 Charles Maigne, Clara Beranger, John Emerson and 
 Anita Loos, Edith Kennedy, Marion Fairfax, Ouida 
 Bergere, and countless other scenarioists have composed 
 under this system of free lance continuity writers. 
 
 Below are the ideas of one of these professional 
 continuity writers. Miss Eve Unsell, now on the Lasky 
 staff in London, expressed in a paper called " The 
 Routine of Film Adaptation," read to the students of 
 photoplay composition at Columbia University. It is 
 interesting as first-hand evidence upon adaptation given 
 by one who has spent so much of her time at the task 
 
 THE "EOUTINE" OF FILM ADAPTATION. 
 
 (Eead to the Cinema Composers' Club by Eve tTnsel], 
 Jan. 24, 1919) 
 
 The five-reel feature is here used as an example, Bince 
 this is the average number of reels required for the 
 "program" feature. Exhibitors and producers are con- 
 vinced that the public wants a short five-reel feature, which 
 means on the average, 4,500 feet of film, and some 500 feet 
 of titling, and which consists in the script of about 200 
 scenes. Exhibitors say that the five-reel feature is the most 
 popular with screen audiences, on account of the length of 
 the program, which is usually made up of a "weekly," or 
 news bulletin, an educational film, and a short comedy, 
 the "feature" topping the bill. The exhibitor claims that 
 when the feature is longer than five reels the audience 
 
ADAPTATION 87 
 
 usually becomes restless unless the story is unusually big 
 and absorbing, and that, on the other hand, if the feature 
 were shorter than five reels, the audience would fed that 
 it had not had its money's worth, and that the program 
 would be too short. 
 
 On account of this set rule for the feature's length, the 
 art of writer and director is naturally hampered, for the 
 light story must be "padded," and the big story cut down 
 to the required length. It is obviously much easier to tell 
 a feature story of any bigness in a picture that is over five 
 reels, and it often requires wizardry to keep the footage 
 down to the required length. Many a script-writer and 
 director have spent sleepless nights in cudgelling their sorely 
 tried brains to find a way to preserve the excellencies of a 
 story that really demands a six-reel development, but must 
 be confined to the 4,500-foot measurement. Often the 
 Procrustean methods used in the cutting rooms after the 
 film is made result so disastrously to the picture that neither 
 director nor writer recognize the finished product — so com- 
 pletely "finished" it is! 
 
 The fine Italian hand of the cutting department is also 
 one of the reasons for the wails of anguish and dismay 
 from the authors of books and plays who see the mangled 
 remains upon the screen of a masterpiece in which the 
 original intent and purpose of the author had been some- 
 thing entirely different to that which the cutter and editor 
 of the "revised Tersion" have made the be-aU and end-aU 
 of the picture. 
 
 • Unfortunately, the continuity writer usually receives the 
 total blame for these revisions, from the public, and at the 
 unmerciful hands of the critics of trade-journals and dailies. 
 One would imagine that, after years of writing reviews of 
 the motion picture, a critic would have more than a speaking 
 acquaintance with studio methods, and know that other de- 
 partments are " implicated " in the crime, besides the script- 
 writer, who is often hardly an "accessory to the fact," 
 
88 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 even, having been in blissful ignorance of the changes 
 until the excoriation of the critic pillories him to the public 
 view as their sole author. You who intend writing for 
 the screen must prepare to receive some thorns among the 
 roses, so begin at once to bury any atom of sensitiveness 
 you may possess, for the sling and arrows of an outrageous 
 fortune are nothing to the stings and arrows of an out- 
 raged critic when he finds his favorite book or play changed 
 beyond recognition. His rage is only excelled by that of 
 the original author, who can scarcely be blamed, since 
 his knowledge of studio routine is even less than the 
 critic's. 
 
 At present The Authors' League Bulletin is loud in its 
 diatribes against the thievish, slavish, knavish Pariahs of 
 the literary world — those utterly brainless incumbrances of 
 the ground, the continuity writers! 
 
 The only reason that the continuity writer is able to drag 
 himself about after reading such pitiless exposures of him- 
 self and his utter unworthiness, and to continue to breathe 
 the pure air he contaminates, is the fact, known to many 
 scenario departments of the largest studios, that there have 
 been occasions when the great Masters of The Authors' 
 League have themselves come a cropper when essaying the 
 " simple " task of putting their ideas into continuity form 
 for the screen. I have in mind one very clever dramatist, 
 who has had more than one Broadway success to his credit, 
 who some months ago insisted — after the sale of a "big 
 idea " to a certain film company — that he, and he alone, 
 be allowed to scenarioize the story, having seen too many 
 mutilations of the children of his brain. 
 
 The President of the Company assented, and the humble 
 effort of the continuity director was shelved, while the 
 Master withdrew to his country home to let " genius bum." 
 Genius burned very slowly, and with starts and spurts, and 
 it was necessary to jog the gentleman at last and remind him 
 gently that a certain very expensive star was eating her 
 
ADAPTATION 89 
 
 head off in salary at the studio, while the force waited for 
 the masterpiece. 
 
 At last, the scenario began to come in, in instaUments, 
 and when the third part had been sent in, and about six 
 reels had been consumed without the hero having met the 
 heroine, it was decided to caU, by stealth, the despised con- 
 tinuity writer, who was bidden to begin to link together the 
 installments as they came in. One night, after eight o'clock, 
 the scenario writer received the last of the lot, and all night 
 slaved to make the great author's big idea producible, not, 
 however, touching the plot, or the author's development, 
 merely arranging and linking together the scenes, account- 
 ing for time-lapses, et cetera. Next morning, the director 
 was at last persuaded to try to produce what he termed the 
 most fearful and wonderful melange he had ever met in 
 the course of a good many years of good and bad pro- 
 ductions. The studio went ahead, and lived up to the 
 author's desire to see his picture as " wrote," and in the 
 last reel, the heroine and hero at last met, clasped hands, 
 and clinched — almost in a breath — and the picture was 
 scanned — and canned — by the critics as viciously as was ever 
 any maudlin effort of any mere, obscure continuity writer. 
 
 Later, the celebrated author's original idea, which was 
 really worth while, was artistically developed as a stage 
 drama, but it was a far cry from the original scenario of its 
 author, and the humble continuity writer was highly gratified 
 to note in witnessing the successful stage production, that 
 some of the ideas scorned in the scenario-writer's produc- 
 tion, which, you will remember, had been previously shelved 
 at the author's request, had been incorporated in the play. 
 They were probably perfectly obvious ideas, which might 
 have occurred to anyone not enjoying the close perspective 
 of the author, himself, who could not bear to see one jot 
 or tittle of his original idea changed in the scenario. But 
 where the lowly scenarioist had been unable to sway him, the 
 great manager, who had collaborated with the dramatist. 
 
90 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 had succeeded, and the result was a colorful and logical 
 emotional drama, uncluttered by superfluous characters, and 
 with the romance developing naturally and beautifully to 
 its climax. 
 
 This, and the fact that one of the biggest successes of 
 the year on Broadway was the first stage play from the pen 
 of a busy and well known screen writer, has cheered and 
 encouraged the poor moles of the scenario world to plod on, 
 and put off suicide a day or so longer. 
 
 And therefore, you, who are studying to make this craft 
 your profession, must realize from the beginning that your 
 part in the making of the picture is as important — as 
 essential — as that of the famous author, and that you, as an 
 indispensable worker in this fruitful vineyard, are "worthy 
 of your hire," and entitled to " your place in the sun ! " 
 
 At least the men who are putting their energies and 
 fortunes into the game, the producers, themselves, have 
 realized this, and know that among the discoveries of the 
 twentieth century is the startling revelation that scenario 
 writing is actually an art! As I have already hinted, many 
 a rashly confident explorer on the high-seas of the new 
 industry has been paralyzed to learn that he has a new 
 technique to master before he can safely launch his bark of 
 enterprise, no matter how smoothly he has sailed his craft 
 of the short story, the newspaper article, the novel, or the 
 play, into the haven of artistic — and financial — success! 
 
 And not only his art, but his masterpieces, themselves, 
 must undergo this rare " sea-change " before they are ready 
 to appear upon the screen. The evolution of the scenario 
 in the process of the idea's transference from the brain 
 of its creator to the shimmering square that conveys its 
 message to the breathless, waiting world is not uninteresting 
 to the layman, from the numerous inquiries that come to 
 Staff and free-lance writers as to the paradox of "writing 
 a picture." 
 
 The first thing to determine in the routine of feature 
 
ADAPTATION 91 
 
 adaptation is whether or not the feature plot is there when 
 the script-writer considers the story that supplies the basis 
 of the picture-to-be. When he has satisfied himself as to 
 that small item, he sketches out a skeleton form, or synopsis, 
 of the drama's action, from which his five-reel feature is to 
 be elaborated. Experience teaches him that often in the 
 most popular stage plays and "best sellers," there are com- 
 plications and situations that are of no screen value, though 
 clever enough in the original version, where drags in action 
 are not so noticeable as in the picture. And when certain 
 portions are condensed, other parts must be expanded, the 
 star's part built np, new situations added to " liven " up the 
 picture, and motives strengthened, for weaknesses of plot, 
 glossed over in the book and play by wise or witty dialogue, 
 stand out in ghastly fashion when the bony frame-work is 
 brought out unclothed by flesh, in startling vividness by the 
 X-ray of the camera. 
 
 Therefore, the writer finds that he must make the action 
 sufficiently clear and striking in itself to "carry" the fihn 
 over without its explanatory and decorative dialogue. In 
 original stories, naturally the scenario writer is far less 
 hampered than when adapting a "famous" play or book. 
 With his own material he has his own sweet way, often finish- 
 ing with a different and far stronger story than that with 
 which he started. But the writer of adaptations must have 
 infinite patience, a marvellous sense of the fitness of things, 
 and a fiendish ingenuity in blending his ideas and those of 
 the original author in altering the material to suit the 
 exigencies of the screen, so that his sleight-of-hand work is 
 not offensive to said sensitive creator of the subject-matter 
 in hand. The path of no scenario-writer is a bed of roses, 
 but from personal experience I should say that the adaptor 
 has the thorniest way to tread, the hardest, and often the 
 most thankless task of all ihe rest. 
 
 When the "scenario-artist" has combined the old and 
 new into a synopsis that seems satisfactory to his firm and 
 
92 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 himself, he proceeds to make a " rough scenario " in which 
 he works out his screen story, scene by scene, and punch 
 by punch. A one line diagram of the action and punch of a 
 feature would be a gradually ascending line, starting from 
 a small bump, which signifies a mild "pxmch" of action or 
 mystery sufficing to command interest in the story at once, 
 and from here the up-sloping line leads to a slightly larger 
 hillock in the middle, where the dramatic situation or com- 
 plication lends a fresh interest and suspense forming a 
 stronger "punch" than the first, and then the line climbs 
 on to the moimtain punch that forms the climax, the 
 scream of the comedy, the solution of the mystery, or the 
 denouement of a domestic tragedy in which poetic justice is 
 dispensed all around. In his first rough diagram of the 
 scenario's action, the writer suggests where subtitles and 
 spoken titles shall be necessary, and approximately the 
 ideas, though roughly expressed, which are to be stamped 
 in them. 
 
 The rough scenario is then submitted to the supervisor 
 in charge of the scenario department, from whom it goes 
 to the director, and sometimes to the producer, at last coming 
 back to the script writer with additions, eliminations and 
 varions comments which it has been sure to gather in its 
 exi)edition. With the round-robin of " O.K.'s " the writer 
 proceeds to make his final scenario, working out the detail 
 of his scenes now, and boiling down his superfluous titling, 
 which he polishes carefully, hoping and praying that they 
 may be left alone by cutter and editor. There are a few 
 writers who do not have to advise with the producer until 
 the scenario is completed, but there are also few writers 
 whose completed product sees the screen without change. 
 There may have at some time been written the perfect 
 scenario in which no detail was altered before it was re- 
 leased as a picture, but if so, that script deserves a place 
 in the Museum of ZJft-Natural History! And you who now 
 complacently view a picture, and murmur triumphantly to 
 
ADAPTATION 93 
 
 yourselTes, "Goodness — ^how nnicli better I eould have 
 done it, myself ! " — are often quite right, but wait — 
 WAIT ! — till you view one of your own — after it has passed 
 through cutting room, and the re-editing procedure. After 
 that, you may sympathize with many a scenario writer whose 
 pictures you have seen — and scorned! 
 
 That is' why so few scenario writers can qualify to ad- 
 vertise the Seven Sutherland Sisters, for the hair that does 
 not moult during the incubation of the scenario is frequently 
 torn out by the frenzied scribbler when he sees what has 
 happened to his scenario after that magician, the expert 
 cutter, has finished with the film. Forgive me for dwelling 
 on this point, but it is a sore subject with most script 
 writers, and some day it may be for you, also. 
 
 About the method of titling the film, that differs with 
 every company, and in any case, varies often with the 
 character of the story to be told. Despite the learned 
 treatises on the subject, one soon learns that the rule of 
 art is art, old theories are upset every day, and nothing is 
 to be gained by the following of any set rule in titling, 
 save that usually the conventional explanatory title, that 
 makes the action to follow an anti-climax, is to be avoided 
 as Satan, himself. And the spoken title must not be awk- 
 ward, verbose or ungrammatical — ^not to mention, too fre- 
 quent! Yet it is absurd to say that the fewer the titles, 
 the better the picture, for too many of the screen's biggest 
 plays disprove this theory. Some of the most successful 
 features of a certain prominent film company depefid greatly 
 on the generous sprinkling of clever titles, which point the 
 humor, clarify the situation, intensify the psychology and 
 emphasize the drama. 
 
 A perfect gem of a picture may be developed with no 
 subtitles at all, so well does the material of the story lend 
 itself to action only. On the other hand, a picture of a 
 different type, but no less great, may demand any number 
 of clever titles to bring out its psychology, and should it be 
 
94 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 treated as the first play, the method would prove disastrous 
 to photoplay number two! The result of much experimen- 
 tation, sifted down, shows that some fine plays need little 
 titling, while some, equally fine, demand more titles. 
 
 Insist that, whenever possible, you be allowed to work with 
 the director or title-supervisor upon the titles, even if it 
 does take more time from your schedule of other work. The 
 director is usually anxious to work with the adaptor on this 
 matter, but sometimes both are busy on the next production, 
 and again the cutter and reviser work their sweet will upon 
 the picture. Very recently I was horrified to see, at a 
 leading New York picture house, an adaptation of mine 
 bring gales of laughter in the serious and delicate scenes, 
 marring the artistry of the beautiful star, and fine direction 
 of the able director. It was not the acting, not the story, 
 not the directing that brought the irresistible sweep of 
 laughter, but the absurd titles which had nothing to do with 
 the situations, and plainly jarred with the actions of the 
 actors during the scenes in which they were inserted. I 
 can imagine the feelings of the actors when they saw the 
 production, and the words that had been put in their 
 mouths after the completion of the picture. Needless to 
 say, the picture was a burlesque on its original self on ac- 
 count of the unintentionally humorous titles. When this 
 was brought to the attention of the producers, who stand for 
 high ideals and artistic excellence in detail, they were 
 horrified, and hastily ordered corrections, but alas, the critics 
 had already seen it, and the story and writer suffered ac- 
 cordingly. Yet even Hamlet, with not an iota of the 
 plot altered, with the greatest actors in the world, and 
 a Belasco to direct it, could be turned into burlesque 
 simply by the dialogue, itself. I mention this, not only from 
 the unquenchable impulse to justify myself in this instance, 
 but to show you the vast importance of the title to the film. 
 
 As to the value of schools of photoplay technique, it is 
 unquestionably advisable to gain a fundamental faiowledge 
 
ADAPTATION 95 
 
 of studio requirements and script and screen detail in a 
 legitimate school of photoplay construction such as yours, but 
 once in the game, don't be too much a slave to set rules, get 
 your big subject, give it as logical a development and as 
 novel a treatment as you can — ^then trust to providence — 
 and your Director! 
 
 To offset the illustration of the loss of hirsute adornment 
 when things go wrong, you must know that in no other 
 profession, art — or industry — ^whatever you choose to term it — 
 are results of your labors so quickly seen, or emoluments so 
 promptly paid! And in contrsist to the gloom: cast by a 
 bungled picture, is the glow of happiness that blots out the 
 shadowy mistakes of the past — the glor-ee-ous feeling that one 
 has not lived in vain — that comes from the big successful 
 story, made bigger by a fine director, a feature that is the 
 product of a harmonious co-operation and mutual imder- 
 standing between script writer and director, each working, 
 as should all the film departments — not for personal ag- 
 grandizement, but for the Perfect Picture 1 
 
CHAPTEK VI 
 SCENAKIO TECHNIQUE 
 
 In the making of a motion picture there is usually 
 a wide hiatus between the original author of the story 
 and the director who is to produce it in photoplay form. 
 It is a rare exception when the creator of the story is 
 also the director of the film. The photoplaywright chooses 
 his material from the world around him, or from the 
 storehouse of his brain, and sets to work arranging it in 
 the fashion that best suits his purposes. He then sends 
 it out to a producing company and in the course of 
 events it is turned over to a director who puts it into 
 pictures. Early in the history of photoplay production, 
 therefore, it was realized that this gap between the 
 author and the director must in some way be bridged 
 over. The scenario was finally devised to fulfill this 
 function of telling the director as clearly as possible 
 exactly what the author wanted done. It was found 
 that clearness could best be obtained by dividing the 
 story into a sequence of scenes. Hence the origin of the 
 scenario. 
 
 The term scenario is a comprehensive term which 
 covers the following divisions : 
 
 h A cast of characters 
 \ A synopsis of the story 
 \ A scene plot 
 ' The plot of action, or the continuity. 
 
SCENARIO TECHNIQUE 97 
 
 The term scenario is often erroneously used as 
 a synonym for continuity, whereas, although it in- 
 cludes continuity, it also includes all the things 
 listed above. The scenario is the completed manu- 
 script, while the continuity is merely the action of the 
 story. 
 
 In writing the continuity, the author starts out by 
 dividing his material into scenes. The scene division is 
 purely mechanical. It is determined by the amount of 
 action that can be taken without moving the position of. 
 the camera. The setting is the place in which the action 
 is staged. A change of setting always constitutes a new 
 scene, but a new scene does not necessarily require a 
 change of setting. If the camera must be moved so 
 that its angle includes a bit of the room or landscape 
 at closer range, a new scene results, even though the 
 setting remains unchanged. For instance, the scene 
 may be laid in a sumptuous Parisian restaurant. Merry 
 groups are seated at gay little tables ; waiters are seen 
 hurrying back and forth carrying trays laden with food 
 and drink. At one table partially screened by ferns 
 and potted plants is a young couple. The audience can- 
 not readily identify them in the big general scene, so 
 the camera is moved a little closer to the young couple 
 in order to give the spectators a better view. This, of 
 course, since it necessitates moving the camera, would 
 be a new scene. Yet the setting is still the same — the 
 restaurant interior. It may be that the girl is telling 
 the man something which requires a close observation on 
 the part of the audience of her facial expression — fear, 
 or love, or some other emotion, which it is necessary that 
 
98 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 the audience should see in order to follow the story. So 
 we must have a close-up of the heroine. In order to 
 take this close-up, the camera has to be moved stiU 
 nearer to the subject. The close-up of the girl forms a 
 new scene. 
 
 Beginners often find difficulty in deciding just where 
 the new scene begins. They would have no trouble 
 at all if they would only remember that the camera is 
 merely a machine and registers nothing but what takes 
 place before it. Once an actor walks out of the angle 
 covered by the camera his action will no longer register 
 upon the film. If he goes to another place, the camera 
 must be moved to show what he is doing, and hence 
 a new scene must be arranged for. The writer needs 
 only to keep in mind the basic principles of range and 
 distance, which govern the use of every Kodak. The 
 motion picture camera acts upon the same principles. 
 If Mary is to be shown, let us say in a dining-room 
 scene, hurriedly leaving the table and running upstairs 
 to the privacy of her room to break into violent weep- 
 ing, it cannot be done aU in one scene. We should have 
 to have at least three scenes, the dining-room scene, the 
 hallway showing the staircase, and her bedroom. As 
 a matter of fact there might be four or five scenes, if the 
 author wanted to show a " semi-close-up " of Mary as a 
 huddled heap of misery on the bedstead, or the dining- 
 room door as she passes out, or the upper hall as she 
 enters her own room. Summed up, the rule is this : any 
 change in setting, any change in distance, any change 
 in the angle covered by the camera, necessitates a new 
 scene. The writer of the continuity stipulates whether 
 
SCENARIO TECHNIQUE 99 
 
 the scene is to be a " long shot," a " semi-close-up," or 
 a "close-up." If he does not mention any of these 
 camera directions, it is understood that the scene is to 
 be shot from the ordinary distance. 
 
 The setting is given first, at the beginning of each 
 scene. It should be capitalized and underlined. 
 Camera directions follow the setting. Every scene 
 is numbered separately. It helps the appearance 
 of the manuscript to center the scene number, wlule 
 title numbers may be placed in the margin, but aU 
 numbers may be placed in the margin if the author 
 prefers. Several spaces should be left between the 
 scenes so that each scene wiU stand out clearly upon the 
 page like stanzas of poetry. After the setting and 
 camera direction comes the description of the action. 
 The action is always told in the present tense. It is a 
 general practice to mark each setting " Exterior " or 
 "Interior," abbreviated to "Ext." and "Int.", for 
 example : 
 
 INT. EICHAEiyS DEN. A STAG'S HEAD MOUNTED 
 
 ON THE WALL, TEOPHIES ON THE BOOK CASE, 
 
 GUN RACK, ETC., TO INDICATE HE IS A SPOETS: 
 
 MAN. FADE IN. 
 
 Eichard is lying on the coucli gazing up at the ceiling 
 apparently deep in thought. Suddenly he gets up, goes to 
 a desk, pulls out a drawer from which he takes a portfolio. 
 This he brings back to the couch, seats himself comfortably 
 and takes out a picture. FADE OUT. 
 
100 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 The action of the scene is the pictured pantomime of 
 the idea which the author wants to convey to the audience 
 at that particular point in the development of the story. 
 In addition to scenes, the continuity comprises a certain 
 amount of written material or words upon the screen. 
 These are of two general classes: 
 
 a. Titles 
 
 Sub-titles 
 Spoken titles 
 
 b. Inserts 
 
 Letters, telegrams, clippings, etc. 
 
 Other terms for the subtitles are: "caption" and 
 " leader." The spoken title may also be called " dia- 
 logue " — in spite of the fact that only one character 
 speaks in each spoken title. In the early days of pro- 
 duction, it was customary to put the speeches of several 
 characters upon the screen in a single title, but this is 
 no longer done. Each speech of the various characters 
 has a separate title. 
 
 All vnritten material is numbered, either consecutively 
 with the scenes or by the dual system of numbering, 
 that is, starting with number 1 for the first scene and 
 again with number 1 for the first title. If this system 
 is used — and it is really preferable — ^letters, clippings, 
 etc., are numbered in the title sequence, while " close- 
 ups " of objects, as rings, revolvers, etc., are, of course, 
 numbered as scenes. All written material must be 
 capitalized in the continuity and should be labeled 
 "SUBTITLE" or "SPOKEN" TITLE," etc. For 
 instance : 
 
SCENARIO TECHNIQUE 101 
 
 17. SUB-TITLE: THE END OF A PEKFECT DAY. 
 
 or 
 11. SPOKEN TITLE: "THIS IS THE END OF A 
 PERFECT DAT, JOHN." 
 or 
 23. LETTER ON SCREEN: . . . AND SO I AM COM- 
 ING ON THE FOUR O'CLOCK TRAIN. THURS- 
 DAY. I'LL EXPLAIN EVERYTHING WHEN I 
 SEE YOU. 
 
 LOVINGLY, 
 
 JANE. 
 
 Subtitles and spoken titles should never follow each 
 other in the continuity. They should be broken by pic- 
 tures. As we have said above, the speeches of several 
 characters must not be thrown upon the screen in one 
 spoken title. The author must show what one person 
 says, go back to the scene, show what another person 
 says, and go back to the picture again. He must not 
 jump directly from a spoken title to a new scene. After 
 a person has made a remark, it is only natural that the 
 effects of that remark upon the character to whom it is 
 addressed be shown, assent or dissent or enthusiasm, as 
 the case may be. Therefore, the author should go hack 
 to the picture each time after a spoken title, and finish 
 the action even though he has only a nod or a gesture to 
 add. 
 
 The English of the words thrown upon the screen 
 should be as correct and concise as possible. Mistakes 
 in spelling should be obviated by spelling words cor- 
 rectly in the continuity. The method of making titles 
 is this: The script is sent to the art titling depart- 
 
102 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 ment where the words are drawn and in some instances 
 fancy sketches or borders or symholic accompaniments 
 are made for them. These drawings are then photo- 
 graphed. It often happens that the person in the art 
 department is no better speller or grammarian than 
 the continuity writer, and he often copies flagrant mis- 
 takes out of the script, perpetuating them in the titles. 
 ■Somehow or other, in spite of all the people who review 
 the film before it is released, these mistakes often escape 
 attention. Any number of instances might be quoted — 
 and the mistakes are not always confined to the cheaper 
 producing companies. " After three hours had past " 
 (passed), " This was to much " (too), " He was one of 
 those kind " (that kind) " of men who are always look- 
 ing for a raise." " One of us have (has) to do it." 
 " It is not losing the money that bothers me — it is the 
 principal (principle) of the thing." These are a few 
 of the commoner and more frequent errors that appear 
 upon the screen. Sometimes in an effort to use high- 
 sounding words the author misuses them, as the word 
 " perspective," for instance. One photoplay told the 
 audience that " he was unsuccessful because he could 
 not get the right ' prospective.' " 
 
 Since our definition of a photoplay is a story told by 
 pictures arranged in a consistent sequence, there is, 
 ideally, no logical place for words in the photoplay. 
 The motion picture should be a story told without 
 words. Practically, however, it is almost impossible 
 to construct a photoplay without calling in the assistance 
 of words. There are some things which no amoimt of 
 
SCENARIO TECHNIQUE 103 
 
 pantomime can convey to the audience. Gesture, look 
 or manner, for instance, cannot convey to an audience 
 the intelligence that a man is president of the Acme 
 Chemical Company, nor can they tell the name of 
 the town in which he lives. In addition, words are 
 necessary to establish the relationships of one char- 
 acter to another. Sometimes the necessary informa- 
 tion can be given ingeniously and more dramatically 
 within the frame of the picture itself. A man 
 who, after two years of silence, decides to write to his 
 sweetheart for forgiveness, is shown sitting with the 
 returned letter in his hand. The words " Not found. 
 Eetum to sender," scrawled upon the letter tell the 
 audience what has happened much more dramatically 
 than a leader preceding the scene with the words " Too 
 Late " could ever hope to do. The words on the door of 
 an office, " Employment Bureau," " Detective Agency," 
 or " Smith & Smith, Attorneys at Law," can serve to 
 identify characters or tell the audience what certain 
 people in the play are about to do. If the heroine is 
 confronted with the choice of going to work or marrying 
 the wealthy villain whom she despises, and we see her 
 putting on her wraps with a determined air and in a 
 later scene entering an office door marked " Employ- 
 ment Bureau," we know her decision without the aid 
 of a stupid subtitle which would probably break our 
 interest by announcing " Rose decides to go to work," 
 or something equally blatant. 
 
 And this brings lis to one of the pitfalls into which 
 new screen writers are all too prone to fall — careless 
 and indiscriminate titling. Writing titles is an art in 
 
104 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 itself, so much so that specialists in the art of titling 
 pictures are beginning to spring up, writers who are 
 devoting much thought and study to the words in the 
 photoplay. It takes a great deal of practice before a 
 writer is able to get the knack of saying things briefly 
 to economize on footage and not make them abrupt and 
 unnatural, of saying things in such a way that they wUl 
 not anticipate the following action and thus lose the 
 interest of the spectator. These so-called " descriptive " 
 sub-titles can be deadly to the suspense. The author 
 who flashes upon the screen the title " John takes a 
 horseback ride," and then shows a picture of John tak- 
 ing it, or who volunteers the information " the dawn 
 comes up," and foUows it with a picture of the dawn 
 coming, is guilty of a lack of perception of the laws 
 of dramatic action. Such titles anticipate the sub- 
 sequent action by leaving the audience nothing to look 
 forward to. If they are aware of what is going to 
 happen next they lose interest in watching the develop- 
 ment of the picture. Therefore the writer must guard 
 against telling in a subtitle or spoken title anything 
 that the following action is going to reveal. He should 
 use no titles when a thing can be told equally as well 
 in action. If a title is necessary to bridge over a lapse 
 of time or a change of circumstance, it should be worded 
 in such a way that it will pique the curiosity of the 
 spectator. For instance, if the hero reaches a crisis 
 in his affairs which demands that some action be taken, 
 the narrative or informative leader should not read 
 " That night John leaves town," but rather " John 
 comes to a decision." If the latter is shown, the audi- 
 
SCENABIO TECHNIQUE 105 
 
 ence will be looking forward eagerly to ascertain just 
 what that decision is. 
 
 The titles in the continuity ought to be inevitable, 
 following along in the scene sequence as naturally as 
 one note follows another in a musical composition. If 
 they are not inevitable they seem harsh and out of 
 place and distract the attention of the audience from 
 the picture. The writer should work for smoothness in 
 titling, and apply a certain sense of rhythm to them, 
 all the while that he is trying to say the right thing at 
 the right time. 
 
 Miss Frances Marion, one of the most talented 
 scenario writers in the motion picture field, spends hours 
 in polishing the titles of her continuity. In doing 
 " Pollyanna," for instance, she veiled her titles so 
 ingeniously that those who did not believe in the rather 
 tiresome philosophy of Pollyanna might detect a gleam 
 of bantering humor in the titles, and those who liked 
 bathos and a bit of super-sentimentality could swaUow 
 them whole upon their face value. 
 
 Another of our clever scenarioists. Miss Anita Loos, 
 who was responsible for a great deal of the fun in the 
 Douglas Fairbanks plays, and more latterly in the Con- 
 stance Talmadge pictures, believes sincerely in the title 
 as an aid to humor. She holds the theory that a sub- 
 title or spoken title which adds a comedy element or in- 
 tensifies the comedy interest has a very good excuse for 
 being. She also advances this theory as to " time lead- 
 ers," or " narrative titles " : if the lapse of time is 
 short, the time leader should be of few words. If the 
 period covered by the title is a long one, the title should 
 
106 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 be long proportionately. In other words, when the 
 title " Twenty Years Later " is thrown upon the screen, 
 the audience must do mental gymnastics in order to 
 readjust themselves to the change. In terms of actual 
 time, it would take about three seconds to show that 
 leader upon the screen, and three seconds is entirely 
 too short a time to allow the audience to adjust them- 
 selves to a lapse of twenty years. A longer title would 
 require more time to be read and would be held upon 
 the screen many seconds. The audience, therefore, 
 would have more time in which to accustom themselves 
 to the passage of years. On the other hand, however, if 
 only a few hours have passed, the mental readjustment 
 is rapid and a short title will answer the purpose. As 
 a matter of fact, " twenty years " is an extreme in- 
 stance, because photoplays with great time lapses are 
 not wanted by the companies, precisely for this reason 
 that they are not convincing. The spectators cannot 
 feel assured that twenty years, or ten years, or even five 
 years have passed in the space of a few seconds. Such 
 lapses call attention to the unreality of the picture. 
 It makes the audience conscious that it is only a photo- 
 play after all. It shatters the illusion into which we 
 must all enter if we are to enjoy reproduction in any 
 of the arts. It is like putting up a sign on a beautiful 
 Inness landscape that the cows are not cows at all but 
 just brown paint. 
 
 An important function of the subtitle is to intro- 
 duce the characters at the beginning of the continuity. 
 Each character is introduced in a separate title which 
 should not be too obvious, and should be as attractive as 
 
SCENARIO TECHNIQUE 107 
 
 possible. In addition to the name of the character there 
 should be a few words which wiU characterize the per- 
 son and place him or her definitely in the minds of the 
 audience. In these introductory leaders, the locale of 
 the story should also be identified. If the action takes 
 place in Alaska or Cape Cod, establish the fact in the 
 introduction. In some cases the setting is as important 
 as the characters. For instance, the title, " THE 
 LITTLE TOWN^ OP LAND'S END OEFERS 
 ONLY A DREARY EXISTENCE TO MARY 
 LOUISE MILLER," or "THE WAVES OF THE 
 ATLANTIC BREAK NEVERENDINGLY OVER 
 THE LONELY LIGHTHOUSE WHERE MARY 
 LOUISE MILLER HELPS HER GRANDFATHER 
 TO TAKE CARE OF THE LIGHT," serves the 
 double purpose of introducing the principal character 
 and laying the stage for the story. The words " dreary 
 existence " in the first one strike the keynote of the pic- 
 ture, and the words " helps her grandfather care for 
 the light " in the second give the audience an idea of 
 Mary Louise's place in life. Such leaders carry on 
 the work of the exposition of the play. 
 
 The characters should never be introduced in a 
 monotonous string as: "JOHN SMITH," "MARY, 
 HIS WIFE," "MAIDA, THEIR DAUGHTER," 
 "SAMUEL WATSON, HER SWEETHEART," 
 " AUNT MARY WATSON, HIS AUNT," and so on 
 until the list is exhausted. The principals, or the char- 
 acters immediately necessary to the action, should be 
 introduced, and the others left to be introduced in the 
 order of their appearance. If a character is not going 
 
108 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 to appear until the second or third reel, leave his intro- 
 duction until then. In the Cecil de Mille production 
 " Don't Change Your Husband," a character was intro- 
 duced at the beginning of the first reel although she 
 did not appear in the action until the end of the fourth 
 reel. She was a constant source of distraction to the 
 audience who were continually trying to puzzle out who 
 she was and where she was going to fit into the picture. 
 On the other hand it is bad technique to bring in a 
 character in the fifth reel whom the audience has not 
 seen or heard of before. It is too obvious that such a 
 character is merely dragged in to bring about a satis- 
 factory solution, a deus, or dea, ex machina to satisfy 
 the need for a happy ending. The spectator must be 
 prepared for the characters as carefully as he is pre- 
 pared for the plot development. They should be worked 
 in until they are an inseparable part of the plot. 
 
 In the early days of production the entire cast of 
 characters was thrown upon the screen at once, just as 
 they might appear in a theatre program. This was 
 hopelessly confusing because the audience had to re- 
 member the names of the fictitious people, the names 
 of the actors and actresses who took the parts, their 
 relationships in the play, and then, having duly exer- 
 cised their powers of retention, they must needs fit the 
 names to the faces of the characters as they appeared 
 upon the screen. The people with good memories were 
 able to accomplish this feat, but the majority of the 
 audience became sadly involved in speculation as to who 
 was who. Later the directors hit upon the expedient 
 of introducing the characters separately by titles fol- 
 
SCENARIO TECHNIQUE 10J9 
 
 lowed by close-ups or semi-close-ups. This device helps 
 the spectator to become acquainted with the character 
 once and for all. Usually the person is shown in a 
 symbolic setting to aid the identification. If he is a 
 doctor, he may be shown in his office or in a hospital 
 ward; if he is a chemist, in his laboratory; if he is a 
 man of letters, among his books. This economizes the 
 attention of the audience to a great degree. Mr. 
 Griffith, however, still adheres to the earlier practice. 
 
 Subtitles and spoken titles are, like the action, always 
 written in the present tense. Furthermore, inserts 
 should read like the forms they represent. If a law 
 document, a lease, a will, or anything of the sort is 
 necessary in the continuity, the writer must look up the 
 legal form and carefully copy it in. A writ of habeas 
 corpus should not sound like a social letter, nor should 
 a social letter sound like a telegram, which it not infre- 
 quently does, owing to the ardor of the novice to save 
 footage wherever it is possible. The writer should 
 obviate criticism of detail whenever he can. He should 
 make his photoplay " fool-proof," or, in other words, 
 take care not to give the audience an opportunity to 
 ridicule mistakes. Audiences have often made an other- 
 wise splendid play ridiculous by laughing throughout 
 at certain little mistakes on the part of the continuity 
 writer, and by refusing to appreciate the good things, so 
 engrossed were they in finding the flaws. 
 
 In regard to inserts, Phillips has this to say : " The 
 letter, telegram, and newspaper inserts are dangerous 
 expedients to employ too frequently . , . inserts and 
 captions must be something more than mere explanatory 
 
110 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 matter by becoming important contributory data." If 
 they neither delineate character nor advance the narra- 
 tion they should be dropped from the continuity. 
 
 The prospective continuity writer will do well to 
 study the titling of the pictures he sees from time to 
 time upon the screen. Whenever it is possible to do so, 
 he should make a rough estimate of the percentage of 
 words to pictures. Miss Unsell fixed the proportion at 
 about 500 feet of film for the titling and the other 
 4,500 feet for action in the ordinary five reel picture. 
 This is probably the ideal proportion, but it will be 
 noticed that a great many continuity writers exceed this 
 limit. Twelve hundred words is the usual approxima- 
 tion. The footage for titling can be gauged more or 
 less accurately by counting the number of words used 
 in the continuity and allowing a trifle less than a foot of 
 film per word. The minimum for a title, even though 
 it be but one word, is three feet of film. The film 
 passes through the camera at the rate of a foot a second. 
 Therefore, the author can roughly estimate in terms of 
 time how long his titles will run. 
 
 Continuity of the present day usually furnishes action 
 for five reels of film, due to the fact that feature pictures 
 are always five reels long at least. The evolution of 
 the five reel feature is an interesting one. The term 
 " reel " comes from the spool upon which the film is 
 wound. A thousand feet of film can be wound on each 
 spool. In the " good old days " in film production, the 
 producer made his picture more or less regardless of 
 length. The film was then rented to the exhibitor ac- 
 cording to subject. Some of the subjects were long 
 
SCENARIO TECHNIQUE 111 
 
 while others were short, and the exhibitor in a little 
 village miles away from the nearest exchange and 
 therefore unable to see the film before he booked it, had 
 no means of knowing whether " Tangled Threads " or 
 " The Spider's Web " would be sufficient for an eve- 
 ning's entertainment or not To solve this difficulty and 
 to remove the complaint of exhibitors when the length of 
 the picture did not satisfy their requirements, the 
 companies began leasing by reels, a one reel feature, or 
 a two reel feature as the case might be. When they 
 first began making two reel features they had serious 
 misgivings as to whether the public would stand for a 
 . picture of that great length. They soon discovered that 
 the public not only failed to object to, but actually de- 
 manded pictures of still. greater length, until now the 
 five reel standard has become the unit of measure. In 
 the old Biograph Company some of the most iUustrioua 
 names upon the screen to-day first saw light in those 
 early two reel features — ^D. W. Griffith, Mary Pick- 
 ford, Lillian and Dorothy Gish, Mae Marsh, Blanche 
 Sweet, and many others. It was found that the five reel 
 feature solved the exhibitor's problem; it gave length 
 and body to the program. It has now become an estab- 
 lished institution. The question naturally arises, how- 
 ever, as to whether the photoplay will always conform 
 to such arbitrary boimds. The reel is a purely mechani- 
 cal measure to which the big story must be cut down 
 and the slight story padded if its demands are to be 
 satisfied. Such a mechanical dictum cannot help but 
 hamper the writer. He must force himself to think and 
 to create in terms of reels. He should not be obliged to 
 
112 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 do this any more than a novelist should be forced to 
 write a book of, let us say, two hundred and sixty-five 
 pages or not at all. Exhibitors claim that if the feature 
 is longer than five reels the audience becomes restless, 
 and if it is shorter people feel they have not had 
 sufficient return upon the money invested at the box 
 office. 
 
 Artistically, the writer should be limited only by 
 the bounds of his art. He should have as little or as 
 much time and space as are essential to the perception 
 of his dramatic idea. This might be accomplished if the 
 exhibitors would do away with their highly artificial and 
 often crude " program system." The program is usu- 
 ally made up of a news weekly, an educational film or 
 " scenic," a two reel comedy, and the five reel feature 
 picture. There is no logical, or illogical, reason for 
 such a combination. They do not coalesce; there is no 
 unity to bind them together. It is merely a bad habit 
 into which exhibitors have fallen in the misguided be- 
 lief that they are serving the public the better thereby. 
 When they finally awake to the fact that it is a bad 
 habit, thy will probably rid themselves of it. There is 
 no particular urge upon the part of an audience to swal- 
 low education, laughter, drama, and the news all at a 
 single sitting. Or if there be any such inborn craving, 
 let it be satisfied by incorporating a bit of education into 
 the feature picture by appealing to the intellect, by 
 making the settings as beautiful and as inspiring as any 
 scenic that can be screened, with the additional advan- 
 tage of giving the scenes a dramatic interest for the audi- 
 ence inasmuch as they are bound up in the happenings 
 
SCENARIO TECHNIQUE 113 
 
 of the play, and by putting into the plot good whole- 
 some comedy of situation which will provoke more 
 laughter in a few seconds than custard pie polemics 
 can conjure up in two reels. 
 
 Mr. Rothapfel, erstwhile manager of the Eivoli and 
 Eialto and more recently the Capitol theatres in IvTew 
 iTork, attempts to unify the program by making its 
 parts homogeneous. If, for instance, the feature picture 
 chances to have an Indian background with its heroine 
 an Indian girl, he wUI procure an educational film deal- 
 ing with life on the Government Reservations, intro- 
 duce Indian music, and show some sort of an Indian 
 comedy. The idea in itself is all very well, and it may 
 mitigate some of the horrors of a conglomerate pro- 
 gram, but it does not strike at the root of the evil. The 
 program does not need to be improved upon. It needs 
 to be obliterated. If a play makes a definite impression 
 upon the spectator, he ought to be allowed to carry that 
 impression home with him instead of being rudely 
 awakened from the spirit of the play he has just wit- 
 nessed by a comedy which urges him to laugh at a fat 
 man who has just fallen over a scrubbing pail and is 
 wallowing around in the soapy water. The day is fast 
 coming when exhibitors will laugh at the cut and dried 
 " program system " and wonder why they were blind 
 to it so long. Provision will be made for those who 
 want to listen to good music to attend concerts, for 
 those who want "slap stick" comedy to go to bur- 
 lesques, while the true devotees of the art of the motion 
 picture may witness their photodrama of five or ten or 
 three reels of film, measured by the artistic demands of 
 
114. CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 the story with no regard for the artificial thousand foot 
 rule. 
 
 As for the argument that the public will tire and grow 
 restless if the photoplay is longer than five reels, the 
 ohvious answer is, " make it interesting and absorbing." 
 An audience will sit still as long as their interest is 
 held. The spectators of the Passion Play at Oberam- 
 m«rgau are content to spend days and hours witnessing 
 that marvelous life-drama. And they are not a strange 
 race of human beings. It might as well be claimed 
 that readers will not like certain novels because they 
 are not short stories, or that they wiU dislike short 
 stories because they are not novels. Some of the most 
 successful photoplays screened have been eight and nine 
 reels in length. No one complained when " The Birth of 
 a Nation " was being shown to crowded houses in New 
 York at the usual matinee time from 2:15 p.m. until 
 5 :00 o'clock, that there was no news weekly or no 
 comedy shown along with it. " Broken Blossoms " and 
 " Les Miserables " were also shown in solitary state at 
 Broadway theatres with no program elements to break 
 in upon their mood. 
 
 Be that as it may, the time has not come for art 
 patrons to rejoice over the emancipation of the photo- 
 play, and the continuity writer must still keep ever be- 
 fore him the five reel standard. He must treat his sub- 
 ject accordingly, and none the less artistically. Every 
 artist must express himself within the limitations of 
 his art at the particular time he is creating. A criminal 
 awaiting execution carved with a needle upon a common 
 bean an exquisite reproduction of the " Man of Sor- 
 
SCENARIO TECHNIQUE 115 
 
 rows." He was without hammer, chisel or marble. 
 Yet he achieved a work of art. Let us, therefore, re- 
 turn to photoplay restrictions, and make the most of 
 them. 
 
 We have said that the reel contains a thousand feet 
 of film and the five reel feature picture, naturally con- 
 tains 5,000 feet of film. As a matter of fact some 
 reels contain only 800 feet and the entire production 
 may be only 4,500 or 4,800 feet. In writing the 
 continuity it is impossible to reckon accurately the 
 number of feet to a scene. Some of the scenes 
 run through the camera so rapidly that they are scarcely 
 more than a flash, while others remain upon the 
 screen for a much longer time. Mr. John Emerson 
 has said that the longest scene he ever knew of was one 
 they did with Douglas Fairbanks which ran for sixteen 
 minutes. That is almost equivalent to saying the single 
 scene was a reel long. This might be managed in an 
 isolated instance with Mr. Fairbanks because his ever- 
 changing athletic performances and acrobatic feats 
 carry along the interest from second to second. The 
 audience are so absorbed in the swift-moving action 
 that the lack of change of setting would probably pass 
 unnoticed. In an ordinary drama, however, this would 
 be impossible. A setting which remains on the screen 
 for twenty minutes becomes irksome in the extreme, 
 and it is difficult to conceive pantomime which can be 
 sustained for that length of time. 
 
 But although it is impossible to say definitely ex- 
 actly how many scenes there shall be to a reel since the 
 length of the scenes varies so widely, the continuity 
 
116 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 writer can count approximately upon fifty scenes to tHe 
 reel, and between two hundred and two hundred and 
 fifty scenes to a five reel production. The action in the 
 scenes should be fairly detailed, in spite of the advice 
 often given to the contrary that detailed action is an 
 insult to the intelligence of the director. The whole 
 purpose of the continuity is to suggest new bits of busi- 
 ness and original ways of getting ideas across to the 
 audience to a director who, after he has directed some 
 eight pictures a year for several years, is apt to possess 
 a fatigued brain from which it is diflBcult to strike off 
 bright sparks of originality. The continuity writer 
 must be the dynamo which supplies him with ideas. 
 The detail of the action should be worked out with the 
 most minute care. The amateur is more apt to write 
 too little action into his scenes rather than too much. 
 Some of the scripts of Miss Jeannie MacPherson, who 
 writes continuity for the De Mille productions, contain 
 scenes which occupy an entire typewritten page. 
 
 The writer, however, must look to it that what he 
 puts into his scenes is action and not merely " words, 
 words, words." He should ask himself if what he is 
 writing is capable of being captured by the camera, if 
 it can be translated into pantomime. If it has no screen 
 value, he should eliminate it straightway. It is useless 
 to go into the minute psychological processes that are 
 taking place in the minds of the characters. They will 
 not register on the screen unless the writer has thought 
 out their equivalent in terms of action. Sometimes 
 mental processes have physical reactions, and some- 
 
SCENARIO TECHNIQUE 117 
 
 times they have not The writer should not say in 
 his action "John thinks this" or "John thinks 
 that" If it is necessary that the audience should 
 know what John is thinking, they should be told in a 
 subtitle or spoken title. If not, it should be omitted 
 altogether. 
 
 The aim of the continuity writer is to build up his 
 story like the steps of stairs, each step bringing the 
 spectator one point nearer to the top, or the culminating 
 point of action. Each scene should make a definite im- 
 pression, accomplish one thing, and advance the narra- 
 tion a step nearer the climax. After each completed 
 scene sequence or episode the picture shoidd be faded 
 out and the new set of incidents faded in. 
 
 Fading out is the technical term used for the gradual 
 diminution of light until the frame is in darkness. It 
 is obtained by having the camera operator close the 
 diaphragm of the camera to nothing. The illumination 
 upon the picture is gradually decreased until the pic- 
 ture disappears from view. The fade in is exactly 
 the reverse of this. The action starts with the lens 
 closed and the diaphragm is slowly opened until the 
 full illumination is reached. The terms " fade up " 
 and " fade down " may be used respectively for " fade 
 in " and " fade out." 
 
 The fade is often used for purposes of vision. There 
 are two kinds of vision : the vision within the frame and 
 the vision outside the frame. The vision inside the 
 frame is sometimes called the "straight vision." It 
 may be produced by double exposure or double printing. 
 
118 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Double exposure, however, is generally used. It is part 
 of the running scene and not a scene in itself. The 
 effect is obtained by slipping into the camera a mask 
 which covers a portion of the scene, the window where 
 the haunting features of the man he has wronged is to 
 appear to the villain, or the chair in which the form 
 of his beloved is to appear to the hero, or wheresoever 
 the writer desires the same vision to occur. This effect is 
 gained by the same method used in taking the dual 
 role or double exposure pictures. The number of 
 turns given to the crank of the camera in taking the 
 action of the fuU scene are counted. At the end of the 
 scene the film is turned back a corresponding number 
 of times, and the mask is changed so that the unex- 
 posed portion is now exposed, and the portion formerly 
 exposed is now covered. Then the vision scene is taken. 
 When the film is developed and run through the pro- 
 jector the vision appears as part of the scene. (See 
 illustration opposite page 22.) Visions within the 
 frame are effective, but are more difficult than the 
 vision outside the frame, often called the fade vision, 
 because the film has to be carried around in the 
 camera until the vision scene is made. In addition it 
 has the disadvantage of reducing the scope of the vision 
 to a single person or object. It can flash a face or a 
 scene for a moment or two but does not allow for the 
 visioning of continued action to any extent. There- 
 fore, in order to vision in a scene sequence or action that 
 is going to be held for any length of time, the device 
 of the vision outside the frame, or the fade vision, was 
 evolved whereby the effect was gained simply by fading 
 
SCENARIO TECHNIQUE 119 
 
 out the main picture and fading in the vision scene. 
 The vision is then on an entirely separate strip of film 
 and does not call for double exposure. 
 
 If the connection between the main scene and the 
 vision is very close, it may be shown by having the 
 scene dissolve into the vision scene. The dissolve is 
 two fades superimposed on the film. Having faded 
 down one scene, the director takes back the film into 
 the top box and fades up the new scene on the same 
 strip of film. The decrease of light upon the picture 
 that was faded down and the increase of light upon 
 the new scene that is being faded in cause the two 
 pictures to be completely dissolved into one another, 
 until by gradual displacement the new scene is clearly 
 shown. The dissolve, like the vision within the frame, 
 necessitates leaving the film in the camera until the new 
 scene can be taken upon it. Therefore, the continuity 
 writer before calling for a dissolve should be convinced 
 that it will heighten the effectiveness sufficiently to 
 warrant the extra trouble. 
 
 In the script the vision within the frame is written 
 into the action of the scene where it is to appear, and 
 does not constitute a new scene. In " Witchcraft," for 
 instance, there is a vision within the frame in Scene 4 
 when the little devils representing the children's terri- 
 fied imaginings, are faded in upon the door. The words 
 " Vision in " are written in in capital letters followed by 
 a description of what is to appear. When it is desired 
 that the vision fade out, the words " Vision Out " or 
 " Vision Fades " is written in. There is also a vision 
 
120 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 When the fade vision is used it is handled in the 
 script just like the straight fade. One scene ends with 
 the words " Fade Out," and the new one begins with the 
 words " Fade In." When the vision scene, or scenes, 
 are completed the words " Fade Out " are added, and 
 the main scene is faded in once more. Therefore each 
 vision outside of the frame requires four fades. If the 
 dissolve is used, the words, " Dissolve Into " is 
 added to the end of the scene that is to be dissolved. 
 The new scene begins like any normal scene, but 
 when it is to fade into the first scene again the 
 words " Dissolve Into " are added to the terminus of 
 the scene. 
 
 The terms " Iris In " and " Iris Out " are used when 
 the writer wishes the iris diaphragm manipulated for a 
 certain effect. Irising is frequently used instead of 
 the fade to indicate the completion of a scene sequence 
 and the beginning of a new series of scenes. On the 
 screen the effect is seen as a full frame gradually becom- 
 ing encircled until it is a mere dot, or (for the iris in) 
 a dot which becomes an ever-widening circle until it 
 occupies the full frame. The iris cuts down the area 
 of the picture on the screen, but not the amount of 
 illumination upon the part of the picture shown. The 
 fade is due to light control; the iris to space control. 
 Irising is often called, and more properly, vignetting. 
 The iris device consists of a series of curved movable 
 blades placed in front of the lens of the camera. The 
 iris is often used to call attention to a particular object 
 which might otherwise escape emphasis, yet which is not 
 of sufficient importance to warrant a close-up. If for 
 
SCENARIO TECHNIQUE 121 
 
 instance at the end of a scene the writer wants to call 
 the audience's attention to a ring, or a worn-out shoe, or 
 a revolver on the floor, any of which might have a 
 particular significance in the plot, he may add the 
 words " Iris down to Ring," or " Iris down to Shoe," 
 or " Iris down to Revolver." Very often a director will 
 use the iris to focus the attention upon the face of the 
 hero or heroine. The " iris " and " fade " are some- 
 times comhined effectively. 
 
 All camera directions, as iris, fade, dose-up, semi- 
 close, long-shot, etc, should appear in the script in 
 capital letters. In Miss Tumhull's script they are in 
 parenthesis. This is not necessary. 
 
 If a scene is to be shown upon the screen merely for 
 a second or two, the word " FLASH " may foUow the 
 setting. Sometimes it is desired to show a flash of a 
 scene that has gone by for purposes of emphasis or con- 
 trast. In this case the setting is repeated with the 
 word " Flash " following it. When we return to some- 
 thing that has already been shown it is called a cut- 
 back. The chief use of the cut-back is to heighten the 
 suspense by paralleling the plot. It is said that the 
 credit for the invention of the cut-back belongs to Mr. 
 GriflBlii. In the early days of production he would 
 start a band of pioneers off into the wilds in a prairie- 
 schooner. Next he would cut to a tribe of Indians 
 skulking upon the war patL Then he would cut to 
 the Government militia setting out to subdue them. 
 Then back to the pioneers, then back to the Indians 
 
122 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 to the militia who have been delayed by a swollen 
 stream which they are unable to ford. Now the In- 
 dians are practically upon the brave little band. We 
 flash back to the soldiers who have by this time gotten 
 under way again. This process of cutting back is con- 
 tinued until every bit of suspense that it is possible to 
 get out of the picture has been exhausted. Mr. Grif- 
 fith is still fond of the cut-back for purposes of sus- 
 pense. We see traces of his early endeavors in his later 
 plays. In " Hearts of the World " he cuts back from 
 the girl and the man who are imprisoned in the ruined 
 chateau to the advancing armies of the Allies until the 
 seriousness of the situation grows into the ludi- 
 crous. 
 
 The cut-back may also be used for purposes of con- 
 trast.- The girl who is now sunk in the depths of 
 misery and poverty thinks how happy she might be now 
 if she had not impulsively run away and married 
 against the wishes of her family. The picture cuts to 
 the happy and prosperous home of the faithful lover, 
 now happily married, whom she recklessly discarded and 
 whom she now knows she loves. The quick cut-back 
 brings out the two positions in marked contrast. Con- 
 trasts between riches and poverty, peace and chaos, love 
 and hatred, suspicion and trust, happiness and unhap- 
 piness, may all be portrayed by the device of the cut- 
 back. The cut-back may also show a close thought con- 
 nection. Sometimes the term " flash back " or simply 
 " flash " is used synonymously with cut-back. In the 
 script the term is added to the scene where the break is 
 to occur, as 
 
SCENARIO TECHNIQUE 123 
 
 Scene 29 
 INT. HALL BEDROOM. SHABBY FURNITUEE AND 
 LITTER OF COOKING UTENSH^S INDICATING 
 EXTREME POVERTY ' 
 
 Mary enters wearily, throwing the newspaper, the " Help 
 Wanted" columns of which have plainly been her con- 
 cern, upon the bed. She looks around at the dirty 
 dishes, the remnants of food, and the litter of wearing 
 apparel with the deepest disgust. She sinks into the 
 single dilapidated chair overwhelmed by the misery of 
 it all. CUT TO 
 
 Scene 30 
 EXT. GROTTNDS OF THIBAULT ESTATE. DAY 
 
 Doris is frolicing with a little boy upon the lawn. 
 A huge collie plays with them. The man of the picture 
 approaches, swings the child upon his shoulder, puts an 
 arm about Doris and the trio start toward a tea-table 
 set under a nearby tree, the collie following gaily. 
 CUT TO 
 
 Scene 31 
 INT. HALL BEDROOM. SHABBY FURNITURE, ETC.- 
 
 Mary has buried her face in her hands, and her shoulders 
 shake with sobs as she gives way to a passion of misery 
 and despair. FADE OUT. 
 
 When merely a flash of some preceding action is 
 needed to recall it to the mind of the spectators it is 
 indicated in the script by treating it as a new scene but 
 instead of writing out the action to be repeated, merely 
 write Flash of 22. 
 
124 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 The term " Pan " or " Panoram " is a contraction 
 of the word panoramic. It is used to denote a scene in 
 which the camera is moved on its tripod in order to 
 follow the action of the players without moving the 
 tripod itself. Such scenes are often called " follow " 
 scenes. Another " follow " effect is obtained by placing 
 the camera in an automobile either preceding or follow- 
 ing a car in which action is taking place, on the front 
 of an engine, in an aeroplane following another, and 
 such places. They should be indicated in the continuity 
 as part of the camera directions. 
 
 It is not necessary to divide the continuity into reels. 
 .When projection had not reached its present state of 
 perfection it was essential that each reel contain a dra- 
 matic crisis at the end of the reel. This served to keep 
 the audience in a state of suspense while the next reel 
 was being put into the projection machine. Nowadays 
 either the theatres have two projection machines upon 
 which one reel is run while the other is threaded into 
 the second and so on with the third and fourth in rota- 
 tion, or the drum in the projection is suflBciently big 
 to hold the multiple reels. Therefore it is no longer 
 necessary for the writer to cudgel his brains trying to 
 think up five crises when his plot only admits of two 
 or three. He can build up his play in normal sequence 
 and work toward the main climax without any artificial 
 or mechanical restrictions. 
 
 The cast of characters should be listed in the order 
 of their prominence with a few descriptive words which 
 will give a good idea of the type of person represented. 
 It is not necessary to list the ages of the characters, or 
 
SCENARIO TECHNIQUE 125 
 
 their complexions, unless they have some vital hearing 
 upon the plot. A general characterization, as " elderly " 
 or " an ingenue " is sufficient for age specification. 
 
 The scene plot is a division of the settings of the play 
 into " Interiors," " Exteriors," and " Locations," with a 
 numerical list of the scenes in which each is used. 
 Interiors are ohviously all inside sets. Exteriors are 
 outside sets which have to be built for the purpose on 
 the lot, as for instance, a street in Alaska, the BastUe, 
 an arena for a gladiatorial contest. A location is 
 foimd ready made by nature or circumstance, as a path 
 in the woods, a country road, a river bank, or other 
 such scenes. Landscape in and around Los Angeles and 
 Hollywood, and in fact most of California, has been 
 worn threadbare by directors in search of new or beauti- 
 ful locations. All the choice spots have been used so 
 often, even to the Bridal Veil FaUs and the Sequoias in 
 the Yosemite Valley, that they have become a stock joke 
 in the motion picture profession. 
 
 In addition to listing the settings under their re- 
 spective headings, the scene plot lists all of the num- 
 bers of the scenes in which the setting is used, with the 
 total of the number of times the same setting occurs. 
 The total is given in order that the director of produc- 
 tion may see at a glance whether or not the scene is used 
 sufficiently to warrant the expense involved in making it 
 or in seeking it afar. 
 
 The technical form of the scene plot may be seen in 
 the script printed on the last pages of the book. 
 
CHAPTEK VII 
 
 WEITING A SYNOPSIS FOE THE PHOTO- 
 PLAY MAEKET 
 
 The word " synopsis " when applied to the photo- 
 play has a highly specialized meaning. Continuity 
 writing in the last few years has become a profession in 
 itself, and the writer thereof needs long and careful 
 training before he can handle a script successfully. 
 Not every chance person can write out a plot of action. 
 But precisely because everyone was attempting it, 
 because scenario writing was becoming the most popu- 
 lar form of " indoor sport," because the companies were 
 swamped with bits of script from the butcher, the baker, 
 the candle-stick maker, who had absolutely no idea of 
 the technique, of the form, of the camera, or of the 
 procedure in the business of making a photoplay, be- 
 cause even the school children sent in dog-eared scraps 
 of paper narrating stories laboriously copied out of 
 library books, the companies delivered the ultimatum 
 that scenarios were no longer acceptable. Writers must 
 submit their ideas in synopsis form, and if they were 
 Iiurchased the company would farm out the continuity 
 to scenarioists whose skill had been tried and proved. 
 This ultimatum still holds good, but it is a protective 
 measure, however, of which prospective writers of the 
 photoplays need not complain. Although the writer 
 
 126 
 
WRITING A SYNOPSIS 127 
 
 cannot sell tis continuity he can market his ability 
 to write continuity. If he can become a trained and 
 clever scenarioist he will never find any difficulty in 
 getting work from the companies as a staff contiauity 
 writer. 
 
 But if the author finds no interest in that phase of 
 the work, if he prefers to write original stories rather 
 than to adapt the creations of other peoples' brains to 
 screen needs, the " extended synopsis " offers all the 
 opportunity he needs for marketing his story. If he 
 is wise he will use the synopsis as a clever means of 
 evading the dictum of the producers concerning con- 
 tinuity. 'No one can gainsay the fact that the author 
 is the rightful and the best person to work out his story. 
 He knows what he means and can " get his meaning 
 across " better than anyone else. The author, therefore, 
 being denied the medium of continuity, the channel 
 through which details of the action can best be worked 
 out, must incorporate into the synopsis all his sugges- 
 tions for settings and bits of action which may delineate 
 character or intensify the dramatic interest of his play. 
 
 To do this, obviously, he must write his continuity 
 before he attempts to write an extended synopsis. 
 Ideas come to the writer when he is working out the 
 plot of action that he would otherwise miss entirely. 
 Secondly, he cannot do justice to his plot unless he has 
 idone the continuity. In order to tell the story vividly 
 he must see it in terms of action. The synopsis must 
 create in the mind of the scenario editor who reads it 
 the same picture which is later to be seen upon the 
 screen by the spectators. This cannot be done unless 
 
128 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 the action has been carefully worked out in every de- 
 tail. Mr. Hector Tumbull, formerly scenario editor 
 of the Famous Players-Lasky Company, and hence a 
 reader of countless screen stories, told the students of 
 Photoplay Composition at Columbia University at one 
 time when he was addressing them that he could tell 
 in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred which authors had 
 done their continuity and which had not, so great is 
 the effect upon the completed synopsis. 
 
 The synopsis ought to be anywhere from 2,500 to 
 6,000 words long. Companies very often will tell writ- 
 ers to send in a short synopsis of the play. If the 
 writer takes the advice seriously he will impair his 
 chances of a sale. A photoplay told in five or six hun- 
 dred words cannot help but lack individuality. Polti 
 writes of " thirty-six dramatic situations " — and later 
 critics reduce the number to seven. In a synopsis of 
 five hundred words a story will sound like any one of 
 these stock situations. The skeleton of the story stands 
 out in all its crudity and it needs the originality of 
 treatment or the new working out of detail which the 
 author may have conceived to redeem it from the hope- 
 lessly mediocre. Neither is it wise to precede the 
 synopsis by a short summary of the main dramatic situ- 
 ation. By doing this the story loses its suspense for the 
 reader who approaches it with the bored air of one who 
 already knows the plot. The story has lost its newness 
 for him. Let the scenario reader play the part of the 
 ideal spectator obtaining the facts in the development 
 of the plot no sooner and no later than the audience 
 would. 
 
WRITING A SYNOPSIS 129 
 
 The synopsis of a photoplay should be written in 
 careful, well constructed sentences, according to ac- 
 cepted methods of punctuation, with no omitted sub- 
 jects and predicates. The use of sentences without sub- 
 jects, or predicated by sprinkling dashes indiscrimi- 
 nately through the text, only irritates and confuses the 
 busy reader. The writer should not employ the tech- 
 nique of continuity writing in his synopsis or try to show 
 his knowledge of camera directions and studio terms 
 by scattering them about in the synopsis. These things 
 have their place only in the continuity. The synopsis 
 employs the narrative style and merely suggests effects 
 to the continuity writer. 
 
 The synopsis is the story of the plot arranged in a 
 series of scenes, each one the logical outcome of the one 
 before and each one bringing the reader one step nearer 
 to the culminating point of the story. No numbers 
 are used in the synopsis and no " form " is necessary 
 except that of ordinary narrative, arranged in well or- 
 dered paragraphs. The writer should sketch his setting 
 and place his character in it in a few descriptive words. 
 For instance : " As Mary sits in her little antique shop 
 made gloomy by the dusty draperies and heavy crip- 
 pled furniture of a by-gone day, her thoughts as grim 
 and dreary as they, the door is pushed gradually open 
 by an unseen hand." Or, " High up ia his office which 
 commands a view of the great big city, John Under- 
 bill is looking out to the factory chimneys which are 
 belching smoke and flame against the sky and proclaim- 
 ing him a master of money and of men." 
 
 The synopsis is the selling agent of the story. In 
 
130 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 terms of salesmanship it must do the publicity work on 
 the idea. It must advertise as well as sell. It is the 
 vehicle by which interest is awakened as to the money- 
 making possibilities of the story. It must prove that 
 the story is commercially as well as dramatically at- 
 tractive. The impression created by a synopsis, as a 
 general rule, must be created at a first reading. A busy 
 reader has no time to read a manuscript through a sec- 
 ond time. If the script is to have the honor of having 
 more time expended upon it, it must captivate the 
 attention of the scenario editor at the first reading. 
 The synopsis, therefore, should have the good points of 
 the story on top like the cream on milk. They must 
 be obviously good, and at the same time they must be 
 fundamentally good so that they may bear close scrutiny 
 and careful thought when it comes to the weighty matter 
 of a purchase. 
 
 The student has a splendid ally in making his synop- 
 sis attractive — the English language. This does not 
 mean, of course, that he has to be a master of the art 
 of written language like Stevenson, or a stylist and 
 purist like Henry James. But it does mean that he 
 should make use of the three rhetorical principles — 
 -Unity, Emphasis, and Coherence; that he must choose 
 his words accurately and build up his vocabulary until 
 he commands words that visualize ideas, words that 
 connote pictures. It is more cinematic to say " Mary 
 nods assent " than to say " Mary says ' Yes.' " There 
 is action in nodding assent, whereas there is none in 
 saying "yes." 
 
 The mistake made by most amateurs is this : They 
 
WRITING A SYNOPSIS 131 
 
 become irrelevant. They stray into by-paths and inci- ■^ 
 dents that have little or nothing to do with the theme. 
 This is where the principle of Unity comes in to hold us 
 to our main dramatic interest. It may aid the student 
 in writing the synopsis to keep the following rules in 
 mind: 
 
 1. Admit no incidents that do not \,.. 
 
 a. delineate character, 
 
 b. furnish necessary comedy to lighten the 
 
 somber subject, 
 e. advance the plot development. 
 
 2. Admit no characters that are not absolutely essen- 
 
 tial to the plot. Limit your characters to three 
 or four wherever possible. In the short space 
 of five reels you cannot do justice to more. Be- 
 sides the fewer people playing in the photoplay 
 the less the cost of production. Moving picture 
 companies are not stock companies with plenty 
 of people to play extra parts. They hire i)eople 
 as they need them according to the script. 
 
 3. Always write in the present tense. It is more , 
 
 vivid, and besides the present is the tense of the 
 screen. 
 
 4. Lastly, double space your synopsis and capitalize 
 
 possible subtitles or spoken titles. Clever titles 
 have often sold, or helped to sell, a stoiy. 
 
 5. Submit a cast of characters with your synopsis. 
 
 Never submit continuity. 
 
CHAPTEK VIII 
 CINEMA COMEDY 
 
 Me. Geoege Beenaed Shaw, in discussing comedy 
 with a colleague at one time, is quoted as saying : " Dis- 
 regard all academic counsel on the subject and go learn 
 your trade from the circus clown." It would seem that 
 most of our screen comedy writers have taken Mr. 
 Shaw's advice not wisely but too weU. We have too 
 much of the circus clown in our motion pictures — 
 probably because the comedy of the clown consists 
 mostly of action and therefore his antics were looked 
 upon as cinematic. With the gradual growth of the 
 mental appeal of the motion picture and the numbering 
 of all degrees of intellect among the audiences, buf- 
 foonery is no longer suflBcient for comedy needs. We 
 no longer want pure comedy of action, which has given 
 rise to the special term of " slapstick comedy." We 
 want comedy of character, comedy of situation, comedy 
 of incident, and comedy of costume. And the greatest 
 of these is comedy of situation. 
 
 But before we go further let us define comedy. The 
 sense of the comic arises from a perception of incon- 
 gruity. The discrepancy between things as they are 
 and things as they ought to be make for incongruity — 
 the very dignified pompous character put in a ridiculous 
 
 position, the woman-hater suddenly surrounded by 
 
 132 
 
CINEMA COMEDY 133 
 
 girls, the man -who is scheming quietly in the dark 
 given absurd publicity. The incongruity must be sud- 
 den so that the laughter of the audience wiU not be 
 forestalled by too much preparation — ^the best joke is 
 the unexpected one — and it must be sufficient to divert 
 the audience to laughter and make them forget their 
 serious interest in the play. 
 
 Comedy differs from tragedy not so much in subject 
 matter as in treatment. This may sound like a contra- 
 diction in terms, but nevertheless a joke is not a joke 
 when it has a serious appeal. The audience should not 
 be allowed to get emotionally worked up over comedy. 
 Comedy should be superficial, it should be on the sur- 
 face. The writer may put his characters in distress- 
 ing situations but the distress should be ludicrous, not 
 real. In the otherwise splendid comedy " Shoulder 
 Arms," which was a vehicle for Charlie Chaplin, there 
 was one false note struck. The piece was produced 
 during the war when our sympathies were keyed up 
 to the highest pitch of emotion. In the course of the 
 film the subtitle " POOE FEANCE " was flashed 
 upon the screen. This was followed by a picture 
 showing a devastated region of France, with its 
 dwarfed trees, its ground pitted by shell-holes, and 
 a tumbled-down dwelling that had once been a happy 
 home. Huddled upon the doorstep was a victim of the 
 war with a shawl pulled over her shoulders and her 
 head in her arms weeping bitterly. The picture ran 
 quietly along for several seconds, giving the audience 
 time to realize the distresses and appalling misery of 
 " Poor France " to which the leader had called atten- 
 
134 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 tion, before the comedy purpose for which the setting 
 had been designed began to be shown. The comedy ele- 
 ment was funny enough — Charlie, the soldier, arrives 
 shortly, and with an air of the greatest secrecy close*^ 
 down the windows which are without glass and pulls 
 down the shades, all of which is in vain since the entire 
 side of the house is o£F, and his actions are exposed to 
 public view. He enters the house through the torn 
 side only to correct himself and go out and come in 
 again through the door. The setting undoubtedly had 
 great possibilities for comedy elements, but the writer 
 should not have emphasized the real distress that lay 
 behind it by calling attention deliberately to " Poor 
 France." 
 
 In another comedy produced some time ago, a pretty 
 little ingenue was married and departed on her wed- 
 ding trip. Her father discovers to his horror that the 
 pseudo-minister who married them is an escaped con- 
 vict. The father hurries to the station to stop the 
 honeymooners, but the train has just pulled out. He 
 follows the train in his automobile and the delays that 
 beset him are supposed to create comedy, but the dis- 
 tress of the father is so real and tbe consequences so 
 apparent that the audience becomes emotionally serious 
 over the young girl and sighs with relief when she is 
 finally overtaken. Had the audience known all along 
 that the minister was duly authorized they might have 
 enjoyed the father's excitement which, after all, could 
 have been merely the result of misinformation. 
 
 The writer of comedy must be careful not to make the 
 hero or heroine of the story ridiculous. If he makes 
 
CINEMA COMEDY 135 
 
 a fool of his protagonist the audience immediately loses 
 sympathy with him. It is in our human nature to 
 feel superior to a fool. And once sympathy is lost 
 for the hero and heroine the spell is broken; their 
 charm for us no longer exists. 
 
 Every new art or new invention must buUd up a 
 nomenclature of its own. Very often these words 
 hastily thought of, and hastily adopted, are mis- 
 nomers, or are not pure in their derivation, as for 
 instance the word cablegram. In the same way in 
 motion pictures the term " comedy-drama " has come 
 into accepted usage in spite of the fact that it is 
 tautology plain and simple. In the course of the growth 
 of the photoplay it became necessary to distinguish a 
 five reel photoplay based upon comedy of situation from 
 the two reel " slapstick " which had appropriated the 
 word " comedy." As a result the producers began label- 
 ing the former " comedy-drama." The term will prob- 
 ably remain, for commercial designation, if for noth- 
 ing else. Of course all drama was divided in the 
 sixteenth century into comedy, tragedy, and history. 
 Whatever the nature of the play, if it had a happy end- 
 ing it was comedy. It is too bad the producing com- 
 panies did not keep to this definition and designate 
 their " custard pie " variety of comedy as farce or 
 burlesque. 
 
 Comedy is the hardest of all types of drama to write, 
 and the compensation for good " comedy-drama " is in 
 direct ratio. Certain screen actors and actresses are con- 
 stantly demanding that type of play — Charles Eay, 
 Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, Bryant JVashbum, 
 
136 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Constance Talmadge, Madge Kennedy, et al. In these 
 plays the humor should depend upon situation, just as 
 it does in the comedies of Moliere, Sheridan, and Barrie, 
 
 The drollery should not be merely incidental as it 
 may be when its function is to lighten a more or less 
 heavy drama. It should be spun into the very fiber 
 and fabric of the plot. One funny situation will not 
 make a comedy-drama. The situations should be 
 progressive in their effect, each one resulting in another 
 which is still more laughable until the apex of the fun 
 becomes the climax of the play. In other words, the 
 humor must be sustained throughout. 
 
 Just as words are used by the cartoonists to point 
 the meaning of their caricatures, so words may be 
 used by the photoplay to intensify the comic effect. 
 For instance, in one of the comedies written for Doug- 
 las Fairbanks by Miss Anita Loos — an exponent of the 
 use of words on the screen — the breezy young American 
 is introduced to the Count of Castile, and searching 
 for something friendly to say, he bows in recognition 
 and says " How do you do — I've used your soap." 
 
 When comedy becomes judicial it enters the field of 
 satire. For a long time producers and directors felt 
 that satire was too subtle a medium for the screen. 
 Gradually this prejudice is being overcome. Satire, if 
 it is not too bitter and acrimonious, has its place upon 
 the screen. It is best when it is used as a correction of 
 life. It should be kindly, full of sunny laughter; it 
 should show up the faults and foibles of our human 
 nature and make us better thereby. " His Picture in 
 the Papers " was a satire on the craving of people for 
 
CINEMA COMEDY 137 
 
 publicity and was probably one of the first, if not the 
 first satire, to be produced on the screen. Of course it 
 was trivial, but it was a satire none the less. " Tne 
 Admirable Crichton," by Barrie, is a splendid social 
 satire, but the clever irony was entirely lost in its 
 recent adaptation to the screen as " Male and Female." 
 The artistic emphasis was placed on other elements quite 
 apart from the satiric ideas so cleverly conceived by 
 Barrie. Yet the changes were not demanded by screen 
 needs. The fault lay with a misguided scenarioist or 
 director, rather than with the limitations of the photo- 
 play. It was a pretentious photoplay — a superb one in 
 spots — but it was not Barrie, and it was not satire. 
 Perhaps they thought that Barrie unadulterated is not 
 for motion picture audiences. 
 
 Let the comic complications be crowned by a comic 
 outcome. In a bright little comedy written for Mr. 
 and Mrs. Sidney Drew when they were producing their 
 domestic comedies, a cumulation of humorous inci- 
 dents was built up on the sugar shortage that existed 
 during the war. Guests are expected for the week- 
 end and there is not a grain of sugar in the house. 
 The faithful Henry is despatched to scour the city 
 while Polly calls up every grocer in town and pleads 
 for a small ration if by any chance they should get 
 sugar in in the course of the day. Meanwhile Henry's 
 experiences in collecting sugar are amusing. He lunches 
 at hotel after hotel, until he cannot stand the sight of 
 food, in his efi'ort to collect the single lump that is doled 
 out with each portion of coffee. The lumps become nu-l 
 merous but the last check takes his last penily, whereupon' 
 
138 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 follow more humorous incidents in his endeavors to get 
 home. Meanwhile at home sugar has heen pouring in all 
 afternoon, so Henry's triumph is shortlived when he ar- 
 rives there. The comedy ends with the dinner table 
 scene. Polly proudly poises the tongs over an overflowing 
 bowl with the query, " How many, please, Mrs. Smith ? " 
 and the guest answers, " Oh, my dear, George and I 
 never take sugar in our coffee." The twist at the end 
 brought this comedy its biggest laugh. In another com- 
 edy, after a series of love mishaps the bridegroom mar- 
 ries his bride at a few minutes after twelve, thereby 
 violating the conditions of his uncle's wiU, which stipu- 
 lates that he must be married by a certain day or lose a 
 fortune. The young man calls up his lawyer in San 
 Francisco to tell him he has the girl and he doesn't care 
 about the money. The lawyer in San Francisco informs 
 him that owing to the difference in clocks between New 
 York and the west coast he has still plenty of time and 
 the money is his. Such comedy twists in the solution 
 often come as a dramatic surprise, but as long as the 
 surprise is not irrelevant or too improbable, the device 
 is entirely permissible to heighten comedy effects. 
 
 Very often repetition will aid comedy. A thing may 
 not be laughable the first time but if repeated again 
 and again it will arouse laughter. On the stage this 
 repetition is usually managed in the lines. Certain 
 bits of dialogue are repeated again and again until they 
 become catch words and the signal for laughter. In a 
 Broadway success of some years ago there was a comedy 
 character who attempts to tell an anecdote at all sorts 
 of inopportune times. But he was never allowed to get 
 
CINEMA COMEDY 139 
 
 beyond the words " Just before the Battle of Cayder 
 Crick," He persists throughout the pntire play with 
 always the same results. And each time he says " Just 
 before the Battle of Cayder Crick " the audience greets 
 it with laughter. In one of Dumas' dramas there is 
 a repetition of the words that would be equivalent to 
 our "that's pretty steep." And when the play ends 
 contrary to the expectations of everyone and in flagrant 
 inconsistency to the principles of the main character 
 who has been reiterating those principles throughout the 
 entire play, the curtain goes down on the old lawyer 
 saying, " Well, that's pretty steep ! " And the words 
 exactly express the feelings of the audience. Words 
 turned back upon their originator to plague and harass 
 him are also a source of comedy. 
 
 In the photoplay, however, we must rely mainly upon 
 action for our effects. Kepeated action that is out of 
 place and incongruous is equally as funny as repeated 
 words and is infinitely more cinematic. In " Amarilly of 
 Clothesline Alley " in which Mary Pickfprd played, and 
 for which Frances Marion wrote the scenario, there 
 was a clever bit of repetition. Amarilly's family have 
 been invited to a tea at the wealthy home with the object 
 of disillusioning the son and heir of the family with 
 AmariUy by showing her family au naturel. The tea- 
 wagon is rolled in by a pompous butler while the guests 
 look over the family from the tenements with lifted 
 lorgnettes and arched eyebrows, expressing disapproval. 
 Presently the family are back at Clothesline Alley, 
 and the tea scene is faithfully repeated by a redheaded, 
 freckle-faced im(p of a brother, only the tea-wagon 
 
140 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 rolled in is nothing but the baby carriage, and the 
 lorgnette held to coldly disapproving eyes is only a 
 battered tin teaspoon. Yet the repetition of the effect 
 is perfect and elicits gales of laughter from the spec- 
 tators. We are curiously satisfied, too, that the poor 
 who have been so ridiculous in the home of the wealthy 
 lady, find the rich equally ridiculous and laughable in 
 Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's kitchen. 
 
 Animals can very often be used for comic effects in 
 the photoplay. In Madge Kennedy's play " Leave it 
 to Susan " one of the characters in the play is a wonder- 
 ful bull pup. He is actually a character and not merely 
 dragged in to ornament the star. He provides the 
 motivation in the premise by getting off the train in 
 search of a stray rabbit while the private car of the 
 President of the railroad has stopped on the prairies 
 for water. It is in an effort to bring him back that 
 Susan is left on the prairies while the train pulls out 
 without her. From that time on the dog is an actor in 
 the picture. At the end of the picture when we have 
 seen the hero enter the house and go to the living room 
 to make things right with Susan, we see the dog ap- 
 proaching one of the big living-room windows. He leaps 
 through the window, landing on the window seat, evi- 
 dently in search of his mistress. But it is immediately 
 apparent that he feels himself intruding upon the lovers. 
 The scene is too sacred for other eyes. The dog is 
 hastily wriggling himself back out the window as the 
 picture is irised out. The scene was amusing and at 
 the same time, through its appeal to our imagination, 
 suggested the reconciliation of the lovers without show- 
 
CINEMA COMEDY 141 
 
 ing them in each other's arms — ^the inevitable and trite 
 ending of most photoplays. 
 
 In a Charles Eay picture, a hull is shown winking 
 at the audience when the son of the family, who is a 
 clerk in a haberdashery shop at ten dollars a week, 
 is telling the home peoplfe on the farm the great swathe 
 he is cutting in New York. Animals have a very 
 decided appeal to an audience. They laugh very 
 readily at the cunning antics of a trick cat like " Pep " 
 who is often featured in the Mack Sennett comedies, or 
 the humanness of the Pinto pony which accompanied 
 William S. Hart through countless miles of film. 
 
 The treatise called " Laughter " by the brilliant 
 Erench philosopher Henri Bergson gathers together a 
 goodly list of comedy methods. The student of photo- 
 play writing will find many of the principles stated 
 therein applicable to the creation of screen humor. " On 
 the Uses of the Comic Spirit," by George Meredith, 
 and " Poetry, Comedy and Duty," by Everett, will 
 also be of aid in acquiring comic perceptions. 
 
 The writer of comedy may gain humor as Mr. Shaw 
 does by entirely reversing roles in his play. 
 
 Besides reversing roles and characters, the writer of 
 comedy can reverse situations. The person who has 
 been the object of ridicule throughout the play may 
 suddenly come into his own and laugh last and best. 
 This device was put to excellent use in the Paramount 
 comedy starring Bryant Washburn, and called " The 
 Poor Boob." Simpson Hightower has been called 
 " Simp " so long — short for Simpson, but also short 
 for simpleton by common consensus of opinion — that 
 
142 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 he actually believes it himself. The reversal of situa- 
 tion in this play begins when " Simp " has just been 
 " fired " and the pretty little stenographer of the firm, 
 who is about to go on a week's vacation, advances the 
 theory that people value you at your own appraisal. 
 " Simp " believes himself a failure and so does every- 
 one else. Therefore, she proposes that " Simp " return 
 to his native town and proclaim himseK a millionaire. 
 The conspiracy is aided by the fact that her brother is 
 a chauffeur and has the use of his employer's limousine 
 while the latter is out of town. And so a trio, composed 
 of the millionaire " Simp," who has just lost his fifteen- 
 dollar-a-week job, the little stenographer, who is his 
 private secretary, and Jimmie the ofiBce boy, his valet, 
 arrives to startle the town. This they proceed to do, 
 and suddenly through a series of comic incidents 
 " Simp " is offered the directorship of the town bank, 
 although he has not a cent in his pockets. He is 
 the head of a million dollar corporation, and is bowed 
 down to by the head of the Danish High Commission, 
 and gets a hundred thousand dollar contract for food 
 supplies which the other characters have been strug- 
 gling to procure. The incongruity is emphasized and 
 the situation is funny in proportion to the fact that 
 " Simp " has been labeled and docketed " no good " 
 by the very people he outwits in the end. 
 
 The reversion of situation was also used in Clare 
 Kummer's comedy " Good Gracious, Annabelle," when 
 the society people hire themselves out as servants, and 
 in " The Admirable Crichton " when the haughty and 
 supercilious mistress is obliged to wait upon the butler. 
 
CINEMA COMEDY 143 
 
 Sometimes the underlying theme or moral of a story 
 may be made the basis for comedy. In Pinero's 
 " Amazons " the humorous situations all result from 
 the philosophical decision of the mother, long denied 
 sons, to bring up her three daughters as boys. " Down 
 to Earth," a Douglas Fairbanks comedy, employs the 
 same method that Moliere uses in his " Imaginary In- 
 valid." The sanitarium he raids with a small-pox 
 scare; he wrecks the escaping inmates upon a desert 
 island and in a short time is forcing the invalids to 
 chop wood and haul water like husky day-laborers. 
 
 Comedy has long been the black sheep of the motion 
 picture industry. Screen comedy has done more to 
 cast motion pictures into disrepute than any other one 
 factor in the production of films. Of late, however, 
 there have been salutary indications of the regenera- 
 tion of the prodigal. Two attempts to screen comedy 
 upon a thought-provoking basis are " The Great 
 Adventure" and "A Connecticut Yankee in King 
 Arthur's Court." The former could scarcely be called 
 a brilliant comedy, despite the admirable acting 
 of Mr. Lionel Barrymore. The latter would be 
 recognized but vaguely by Mark Twain. The screen 
 version is full of anachronisms from that gentleman's 
 point of view. There are references to the Volstead 
 Act, to " tin Lizzies," to the fight in the Argonne, and 
 there is much Broadway slang of the make of 1920 
 scattered through the titles. The rescuing party arrives 
 upon motorcycles instead of bicycles. Some of these 
 changes were necessary to preserve the humor. The col- 
 loquialisms had to be brought up to date, since there 
 
144 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 is nothing more flat than slang which has had its day. 
 Furthermore, although bicycles might have suggested 
 speed in Mark Twain's generation, nowadays they are 
 almost in a class with the stage coach as a means of swift 
 locomotion. Considered as comedies these photoplays 
 are only mildly funny. But considered as attempts to 
 rescue screen comedy from the benighted morass of 
 farce and establish it upon the purer plane of comedy 
 of idea, both are highly commendable. 
 
 Timeliness of the subject enters largely into the writ- 
 ing of motion picture comedy just as it does in the draw- 
 ing of cartoons for the daily journals. Cartoons seldom 
 if ever repeat themselves. This is because their sub- 
 jects are usually chosen from among the issues that 
 are before the attention of the public, issues which are 
 constantly changing as the warp and woof of political, 
 social, and economic unrest are woven. The wit directed 
 against situations and conditions which are forever 
 shifting must ipso facto be ephemeral. What is funny 
 to-day is stale and flat to-morrow. This element of time- 
 liness screen comedy shares in common with cartoons. 
 A comedy based upon the eighteenth amendment to the 
 Constitution of the United States which might provoke 
 intense merriment and mirth to-day would probably 
 meet unsmiling eyes three or four years from now, when 
 prohibition has either been taken for granted, or else 
 repealed, or perhaps shot to tatters as a target for 
 witticisms. The Chaplin Comedy " Shoulder Arms " 
 would not appeal nearly so much to audiences of the 
 far future when military discipline, tactics, and train- 
 ing, with their resultant wealth of humorous detail, have 
 
CINEMA COMEDY 145 
 
 been more or less forgotten, as it was in 1918 when it 
 was all so fresh in the minds of the audiences. The 
 renting situation and the maid question may be the 
 basis of sprightly domestic comedy to-day, especially if 
 "New York is to be the locale. Both may be dead issues 
 to-morrow from which not even Mr. Stephen Leacock 
 or Mr. Chesterton could prod out a smile. 
 
 It has long been a recognized fact that comedy varies 
 with nationality as well as with time. The French 
 comedies deal mirthfully with phases of married life 
 which would be tragedy to us. The English must 
 yawn as openly over Life or Vanity Fair as some 
 of us do over the latest copy of Punch. The solu- 
 tion of both of these problems attendant on comedy 
 writing is the obvious one. If the subject is timely, 
 hasten it to the public while still they may laugh. 
 If it is local in its appeal, try to laimch it upon the 
 audiences who best will appreciate its point, and if 
 circumstances prevent either, v/rite comedy that will be 
 universal in its appeal, comedy that can be under- 
 stood by all peoples and which will be proof against 
 the changes wrought by the passage of time, as im- 
 mortal as " The Frogs " " The Marriage of Figaro," 
 or " The School for Scandal." 
 
CHAPTEK IX 
 
 THE CRITICAL ANGLE 
 
 In the matter of criticism, nearly everyone brings 
 to bear upon a subject under discussion his personal 
 point of view. This point of view is rarely the result 
 of a sudden thought, or a flash of inspiration. It is 
 the result of the accumulation of years. It is the result 
 of our daily life, of our habits of thought, of our en- 
 vironment, of our training. The criticism of a play, 
 for instance, wiU vary as the critic is a dramatist, an 
 actor, an expert electrician, a fire warden, or an An- 
 thony ComstocL He may be interested in the technical 
 details of staging, he may be interested in the costuming, 
 the lighting, the scenery, or he may be interested in the 
 play itself, its dialogue, its plot structure, its character 
 delineation. Or again, he may be concerned with the 
 ethics of the play, or its moral value, or its uplift, or 
 its educational value. If he is a specialist upon any 
 one of these points, he wiU. look at the play through 
 the eyes of a specialist. He will probably get an 
 entirely different impression from the one of the person 
 who sits in the seat next him. Our powers of observation, 
 differ radically. Whenever an accident occurs, there are 
 always conflicting versions of it. Some of the eyewit- 
 nesses tell the happenings one way, some another, often 
 in direct contradiction to the first version. Only one 
 
 146 
 
THE CRITICAL ANGLE 147 
 
 accident occurs and they all witnessed the same thing. 
 Yet the reports conflict. It is due to an accepted 
 psychological phenomenon which we must counteract by 
 training ourselves to observe the essentials, the impor- 
 tant thing, instead of being distracted by irrelevant 
 details. We must train ourselves to see accurately. 
 Professor John Talcott Williams, for many years 
 director of the School of Journalism at Columbia Uni- 
 versity, had an interesting method of training ithe 
 young reporters who were following the journalistic 
 courses. He installed a projection machine in the 
 School of Journalism and rented films from time to 
 time. The film, which usually contained some excit- 
 ing event, would be run off for the students. Then they 
 would be required to write a report of the event which 
 had taken place in the film. The reports would be read 
 and compared. Of course none of them coincided 
 absolutely. In real life, an accident cannot be restaged 
 in order that the reporters get it accurately. But here 
 is where the value of the film came in. The picture 
 was run through a second time slowly so that the students 
 could see where they had made their mistakes and 
 where they had become inaccurate. This device. Pro- 
 fessor Williams says, helped the students enormously 
 in getting a thing right and getting it the first time. 
 
 We have said that each person brings his own point 
 of view to the theatre with him, a view that is the result 
 of his own training or interests. The critic is no excep- 
 tion, but if he is to criticize a play without prejudice, 
 with clear eyes and an open mind, he must divorce him- 
 self from the hampering influence of his personal point 
 
148 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 of view. He must cultivate, as it were, a universal atti- 
 tude of mind. He must strive for disinterestedness to 
 the highest degi-ee. His criticism should be free from 
 such determinants as politics, religion, or financial 
 emolument. He must not show, or indeed feel, any an- 
 tagonism toward the matter he is reviewing. He must 
 know his subject in its every phase and every angle: 
 the technical, the pictorial, the histrionic, the dramatic, 
 the ethical, the psychological. He must write with his 
 finger upon the pulse of production. He must augment 
 his equipment as a critic by learning all there is to be 
 learned about his profession, by reading all available 
 literature upon the subject and by applying this ac- 
 quired knowledge to the daily practice of his art. These 
 are the days of the specialist, of the finished technician. 
 The unskilled laborer is archaic and obsolete. Only 
 the fittest will survive. 
 
 But it is not enough that the critic should be thor- 
 oughly conversant with all the laws and principles gc<v- 
 erning his art. In order that he may acquire standards 
 of comparison he must have au intimate acquaintance 
 with the fundamentals of the other arts How can he 
 either praise or condemn the settings in a photoplay if 
 he know nothing of composition? How can he point 
 out the artistry of lighting if he be blind to the tonal 
 effects produced by minute gradations of light and 
 shadow ? How can he appreciate the elucidation of a 
 thought through action if he entirely ignore the study 
 of mimetic expression? How can he be competent to 
 tell his readers why a play fails to hold the attention of 
 the audience if he know nothing of the laws of sus- 
 
THE CRITICAL ANGLE 149 
 
 pense ? Obviously the critic must obtain his equipment 
 before he approaches his task. Accordingly as his 
 equipment is great or less, will his criticism ring false 
 or true. 
 
 At the present time there is a great dearth of trained 
 critics in the field of cinematic criticism. The work 
 of the good critics stands out from the mass of medi- 
 ocrity like beacon lights on a dark sea. A great deal 
 of the criticism appearing in newspapers and trade 
 journals, however, is written up by the publicity depart- 
 ment of the producing company, the influence of the 
 company overshadowing the writer. The papers are 
 content to publish this inadequate and often misleading 
 criticism because the general impression is that the 
 photoplays which are being put on are not worth much 
 more. Editors feel they are certainly not worth the 
 time and the keen intelligence of their ablest writers. 
 This impression prevails in spite of the fact that a few 
 of our most brilliant New York journalists have identi- 
 fied themselves with cinematic criticism. Granted that 
 most of the photoplays shown upon the screen are not 
 worthy of much consideration, there is yet some good 
 in the worst of them as well as some bad spots in the 
 best of them, which ought to be held up to public atten- 
 tion, if the people at large are ever going to appreciate 
 and, demand the best in photoplays. The vast majority 
 of people are in need of guidance in the matter of photo- 
 plays. It is no longer a question of giving them what 
 they want. It is a question of so directing their tastes 
 that they will want what is best. And they can come to 
 know what is best only through that organ of universal 
 
160 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 enlightenment, the public press. Therefore, the cine- 
 matic critic ought to take his mission in life seriously. 
 He ought to learn all there is to be learned about his 
 profession, cultivating a knowledge of all the other 
 arts from which the photoplay borrows, or which it 
 utilizes in achieving its effect in order to build up stan- 
 dards of comparison. Sometimes the inadequate criti- 
 cism of current plays is due to the more or less antagon- 
 istic attitude the critic adopts toward the motion pic- 
 ture. He is accustomed to disparage and belittle " the 
 movies." Therefore, he cannot put any sympathy into 
 his work. Often his criticism is not analysis, but 
 vituperation and abuse. The person who cannot see the 
 possibilities of the photoplay as an art form, who can- 
 not recognize its beauties and powers even in its pres- 
 ent undeveloped state, is not abreast of progress. 
 
 Another reason why cinematic criticism is often a 
 failure is that, although excellent writers tiim their 
 hand to it, they belong to other fields. A dramatic 
 critic is not ipso facto a good cinematic critic, nor is a 
 photoplaywright even necessarily a good critic of motion 
 pictures. He may know his art and the principles 
 that govern it, but he may not be able to apply the 
 knowledge to other people's plays. Aristotle, the great- 
 est critic the world has had, called by Dante " Master of 
 All Who Know," criticized the drama but, so far as we 
 know, never wrote a play. It does not follow that a 
 good critic of the drama must be a good dramatist, any 
 more than it follows that a good dramatist must be by 
 nature a good dramatic critic. Cinematic critics must 
 be trained in order that they may educate the public up 
 
THE CRITICAL ANGLE 151 
 
 to what is best in photoplays, which knowledge will in 
 turn lead them to demand the best from exhibitors and 
 producers. At present, as all of our intelligent cinematic 
 critics will agree, it is too often a case of the blind lead- 
 ing the blind. Cinematic criticism will doubtless be of 
 the same slow growth that characterized the development 
 of both literary and dramatic criticism, but it is bound 
 eventually to come into its own. 
 
 When this millennium is finally arrived at, there will 
 no longer exist the crying need among motion picture 
 theatre-goers for guidance in the matter of choosing 
 their " movies " which characterizes the public of the 
 present day. In spite of the fact that people have 
 been attending photoplays for years, they do not seem 
 to select their entertainment intelligently. Too often 
 they " go to the movies " instead of going to see a 
 particular play. They do not exercise their selective 
 faculty. Their choice is usually the result of accident. 
 They go to the theatres nearest their homes, or nearest 
 to their places of business, or nearest to the spot where 
 they happen to be at the time. People would not think 
 of going to see a play in this haphazard fashion. They 
 " drop into a movie for an hour or two," but would 
 not dream of " dropping in " to a theatre without bother- 
 ing to see whether the play was a burlesque, a musical 
 comedy, or a problem play. Indeed, great is the time 
 and thought usually consumed upon the purchase of a 
 theatre ticket. This is partly due to the fact that a 
 greater expenditure is involved, partly to the fact that 
 there is a dignified dramatic criticism to guide people 
 in their choice of plays, and partly to the fact that a 
 
152 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 play stays at a theatre for a goodly length of time, thus 
 giving the public opportunity to become more or less 
 acquainted with it. Yet none of these reasons prohibits 
 the individual from choosing his " movies " with equal 
 care and discrimination. He can become acquainted 
 with the policies of the various companies and the type 
 of picture they produce. If he is interested in a certain 
 play, he can call up the exchange and readily find out 
 at what theatre the picture is being shown. Much of 
 the misunderstanding and indifference in regard to 
 photoplays lies in this failure on the part of the in- 
 dividual to exercise his powers of selection. 
 
 A serious minded gentleman who was always loud in 
 his diatribes against the motion picture, was discovered 
 to be attending a theatre owned by a company who 
 exhibited scarcely anything but their own products, 
 which happened to be melodrama of the worst sort, 
 salacious, vulgar, revolting. The theatre happened to 
 be near the gentleman's house and it never occurred to 
 him to seek out another. His ideas of photoplays were 
 based entirely upon the impressions he formed there. 
 He believed all photoplays were alike. A column or 
 two of praise or warning in the morning paper might 
 easily have remedied this. Unfortunately the com- 
 pany was one which had wide advertising as to the 
 excellence of its wares. 
 
 Sometimes it happens that when people have care- 
 fully thought over the photoplay they would like to 
 see, they get to the theatre only to find that particular 
 play has been replaced by a new film. Rarely does an 
 exhibitor book a film for a run of more than a week. A! 
 
THE CRITICAL ANGLE 153 
 
 step in the right direction has been taken, however, by 
 Mr. Hugo Keisenf eld, manager of the Kialto and Eivoli 
 theatres in New YorL He has taken over the Criterion 
 Theatre where he plans to run pictures for several weeks 
 at a time, as long, in fact, as they prove an attraction 
 to the public. The success of this venture, if Mr. Eeisen- 
 feld carries out his original idea of showing the photo- 
 drama by itself, will, at all events, be an argument either 
 for or against the program system. It is only fair to 
 add, however, that a great deal depends upon the happi- 
 ness of his selection. Single exhibition of this sort 
 has already been done, of course, in a number of isolated 
 instances, as in the case of " The Birth of a Nation," 
 " Joan the Woman," " Jack and the Beanstalk," 
 " Broken Blossoms," " The Fall of Babylon," and other 
 plays that were shown to Broadway audiences for 
 several consecutive weeks, amounting in some instances 
 almost to a season. 
 
 We have said that the field of cinematic criticism or 
 journalism offers a rich opportunity for the writer who 
 desires to make criticism his profession. Magazines, 
 newspapers, and periodicals need trained and able people 
 who can write not only criticisms and reviews, but also 
 special articles on photoplay subjects. Such articles 
 may be in serious vein, as the ones that appear from 
 time to time in TTie New Bepublic, or they may be 
 in lighter vein, as the articles of Mr. Kob Wagner, 
 which are frequently published in the Saturday Eve- 
 ning Post. The free-lance writer can do his bit in help- 
 ing the public to a better appreciation of the photoplay 
 as an art form by writing such articles and choosing his 
 
15* CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 market as carefully as he would select a magazine for 
 his short story output. If his articles are worthy of 
 being printed, he will be able to find a market for them. 
 The New Bepublic does not make a practice of print- 
 ing criticisms of photoplays, but it printed Mr. Vachel 
 Lindsay's article on " The Eomance of the Eedwoods " 
 in which Mary Pickford played. Everything depends 
 upon getting the right article to the right publisher. 
 Once more the law of supply and demand works out. 
 
 But important as is the critical point of view to the 
 prospective journalist, it is still more important to 
 every photoplaywright. Whether or not he ever intends 
 to write a line of criticism, he must nevertheless culti- 
 vate his critical faculties. The greatest asset which the 
 writer of photoplays possesses is the motion picture 
 theatre. The theatres are the laboratories for his study, 
 well equipped for purposes of analytical research. There 
 he can see the work of others. He can observe the ways 
 in which they handle their material. He can reason out 
 the appeal of a play, or the lack of appeal in a play. 
 He can learn half a dozen things pertaining to his craft 
 in the space of one five reel picture. He can ascertain 
 where the writer made his mistakes or successes, and go 
 home and do otherwise or likewise, as the case may be. 
 
 In order to criticize a play with discernment, the 
 student should sit through at least a second showing of 
 the picture, and whenever possible a third. The first 
 showing goes by while he is following the story. The 
 second time, since he is now acquainted with the threads 
 of the narrative and no longer in a state of suspense, he 
 can give his attention to the structure of the play. The 
 
THE CRITICAL ANGLE 165 
 
 third time he can appreciate the technical effects. He 
 can follow the continuity, observe the titling of the 
 picture, the lighting, the photography, the composition, 
 camera positions, and such devices as the fades, irises, 
 vignettes, and double exposures. A well known scenario 
 editor has said that the intelligent student vsith an eye 
 for detail and a mind for analysis can get more out of 
 seeing a good photoplay through three times than he 
 can get from watching a production in the making in a 
 studio for hours at a stretch. 
 
 Having thus developed his critical faculty upon the 
 photoplays of other writers, and having sharpened his 
 analytical powers upon material in no way dear to him, 
 he can begin to apply his keenness to his own creations. 
 Every one of us is apt to be gentle with our own faults 
 and foibles. If we are mothers and fathers we extend 
 this leniency to our children. If we are writers we 
 extend it to the children of our brains. We are unable 
 very often to disassociate ourselves from our work. This 
 must be overcome if we are ever to be successful writers. 
 We must be able to dissect our writings with the greatest 
 coolness and calculation. We must become adept at 
 destructive and constructive criticism, that is we must 
 be able to tear a play to pieces and rebuild it in our 
 imagination. The writer who discards a work because 
 it is faulty is not an artist. He should be able to put 
 his finger upon the weak spot, give a reason for its 
 existence, and straightway apply the remedy. If a 
 thing is worth while doing in the first place it is worth 
 while remodeling. The writer must learn to discard the 
 false and retain the true. 
 
156 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Careful consideration, then, of the work of the best 
 scenarioists, the best directors, the best actors, and 
 the best authors, will be like bread cast upon the waters. 
 It will have a direct return in enriching the powers of 
 the writer, increasing his value, and thereby decreasing 
 his chances of failure. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE PHOTOPLAY MARKET 
 
 The ultimate aim of the writer of photoplays is 
 production. And since production involves large sums 
 of money, it is of necessity a commercial transaction. 
 There are no patrons of the motion picture as there 
 used to be patrons of the arts and belles-lettres. There 
 has appeared no altruistic millionaire who desires to 
 devote his gold to artistic productions. The photo- 
 play is not endowed. Producers are in the business 
 purely for the profit that may be derived from it. They 
 invest hundreds of thousands of dollars in photoplays 
 and they expect interest at a high percentage on the 
 money invested. The cost of production is so enormous, 
 the studio equipment for taking the picture, the labora- 
 tory equipment for developing the negative and making 
 the positives, the corps of staff writers for continuity 
 writing and the machinery necessary for selecting and 
 rejecting manuscripts, the publicity department, the 
 exchanges maintained for the renting and releasing of 
 film, to say nothing of the salaries of the actors, actresses, 
 directors, cameramen, expert film cutters, and artists 
 for the art-titling department, down to the carpenters 
 who build the sets, and the electricians who manipulate 
 the lighting — all of this has to be paid for out of the 
 earning capacity of the picture. A hundred thousand 
 
 157 
 
168 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 dollars has been expended and must come in again 
 through ten-cent pieces and quarters paid at the box 
 oflBce. As a result, producers will purchase only pic- 
 tures on which they are reasonably certain of a profitable 
 return. The cinema composer, therefore, must temper 
 the sails of his artistic standards to the wind of com- 
 mercialism. He must keep constantly before him the 
 finanical problems that beset producers. He must make 
 them compatible as far as possible with his art. The 
 fact that an Inness painting may bring fifteen thousand 
 dollars in the open market makes it none the less a work 
 of art. The analogy holds for the photoplay. It does 
 not follow that because a screen drama is commercially 
 successful it is inartistic and unlovely, or because it is 
 artistic and beautiful that it is a financial failure. The 
 ideal is to attain both artistic merit and monetary 
 return. 
 
 There have been some very lovely photoplays pro- 
 duced that have been somewhat of a failure finan- 
 cially". Maeterlinck's " Bluebird " ; " Prunella," origi- 
 nally written for the stage, " The Seven Swans," an 
 adaptation of an old fairy tale in which Marguerite 
 Clark played ; William Locke's " Stella Maris," in 
 which Mary Pickford played; none of these brought 
 in riches to the coffers of their respective companies, 
 but this does not establish the fact that the public 
 does not appreciate artistic pictures. The failure may 
 have been due to some accidental cause — ^lack of 
 suflScient publicity, a waning in the popularity of the 
 star, or the lack of a star, as in the case of the " Blue- 
 bird," or neglect on the part of the exhibitors to book 
 
XeighboT Berlingot and her little sick daughter ia the Artcraft 
 adaptation of ilaeterlinck's play, " The Blue Bird." Character is 
 delineated by the facial expression of the old woman as well as by the 
 kindliness of her action. The flickering flame of the candle Is symbolic 
 of the failing health of the child, while the gloom and the failing light 
 of the room are symbolic of the shadows of sickness which hang over 
 the cottage. The picture is an excellent illustration of an artistic- 
 setting which was obtained with verj' little cost. 
 
THE PHOTOPLAY MARKET 169 
 
 the film for the theatres best suited to the picture. 
 " Prunella," for instance, would scarcely be a wild 
 success with an audience in the Ghetto, while it would 
 probably appeal strongly to an audience in the vicinity 
 of a university. 
 
 And let us pause in passing to remark that this 
 seems to be one of the difficulties in the filTn field — ^the 
 failure to get the right pictures to the right people. 
 In order to make a picture that will appeal to every- 
 body, either the intelligence of the educated people 
 must be insulted or the capacity of the lesser mentali- 
 ties must be slighted while the meaning of the picture 
 passes over their heads. The solution is a simple one. 
 Producers should offer' different types of pictures, and 
 there should be corresponding types of theatres in which 
 to exhibit them. A step in this direction has been taken 
 with the building of the Eastman Theatre in Roches- 
 ter. The idea is to provide a temple of the arts, a 
 fitting home for the best that can be offered in pictures, 
 for the adequate housing of the good, the beautiful, and 
 the true. Only pictures of unquestionable excellence 
 will be shown there. No provision has been made for 
 procuring these pictures, however. Unless its sponsors 
 produce the films themselves, they will find a dearth of 
 subjects very shortly. The present condition of the 
 market is exceedingly impoverished as far as works of 
 art are concerned. In the drama, different theatres offer 
 different types of plays. The entertainment offered 
 at the Columbia is not the same as that offered at the 
 Belasco. The diversion of the New Amsterdam Eoof 
 in New York differs from that of the Little Theatre or 
 
160 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 the Greenwich Village Theatre. Theatregoers recognize 
 this and can choose their entertainment accordingly. 
 Not so with the photoplay. The motion picture theatre 
 that exhibits a little gem of pictorial art to-day may show 
 a lurid melodrama to-morrow. Besides, there is no 
 cinematic criticism to help the unsophisticated to 
 avoid the pitfall as there is in the drama. The day 
 will undoubtedly come, however, when " movies " will 
 no longer be merely " movies," but will be looked upon 
 as possessing shifting values that will run the entire 
 gamut from excellence to trash. Photoplays will have 
 individuality and will stand on their oviTi merit without 
 the supporting aid of a " program " of soloists and 
 orchestration. Some wiU fit the needs of some minds 
 and some of other minds. 
 
 It is impossible to believe that producers will go on 
 indefinitely trying to attain the impossible, that is, 
 making pictures which will appeal to a universal audi- 
 ence. The motion picture audience is not a unit. It is 
 made up of people of varied intellectual and social 
 planes. No picture can be conceived which will 
 have a universal appeal. Publishers would not attempt 
 to publish a book that will appeal to everybody in 
 these United States. They publish fiction, poetry, his- 
 tory, travel, thus catering to catholic tastes. Motion 
 picture producers and exhibitors must do likewise. 
 
 Producers believe they have an uncaimy sixth sense 
 whereby they detect accurately what the public wants. 
 'As a matter of fact, the public is a vast aggregation of 
 people made up of highly diversified component parts 
 and is therefore incapable of being diagnosed with any 
 
THE PHOTOPLAY MARKET 161 
 
 degree of acumen. How can producers know what the 
 public wants when the public itself does not know? 
 It is impossible to take a cross section of humanity and 
 reduce its likes and dislikes, its penchants, and its 
 prejudices to last analyses. In reality, the producers 
 give the pubKc, not what it wants, but what they them- 
 selves want. Take the matter of costume plays for 
 example. They are essentially pictorial and artistic. 
 They are fitted by nature to screen reproduction. But 
 they are difficult and expensive to produce. A great 
 deal of research is necessary for the costumes, the period 
 furniture, the mode of speech, the accessories. Even 
 with extraordinary care, anachronisms are apt to creep 
 in. For these reasons the companies dislike to produce 
 them, and they cover their reluctance by the dictum 
 that the public does not like costume plays, that they 
 like to see modem, everyday people in modem, every- 
 day clothes, and do not care to look at heroes with 
 swords, in wigs and lace ruffles, swashbuckling upon the 
 screen, or heroines in powdered wigs and black patches 
 coquetting in the fashion of an age that is gone by. They 
 say this authoritatively despite the fact that some of the 
 most successful photoplays have been costume plays, 
 notably " The Birth of a Nation," " Joan the Woman," 
 and "The Woman God Forgot." Even a play like 
 "Eebecca of Sunnybrook Farm" was a costume 
 play. The costumes were simple, but they belonged to 
 loutwom fashions that had to be resuscitated for the 
 purpose. 
 
 This fault may, of course, lie with the exhibitors 
 rather than with the producers. Producers are as bound 
 
162 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 by the demands of the exhibitors as tightly as the writers 
 are bound by the mandates of the producers. If ex- 
 hibitors will not book the film, the company cannot 
 realize upon it. And the exhibitor gets erroneous ideas 
 as to what the public likes or else inflicts his personal 
 taste upon the audience and labels it theirs. It may be, 
 too, that they attempt to gauge public feeling by in- 
 adequate methods. For instance, an exhibitor is sup- 
 posed to send in a report to the producing company as 
 to how the play " went " in his town. He may be show- 
 ing a perfectly detestable piece of rubbish on a certain 
 night. It may be a clear night, or it may be a holiday 
 night and the crowds, looking for something festive to 
 do, may turn out in great multitudes for the " movies." 
 It would not have affected the attendance if either 
 Beerbohm Tree in " The Merchant of Venice," or Miss 
 Lillian Lurem in " Devil's Desire," were being shown. 
 There is probably only one source of entertainment in 
 town, and they will go to it whatever it may be offering. 
 The exhibitor will report to the company a " tremendous 
 hit." The next night it may be raining, or there may 
 be a minstrel show in the high school auditorium. 
 " The Merchant of Venice," however, is being shown at 
 the picture house. Oh well, the audience can go to a 
 " movie " any time, but the minstrel show comes but 
 once in a winter, so Shakespeare is unfolded to a scant 
 audience. And the exhibitor reports " failure " and 
 the producer wipes that type of play from his slate. Or 
 it may be that the exhibitor carefully takes his stand 
 in the lobby to hear the conaments of the people as they 
 come out of the theatre. Mrs. Smith, who is a feather- 
 
THE PHOTOPLAY MARKET 163 
 
 brain and has the display of beautiful clothes as her 
 " grand passion " is bored to death with Ibsen's " Doll's 
 House." She announces the fact loquaciously as she 
 passes out, vehemently condemning the evening as 
 wasted. Mrs. Average, however, has been immensely 
 impressed and although she is thinking deeply, may say 
 nothing. An empty vessel makes the most noise. Ke' 
 marks register upon the exhibitor in the lobby. Mental 
 attitudes do not. So the nays carry the day. Often- 
 times, the fault is due to lack of proper preparation. 
 The information given out by the theatre is sometimes 
 misleading, as for instance the famous advertisement for 
 the above mentioned play appeared outside a theatre in 
 the middle west : " A Doll's House — Come to-night and 
 Bring All the Kiddies." 
 
 We said a little while ago that there are in the 
 history of the motion picture some beautiful and 
 artistic photoplays that have been commercially attrac- 
 tive. Notably among these is " The Miracle Man." The 
 public recognized its merit as a photoplay of photoplays, 
 and received it with acclaim. It had a message for the 
 public, a heart message that everyone could understand, 
 whatever his race, color, religion or previous condition 
 of servitude. The message could be summed up in 
 two words, "I believe." When the play was finished 
 the shallowest soul in the audience felt inspired and 
 revivified. And yet the play was beautifully simple. 
 It was poignantly dramatic. It was a quiet play, we 
 might almost call it a static play, with scarcely any 
 motion, merely hidden spiritual forces at work. The 
 play accomplishes something. 
 
164 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 In direct opposition to this is Mr. GriflBth's produc- 
 tion " Broken Blossoms," The photoplay was adapted 
 from the story in Burke's " Limehouse Nights," called 
 ' " The Chink and the Child," a sordid, horrible story, if 
 ever there was one, Mr. Griffith made the story over 
 into a surpassingly beautiful play. The finished artistry 
 of the piece shows the touch of a master hand. But 
 the play was somewhat of a commercial failure for all its 
 marvelous technique. It had no message — unless the 
 rather revolting example of the triumph of the religion 
 of Confucius over that of Christ, It may be brought 
 out as an ameliorating fact, however, that one Chinaman 
 does not make Confucianism, nor one Englishman make 
 Christianity. Because one individual Confucianist is 
 better in private life than an individual Christian — 
 and there were no indications in the play that " Bat- 
 tling " Burrows was professing the principles of 
 Christianity — it does not follow that all Confucianists 
 are better than all Christians, It is the old fallacy of 
 deductive reasoning known as " non sequitur." But 
 even aside from all this, waiving the religious or philo- 
 sophical aspect, the photoplay acocmplishes nothing. It 
 makes us sad without holding out any strength through 
 that sorrow, the touchingly sweet nature of the little 
 girl is drowned in tragedy, "We are overwhelmed with 
 pity for her, and that is all. It may emphasize our 
 hatred of cruelty, but it is a generally accepted fact that 
 as exponents of civilization, we already hate it before 
 we go into the theatre. It's an old lesson that every- 
 body has learned. 
 
 " The Whispering Chorus," a De Mille production, 
 
THE PHOTOPLAY MARKET 165 
 
 was another photoplay with a message, although it was 
 not as lofty in theme as " The Miracle Man." " The 
 .Whispering Chorus" symbolized our evil promptings 
 and impulses. Symbolism was carried out through the 
 entire play. John Trimble, who listens to the prompt- 
 ings of the Whispering Chorus, absconds with bank 
 funds and takes refuge in an island used for city 
 refuse. He is an outcast from society as is the rubbish 
 that is tossed there. One night the river washes up a 
 corpse. John has killed himself spiritually and feels 
 he therefore may as well be dead to the world. He 
 destroys the face with lime and dresses the corpse in his 
 own clothes, hinting in the note-book in his pocket that 
 there has been foul play. He would prefer his wife 
 to think him a victim of wrong-doing rather than a 
 wrong-doer. The loss of the bank funds and the murder 
 of John Trimble are pieced together. Somebody has 
 murdered John Trimble. It must be the man who was 
 seen escaping from the island. And so we find John 
 Trimble in the unique position of being wanted for his 
 own murder. Here the symbolism is this. He has mur- 
 dered the spiritual John Trimble and he, and he alone, 
 is responsible for that murder. When, in order to save 
 his wife, who has married again, from the disgrace of 
 knowing he is still alive, he atones the murder with 
 the supreme sacrifice of his own life, the message 
 that we hurt only ourselves by our misdeeds and that 
 we must surely make retribution to our spiritual selves, 
 is engraved upon the minds of the audience. The 
 " Bluebird " is another photoplay with a message, 
 preaching the doctrine of happiness. It comes in the 
 
166 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 category of the artistic photoplay but unfortunately can- 
 not be said to have been commercially attractive. Nor 
 was " Prunella," nor was " Stella Maris." 
 
 A photoplay, then, ought to have some sort of a 
 message, a raison d'etre, something that is ennobling, 
 something that will awaken thought, something which 
 will make the audience better for having seen it. This 
 does not mean, however, that the story must be propa- 
 ganda. Producers want drama, not sermons. They need 
 writers, not preachers. As Mr. Clayton Hamilton puts 
 it, " A theatre audience . . . does not come to be 
 edified or educated ; it has no desire to be taught. It 
 seeks amusement." There are certain broad types of 
 story that are labeled " not wanted " by the companies. 
 Stories dealing with difficulties between capital and 
 labor, the white slave traflSe, the underworld, stories in 
 which evil triumphs over good, stories reflecting on a 
 race, class, or creed, those which make sport of afflic- 
 tions or deformities, and in general, those which are 
 of too sordid or too morbid a nature. Care should be 
 taken by the writer that his story does not reflect upon 
 any department of the National Government. In a 
 photoplay issued some time ago some of the most sig- 
 nificant parts of the story had to be eliminated because 
 they reflected upon the judiciary of the United States. 
 This elimination should have been unnecessary. 
 
 Cases in the courts, decision on which is still pend- 
 ing, should not be made the subject matter of photo- 
 plays. Suicide, arson, and burglary are subject to cen- 
 sorship. It is not the theme that is objectionable but 
 the treatment. The act itself may not be shown, but 
 
THE PHOTOPLAY MARKET 167 
 
 may be suggested. This makes the showing even more 
 dramatic than if the harrowing details were projected 
 before our eyes. It gives the imagination full play. We 
 have an opportunity to use our power of reasoning. A 
 flash-light playing about a darkened room, next morn- 
 ing a glimpse of an empty safe, and we have suggested 
 burglary. Here is a man half-crazed by hunger, per- 
 haps, who has been refused work by a farmer. We 
 see him skulking in the hayloft. He has matches in his 
 hand. We cut to the farmhouse. The family in peace- 
 ful contentment are gathered together for night prayers. 
 Suddenly the farmer looks toward the window with 
 horror written large upon his face. The audience knows 
 at once what has happened. In the case of suicide, a 
 revolver with an empty chamber may suggest the deed, 
 or as in the case of a recent photoplay, a few bubbles 
 upon the stUl surface of a quiet lake tell the tragedy 
 more plainly than words. In Ibsen's " Little Eyolf " 
 the scene is laid in a home upon the banks of a fiord 
 in 'Norway. Little Eyolf is a cripple and is forced to 
 walk with a crutch. The action of his drowning takes 
 place off stage, of course, but the intelligence is con- 
 veyed to the audience with startling effect when Eita 
 Allmers rushes in with wide, scared eyes, and says 
 " the crutch is floating." We guess what has happened 
 as soon as the words are out of her mouth — ^they pic- 
 ture the whole scene for us dramatically. 
 
 Some states, notably Pennsylvania and lately New 
 York, have a state censorship of all pictures. Legal 
 authority is delegated to a small group who decide for 
 the state what the people shall or shaU not see. These 
 
168 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 boards are very often political, and their abuse of power 
 has created much opposition to legal censorship. Very 
 often their mandates are arbitrary and rather amusing. 
 In Pennsylvania, for instance, no woman may be shown 
 smoking, and delicious irony, no politician may be 
 shown to be a crook. At one time the statue of a poli- 
 tician had to be hauled from its pedestal in order to 
 have necessary repairs made. The news weekly showed 
 the work as it was being done, and the audience went 
 mad with delight, because the statue hnng suspended 
 with a rope around its neck. He was getting his just 
 deserts at last. 
 
 However, such censorship is for the most part local, 
 and does not have to be heeded by the cinema composer. 
 His endeavor should be to choose a subject that is at- 
 tractive dramatically, artistically and commercially, and 
 treat it to the best of his ability. If his subject re- 
 quires the acting of clever children he should try to 
 pick out a company which numbers juvenile actors or 
 actresses among its staff. The same holds true in re- 
 gard to subjects that caU for animals. This need may 
 decide the destination of the script. 
 
 It may be said in this connection that different com- 
 panies have different staffs and different stars whose 
 labor they control, and therefore the scenario needs of 
 companies differ as radically as do the fiction needs of 
 the current magazines. The story that is fitted to the 
 Atlantic Monthly is not at all fitted to the Saturday 
 Evening Post, nor would an article suitable for Vanity 
 Fair do at all for The New Republic. The analogy 
 hblds good for the photoplay. The type of story suit- 
 
THE PHOTOPLAY MARKET 169 
 
 able for a little ingenue would not be suitable for Clara 
 Kimball Young, or Pauline Frederick. A story that 
 would be splendid for Nazimova would be a dismal 
 fiasco for Vivian Martin or Enid Bennett. The writer 
 must keep in mind, therefore, which companies are 
 releasing the work of which stars. This is not at all 
 difficult to do, if he follows the releases, or reads the 
 motion picture trade journals with fair regularity. 
 Armed with this knowledge he wiU not disclose himself 
 as a hopeless amateur by sending a story obviously 
 suited to Frank Keenan to a company which needs 
 stories for Charles Eay. 
 
 Nearly all of the big companies have a very thorough 
 and efficient method of dealing with manuscripts sub- 
 mitted. Every story is carefully read and a record 
 kept of every story submitted with its criticism. Mr. 
 De MiUe, speaking for the Famous Players-Laslgr Cor- 
 poration, says: 
 
 "As the drama is the most democratic form of amusement, 
 so is scenario writing the most democratic and popular form 
 of indoor sport at the present time. Inexperienced writers 
 dash off scenarios as they woidd a letter home. It takes one 
 of our trained stafE writers from four to eight weeks to 
 prepare a story for the screen. Amateurs think they can 
 turn them out at a rate of three to four in an afternoon. 
 We encourage scenario writing as much as possible because it 
 may disclose a latent talent, but unless there is some degree 
 of intelligence in preparing the story the talent wiU be 
 entirely submerged in a sea of words. AU the talent has to 
 do is to stick its periscope up a little above the sea and 
 we can sight it immediately. Running through the files 
 the most frequent criticisms I find are as follows: 
 
170 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSmP 
 
 ' Too unpleasant a subject — morbid or dealing with the 
 
 underworld or white slaTsry.' 
 'Rambling story — covering a period of twenty years.' 
 ' No sympathy — lacks a knowledge of human nature.' 
 'A story founded upon illogical premises — so there could 
 
 be no logical conclusion.' 
 ' Fundamental idea of no interest to the average audience.' 
 'Filled with incidents but not leading to a climax.' 
 ' No suspense — the ending of the story is seen long before 
 
 the picture is well under way.' 
 'Lack of dramatic sense — this exists in seventy-five per- 
 cent, of the plays received.' 
 ' Open repetition of plays already seen upon the stage 
 
 or screen.' 
 'No reason for story — lack of characterization.' 
 " Out of every two hundred manuscripts submitted to the 
 Lasky Company one of them may contain an idea that will 
 form the basis of a photodrama. There is no inner circle 
 of Lasky writers. In fact that organization is continually 
 spending thousands of dollars finding the people who can 
 write the kind of plays they require. The story requirements 
 for a Lasky five reel production are as follows: 
 First — Fundamental idea of interest to the average 
 
 spectator. 
 Second — Logical premises, logical sequence, logical con- 
 clusion. 
 Third — Characterization, action. 
 Fourth — ^Dramatic value in situations, or the physical 
 
 punch. 
 Sixth — Constant growth — ^progression of the story. 
 Seventh — Beauty, harmony, simplicity, color. By sim- 
 plicity is meant for the story to run along in one 
 straight channel and not have a number of branches. 
 Eighth — Picturesque value. 
 Ninth — Novelty in treatment. 
 " And after all of these, it must have the breath of life, 
 
THE PHOTOPLAY MARKET 171 ) 
 
 it must live, it must be human, feeling. A story which / 
 does not contain practically sisiy per cent, of these require- / 
 ments is returned simply with the comment — ' not avail- \ 
 able.' However, if there is any sign of possibilities it is \ 
 criticized by one or more of the Lasky experts and then^-' 
 returned." 
 
 This is a fairly accurate summary of the Lasky atti- 
 tude and of the Lasky needs. There is this to be said 
 in addition, however: The number of original stories 
 bought by that company are comparatively few for this 
 reason. The original writer does not always possess 
 all the qualities listed, whereas the professional fiction 
 writer usually is an adept in the trade of story making. 
 Therefore the company prefers to buy material through 
 the medium of the magazines or the copyright book. 
 These stories already bear the stamp of success upon 
 them. The companies argue, logically enough, that if 
 the public has shown its appreciation of a novel or 
 story it wiU be sure to like the same story when it is 
 shown through the medium of the screen. The popu- 
 larity of the book has advertised the picture before it 
 has ever reached the screen and the photoplay is bound 
 to profit by that advertisement. It is precisely for pub- 
 licity purposes that a company will pay exorbitant sxmis 
 not alone for a "best seller" but even for mediocre 
 fiction. Now this, of course, from the point of view of 
 art, is all wrong. Stories that are written for publica- 
 tion are often far from suitable for the screen. They 
 have to be so changed and altered that in the last 
 analysis their own author would be unable to recognize 
 them. This alteration is not done merely through the 
 
172 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 spirit of wanton destruction as so many authors in their 
 diatribes against the " movies " declare. It is done be- 
 cause the material is not fitted to screen needs. The 
 story may lack plot action, cinematic characterization 
 and (possibilities for) pictorial attractiveness. These 
 values must be present and there is nothing else to do, 
 once the book or play has been bought, but rearrange it 
 or recreate it until they are present. The very authors 
 ■who are loudest in their protests against the destruction 
 of the scenario writers are themselves responsible for 
 the crime. If tliey would learn the art and craft of 
 motion picture writing, the needs and the limitations of 
 the screen, if they would then write directly for the 
 screen instead of indirectly through the stage, the pub- 
 lisher, or the magazine, their wails of lamentation would 
 be heard no longer. For then and then only would the 
 material be suited to the medium of pictures, and merely 
 the slightest changes would have to be made by the con- 
 tinuity writer. Better still, they could become trained 
 scenarioists and write the continuity themselves, if they 
 would but invest the perseverance and labor needed in 
 the apprenticeship. They know, however, that there is 
 more emolument from a story that has previously been 
 staged or published, and since the tendency of the day 
 is materialistic, they substitute the Goddess of money 
 for the Goddess of art, and continue to sell their talents. 
 Yet, having pocketed the gold they cry aloud that their 
 brainchildren have been mutilated, like a judge having 
 received bribery decrying the injustice of the law. 
 Their dignity and their sense of the fitness of things, if 
 nothing else, should keep them silent. There is no 
 
THE PHOTOPLAY MARKET 173 
 
 force constraining the writer to part with the product 
 of his pen for the paltry sum of thirty-five or forty 
 thousand dollars. Probably the blame rests as much 
 with the producers who keep on paying exorbitant sums 
 to fiction writers for unscreenable material as with the 
 writers themselves. 
 
 Very often writers who have figuratively torn their 
 hair over the devastated remains of their genius, have 
 later encountered the same difficulties when they them- 
 selves attempted to translate from the terms of one 
 medium into the terms of another. 
 
 A well-known dramatic critic wrote an article in the 
 nature of a " never again " decision for the Pictorial 
 Review some time ago, in which he berated the 
 " movies " for changes made in his own work and that 
 of Miss Eachel Crothers and others who had all more or 
 less sworn that never again would they sell their stories 
 to motion picture producers. He did not excuse the di- 
 rector or the scenarioist for any of the changes by say- 
 ing that they were necessary, as no doubt they may 
 have been. He declared the story should have been 
 filmed exactly as it was written. Yet shortly after the 
 same critic was responsible for the work of adapting 
 the short story of O. Henry, called " Roads of Destiny," 
 to the stage. Many and various were the alterations 
 which he deemed it necessary to make, in explanation 
 of which he would probably tell you that translation 
 from one medium to another demanded them. 
 
 We have said that the solution to the problem attend- 
 ing upon adaptation is to eliminate the necessity for 
 it entirely by having the writers learn the science of 
 
174s CINEMA CRAFTSMANSfflP 
 
 photoplay writing and write directly for the screen. 
 If, however, they insist upon writing stories and stage 
 plays which they plan to sell indirectly for the screen, 
 since their market value is practically doubled thereby, 
 let them at least learn all that it is possible to learn about 
 the photoplay, and then write their stories with the 
 screen in mind. Some writers do this unconsciously. 
 Mr. Eex Beach, for instance, wrote stories admirably 
 fitted to screen needs long before there was a possible 
 market for them. He seems to visualize his story as 
 he composes it and therefore writes in terms of action. 
 The late Cyrus Townsend Brady likewise wrote stories 
 that were essentially photoplay material before screen 
 production had come over his horizon. The majority 
 of writers, however, can scarcely create photoplay 
 stories consciously, much less unconsciously. They must 
 make the initial effort, concomitant to the breaking of 
 all habits, and rid themselves of the tendency to vsTite 
 " words, words, words." They must acquire the faculty 
 for conceiving and creating pantomime. They must 
 build up a vocabulary of " action " words, words that 
 connote pictures rather than thought. They must study 
 the camera and the mechanism of screen devices. They 
 must study pictorial composition. Then and then only 
 may they set about writing stories which are destined 
 in the last analysis for the screen. If writers would 
 only study their medium thus there would no longer be 
 the unremittant wail about slaughtered material. This 
 at least would be the via media between art and com- 
 mercialism. 
 
 One of the most frequent questions that is asked 
 
THE PHOTOPLAY MARKET 175 
 
 scenario editors by -writers who are endeavoring to sell 
 the product of their brains is this : " Is it a good policy 
 to write for a particular star ? " The answer is inevi- 
 tably " yes." The usual economic relation of employer 
 and employed exists between the " stars " and their com- 
 panies. Material which fits the histrionic talent of their 
 employees is just so much commercial gain to the pro- 
 ducer. A story which is composed directly for and 
 around a personality is bound to throw its grace and 
 charm into high relief. Often the playwright is in- 
 spired by some attractive mannerism, by some trick of 
 expression, by some facility in expressing emotion, to 
 write a play which will serve to bring out these assets 
 as indirect lighting brings out the beauties of a paint- 
 ing. Producers are not blind to this advantage. 
 
 It has been said that Barrie wrote " Peter Pan " for 
 Maude Adams. Whether or not this be so, the play 
 seems to sum up her personality. It is almost impos- 
 sible to imagine an actress who could better act the 
 part. The history of the drama discloses the fact that 
 dramatists of all ages, from Shakespeare to Racine, 
 from Moliere to Barrie, have written their plays for 
 particular actors and actresses. 
 
 With such illustrious precedents, why should the 
 photoplaywright hesitate to fashion his plays for and 
 at Nazimova, Elsie Ferguson, or Thomas Meighan? 
 There can be no doubt that a play written especially for 
 a certain star will fit his or her talents better than one 
 written with no one or anyone in mind. Just as cer- 
 tain companies produce certain types of pictures, so 
 certain stars create certain characters. Lillian Gish is 
 
176 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 always the " suffering character " (of which Prometheus 
 ■was the prototype). She is pathetic and forlorn and 
 usually the victim of her own great love. Douglas 
 Fairbanks is the laughing, virile type -who snaps his 
 fingers at danger and uses his athletic prowess as a 
 constant means of escape from crucial situations. 
 William S. Hart is always the good "bad man." 
 Charles Eay is the diflBdent, the hesitating ne'er do 
 •well, always dreaming great dreams, always misunder- 
 stood, yet always making good at last. Constance Tal- 
 madge is the wilful and impetuous young wife 'whose 
 unsophistication usually precipitates her into humor- 
 ously unconventional situations. Constance Binney is 
 the debutante type. Nazimova plays the tragic char- 
 acter. All of these luminaries need material which is 
 suited to them. It would be a physical impossibility 
 for ITazimo\'a to play the part of the debutante, or 
 for William S. Hart to capture the comedy spirit of 
 Fairbanks. 
 
 The actors and actresses, knowing that plays suited 
 to their individuality augment their stellar worth, re- 
 ceive with joy any manuscript along these lines. The 
 star often has the last word to say upon the purchase of 
 a manuscript. Then there are other stars, who, although 
 they have not a complete voice in the choosing of their 
 vehicles, may spoil a possible sale by refusing to play 
 the protagonist of a particular play. 
 
 There are many prophets of the film world who 
 presage the advent of the starless play. The Associated 
 Producers are endeavoring to put the emphasis upon the 
 work of the directors rather than of the stars. It is 
 possible such an era may dawn, but it is hardly 
 
THE PHOTOPLAY MARKET 177 
 
 probable. It -was the public and not the producers 
 who created stars. In the old Biograph days it was 
 the unvarying policy of the company to disclose no 
 names. The other companies did the same thing. But 
 the public, denied the real names, manufactured names 
 for themselves. They distinguished between " the Bio- 
 graph girl " and " the Vitagraph girl," and they called 
 Mary Pickford, who was fast becoming a screen favor- 
 ite, " Little Mary." The companies were quick to see 
 the value of stars and withheld the names no longer, that 
 is, all the companies but the Biograph. They clung to 
 their original plan with the result that the stars went 
 elsewhere, and the directors like D. W. Griffith, fol- 
 lowed and carved their names and fame for themselves. 
 This may have been one of the reasons which led up to 
 the ultimate death of the old Biograph Company. 
 
 Be that as it may, it is the part of wisdom to accept 
 conditions as we jSnd them. There have always been 
 stars on the stage, and their presence is backed by the 
 logical and sound reason that there wUl always be de- 
 grees of cleverness and skill, there will always be varia- 
 tions of personality and charm. It stands to reason 
 that audiences virill admire good acting and condemn 
 the crude. Tastes and judgment and appeals differ. 
 Therefore human beings wiU always accept some actors 
 and reject others. This condition exists on the screen 
 as well as the stage since the psychology of the audience 
 holds good for both. Hence the cinema composer will 
 do well to write with the stars in mind. He can dis- 
 cover who they are, their personalities, the companies 
 
178 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 they are affliated with, and their needs for material by 
 frequenting the motion picture theatres. A manuscript 
 written for a particular star may be marked thus: 
 " Partners " — Suggested for Miss Norma Talmadge. 
 
 There is just one more phase of the expediency of 
 writing for the stars to be considered. A wise photo- 
 playwright will write with the lesser stars in mind, 
 realizing that the more distinguished and well known 
 a star is, just so many more wiU be the people who 
 are writing stories for him or her. Therefore, the de- 
 mand for material for that actor or actress will be pro- 
 portionately less. Whereas, on the other hand, there 
 are half a dozen or more personalities who shine not 
 so brightly in the film firmament and who are in really 
 serious need of material. They are more inclined to 
 buy original stories since their popularity has not yet 
 warranted the expenditure of the large sums necessary 
 for the purchase of books or plays backed by the repu- 
 tation of illustrious authors. 
 
 The market for the serial story in the motion picture 
 field is practically negligible. There are a few com- 
 panies, as for instance Vitagraph and Pathe, which still 
 make a specialty of serial productions. The stories for 
 these, however, are usually written in collaboration by 
 two or three expert writers who have been tried and not 
 found wanting as creators of thrills par excellence . . . 
 such writers as Mr. James Oliver Curwood or Mr. 
 Arthur Stringer. The manufacture of fifteen episodes 
 of unfaltering suspense which breaks at the end of each 
 two reels in a crescendo of emotion, yet immediately 
 takes up the motif, and carries it still further along 
 
THE PHOTOPLAY MARKET 179 
 
 the scale of blood and mystery, is a profession in itseK, 
 and very rarely is any material purchased from the 
 free-lance writer. The latter, however, should regard 
 this in the light of a good fortune rather than a depriva- 
 tion. He will thereby be prevented from attempting to 
 express himself in a medium that connotes artistic 
 suicide. The serial can have no future as an art form. 
 Dramatically, it is a sort of hundred-headed hydra. 
 It has as many struggles as there are episodes, and 
 sometimes even more. It is as easy for the serial to 
 possess dramatic unity as it is for a sentence with fifteen 
 subjects and fifteen predicates to possess the flavor of 
 literary excellence. The serial is never a single entity, 
 never an organic whole. The main road of the theme 
 is cut by frequent cross-roads which lead to nowhere. 
 Defenders of the serial in motion pictures allege that it 
 has as much excuse for being as the serial in fiction 
 form which is sustained by some of the best 
 present-day writers and by magazines of the highest 
 order. 
 
 But the analogy between the motion picture serial and 
 the magazine serial does not hold true. It fails for 
 several reasons. One is that the public of the serial is 
 not and cannot be as much of a unit as the public which 
 the magazine reaches. The editor counts upon his list 
 of subscribers. He knows that for twelve successive 
 months a copy of the magazine will be in the hands of 
 the same people. There will be others who will buy 
 the various installments from the stands, it is true, who 
 may have to start the story in the middle, but the 
 subscribers are its chief reading public. The motion 
 
180 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 picture theatres in which the serials are shown have also 
 their patrons, their regular audiences. But these audi- 
 ences vary largely from night to night and from week 
 to week. People are here to-day and gone to-morrow. 
 They may carry their magazine along with them, hut 
 they cannot carry away their motion picture. They 
 may pick up a magazine and read the story therein any 
 time during the day or night that they happen to he 
 at leisure. They can follow their motion picture story 
 only by going to a certain theatre at a certain time — 
 let us say on Tuesday night when it has been announced 
 that the serial episodes will be shown. If they happen 
 to have engagements on Tuesday night, if the weather 
 is bad, if they are away 'from their own neighborhood 
 where the picture is being shown, if they are out of funds 
 for amusements, for any of a dozen reasons they may 
 miss the episode. Missing one of the installments of 
 a magazine serial is a matter easily remedied. Another 
 copy of the publication can be bought at a nearby stand, 
 even back copies may be purchased. With the motion 
 picture serial, however, it is almost impossible to find 
 the same episode being exhibited in adjacent theatres. 
 To follow up a lost reel or two involves the trouble of 
 getting in touch with the exchanges and even then fre- 
 quently finding that the particular episode sought is 
 no longer showing in that town, or city, or perhaps 
 state. It is for this reason that the companies find their 
 best market for serial pictures in the small towns and 
 villages, where its exhibition each week is an affair of 
 great moment. There is also a demand for the serial 
 in the South American trade and abroad. 
 
THE PHOTOPLAY MARKET 181 
 
 !3[nother reason why there can be no analogy between 
 the magazine serial and the motion picture serial is 
 that the former requires no deviation from the form of 
 the usual written story or novel. The technique of the 
 art is not distorted thereby, or controverted into other 
 channels. Galsworthy's " Saint's Progress " and Her- 
 gesheimer's " Dark Fleece," both of which first appeared 
 in serial form, required no drastic revision or adapta- 
 tion before they could be published in book form. The 
 stories did not have to be mutilated for serial publica- 
 tion in order to furnish a sufficient number of thriUs 
 for each installment. Editors endeavor to have the story 
 end temporarily at the highest point of interest in that 
 particular stage of its development. They do not as a 
 rule machinate false crises and ruin its logical develop- 
 ment. The motion picture serial on the other hand has 
 a form and technique of its own differing from that of 
 jthe ordinary photodrama. Instead of the gradually 
 ascending straight line reaching to the highest point of 
 tension and the short descending line of the solution or 
 falling action which usually represents the drama, a 
 waving line, vacillating up and down at regular inter- 
 vals and attaining one hillock slightly higher than the 
 rest at the end, might fittingly depict the serial in dia- 
 gram. It is a hybrid form at best, with irrelevant 
 causes and complications grafted upon the trunk of 
 the original tree. There have, of course, been some 
 good serials, considering the serial as a distinct form, a 
 law unto itself, but these have been rather the exception 
 that proves the rule. The idea of the serial might be 
 maintained and yet the laws of dramatic art kept invio- 
 
182 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 late by producing pictures in series, each story complete 
 in itself, yet bound to the others by the same charactera 
 and the same locale. This would be following in the 
 " movies " the precedent set in the fiction world by Mr, 
 Booth Tarkington with his " Penrod " stories and by 
 Mr. George Randolph Chester who is responsible for 
 the adventures of " Get Rich Quick Wallingford." On 
 the whole, the free-lance writer wiU show wisdom by 
 leaving the serial market entirely outside his calcula- 
 tions. 
 
 The educational field of the motion picture has not 
 even been entirely fallowed as yet and does not offer a 
 particularly lucrative ground for the endeavors of the 
 cinema composer. The Educational Film Company is 
 doing what it can, but it must needs confine itself largely 
 to the exposition of scientific processes, phenomena of 
 the animal, mineral, and vegetable kingdoms, the his- 
 tory of industries, and subjects of a like nature. Their 
 aim is to supplement the text-book in the schools, col- 
 leges, and institutions for civic welfare. They film 
 places of historic or literary association, and make 
 many beautiful nature pictures. They have not yet 
 reached the point, however, of linking the educational 
 with the dramatic. A great deal of innocuous " educa- 
 tion " can be given through the medium of a five reel 
 photodrama. The best sort of education is that which 
 the recipient acquires unconsciously, the sort that comes 
 with the pure joy of reading, the pleasures of traveling, 
 the "harvest of a quiet eye." The day will probably 
 come when there will be both funds and facilities for 
 making pictures that will be at the same time enlighten- 
 
THE PHOTOPLAY MARKET 183 
 
 ing and entertaining. The two are by no means mutu- 
 ally exclusive. 
 
 The Community Bureau of Motion Pictures has 
 this sort of thing in mind, yet at present they have to 
 be selective rather than productive. A little later on 
 they plan to be in the market for stories which will fit 
 in with their purposes. 
 
 In last analysis, the photoplay market is at best an 
 ephemeral thing, of shifting values and transient de- 
 mands. Often it sets a premium upon the worst ma- 
 terial and withholds the guerdon from the best. We 
 have said that the photoplaywright must trim his sails 
 to the winds of commercialism. This is very true. 
 Producers are business men and they measure the au- 
 thor's offering by the golden rule of the twentieth cen- 
 tury. Yet it is very necessary, if the photoplay is to 
 progress, if it is to take up and adequately deal with 
 some of the graver aspects and problems of our human 
 existence, if it is to hold its place along with the art 
 of the drama and the art of prose fiction, that the 
 photoplayvmght cling to his ideals, having sufficient 
 vision to offer plays that are a few degrees better than 
 the market demands. Through the playwrights must 
 the public ultimately come into a better appreciation 
 of the possibilities and excellencies of the photoplay. 
 Every cinema writer should feel this responsibility as a 
 trust that he is in honor bound to execute. Accordingly, 
 he should work always with a trade journal in his hand 
 and Browning's bit of philosophy in his heart — 
 
 " A man's reach should exceed his grasp . . . 
 Or what's a Heaven for?" 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 
 Notes 
 
 The continuity following was prepared by Miss Mar- 
 garet TumbuU from an original story by Dr. E. Eal- 
 ston Reed called " Humility o' Hedford." The story 
 won the prize offered by the Famous Players-Lasky 
 Company for the best story written by the students of 
 the course in Photoplay Composition at Columbia Uni- 
 versity. The prize consisted of a trip to the company's 
 studios at Hollywood, California, and three hundred 
 and fifty dollars. The story was renamed " Witch- 
 craft," and was produced in October, 1916. 
 
 The synopsis of the story as it was originally written 
 by Dr. Reed is given in order that the student of the 
 photoplay may have an opportunity to observe the 
 changes that a professional writer thought it necessary 
 to make in altering the material for the screen. Most 
 of the changes were supported by substantial reasons. 
 
 First of all it will be noted that the nationality of 
 the heroine is changed from a New Englander to a 
 Huguenot refugee. This was because the suspicion and 
 distrust on the part of the colonists was far greater 
 against foreigners than against their fellow-townsmen. 
 The fact that Suzette's mother could only speak the 
 French language, which sounded mysterious and bar- 
 baric to their unaccustomed ears, rendered her more 
 
 184 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 185 
 
 readily the object of dark hatred and fear. This change 
 necessitated renaming the heroine from Himiility to a 
 name suitable to a French Huguenot, hence, Suzette. 
 And the latter change in turn demanded a change in the 
 main title, since the story could no longer be called 
 '• Humility o' Bedford." The title " Witchcraft " was 
 chosen because it strikes the keynote of the picture. It 
 places and identifies the story immediately in the mind 
 of the audience. 
 
 The motivation in the plot was unquestionably 
 strengthened by giving as a reason for Suzette's mar- 
 riage her desire to save her mother from persecution as 
 a witch, instead of her inability to pay a mortgage that 
 has fallen due. The first is a vital reason, a poignant 
 motive which serves the double purpose of giving a 
 more logical reason for the resultant complication and 
 in addition, by her spirit of sacrifice, awakens the sym- 
 pathy of the audience. We would be inclined to con- 
 demn a girl who would not let a mortgage go to fore- 
 closure rather than renounce her happiness, while we 
 would admire one who was altruistic enough to give 
 up her happiness that her mother might live. 
 
 Again, the original story had two characters, one 
 Elam Flint, chief man of Hedford village and father 
 of the hero ; the other Peter Struble, apothecary, notary, 
 and chief magistrate in the town. These two characters 
 were skilfully combined into one, for whom the name 
 Makepeace Struble, true to the quaint given names in 
 Puritanical days, was devised. The action divided in 
 the original between the two was given to one man, thus 
 strengthening the characterization and tightening up the 
 
186 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 plot of the story. Next in sequence Young Flint be- 
 came Eichard Wayne, the ward of Makepeace Struble. 
 This obviated the natural difficulties that would arise 
 from their relationship of father and son. 
 
 In the final version the old crone of the original 
 story became Nokomis, an Indian woman. This again 
 helps to make the story true to period. It adds a touch 
 of local color, as it were, and saves the confusion of 
 having too many witches in the story, the mother, the 
 crone, and Suzette. 
 
 The solution of the two stories are somewhat the same. 
 The governor's proclamation as conceived by Miss Turn- 
 bull adds a grain of authenticity, of historic interest, 
 to the story. But aside from this both solutions de- 
 pended upon a fifth reel rescue, the one from a burning 
 cabin in the woods, the other from the gallows itself. 
 Of the two, perhaps, the original was less harrowing 
 upon the sensibilities of the audience. The changes here 
 seem to be rather negligible, neither gain nor loss. 
 
 It will be noted that the synopsis is divided into reels 
 which are marked on the margin, an arrangement which 
 is no longer necessary. In the final copy of Miss Turn- 
 bull's script bichrome typewriter ribbon was used, the 
 spoken and subtitles being printed in red. Usually no 
 scene was printed over into the following page, the rea- 
 son for this being convenience in handling the script for 
 the director. 
 
 The continuity is by no means offered as a model 
 of perfection. No script exists which can be set up as a 
 flawless copy. The best of them are scarcely more than 
 75 per cent, perfect. It is simply given as a working 
 
"WITCHCRAPT" 187 
 
 guide, a modus operandi, in order that the student set- 
 ting out upon his initial endeavor to write continuity, 
 may not be entirely at a loss for a pattern. 
 
 Although the usages in regard to continuity writing 
 vary with the different studios to a greater or less ex- 
 tent, the method of procedure is in the main the same, 
 the differences being only in the minor details. Hence 
 the continuity of Miss Turnbull who is one of the fore- 
 most scenarioists of the day, may be used as an excellent 
 working basis. 
 
" HUMILITY O' HEDFORD " 
 SYNOPSIS 
 
 1— HumiKty Dennison, with her aged father, lands in 
 America from England. They purchase a house upon which 
 Elam Flint, chief man of Hedf ord Village, holds a mortgage. 
 Flint, a widower, is crony to Peter Struble, apothecary, 
 notary, magistrate, both being disliked by all. Humility in 
 kindness nurses Struble back to health, but he mistakes her 
 himianitarian interest for something deeper. Humility's 
 father, deceiving her into believing he has money for the 
 mortgage, dies unexpectedly, leaving her penniless. Creditors 
 press. Flint destroys the mortgage upon her betrothal to 
 him. Humility, annoyed by Struble, accepts the lesser of 
 two evils. 
 
 2 — Married, Flint takes his wife to live in his own house, 
 but the couple are mismated because of disparity in ages, 
 and Flint's intemperance, which is abetted by Struble. Flint's 
 son, Roger, a handsome adventurous youth, returns home 
 after many months of trading with the Indians in the woods, 
 and is mistaken by Humility for a thief. In mock subjuga- 
 tion he permits himself to be bound, until released by his 
 father, but the incident proves the foimdation of a mutual 
 attraction. 
 
 3 — Humility, warning an old crone in the woods of her 
 contemplated arrest, is presented with a charm. At this time 
 superstition is at fever heat because of the witchcraft scare 
 in nearby Salem, where several have been hanged as witches. 
 The village gossip or scold is ducked in the pond, women 
 remain indoors at night in terror, etc., etc. Humility tries 
 the charm, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger as di- 
 rected, and is misled into thinking that she is a witch, and 
 
 188 
 
« WITCHCRAFT " 189 
 
 has accomplished by sTipematuial power that which comes 
 from natural means. Roger Flint, to avoid a declaration of 
 love, hastens away. In a drinking bout with Struble, Flint 
 becomes abusive, and Humility, attempting to curb his appe- 
 tite, is brutally driven from home. She seeks refuge for the 
 night in a distant cabin of an aged minister and his wife, 
 where, unbeknown to her, Eoger has shortly before sought 
 shelter. Noting the bruises on her body from Flint's brutal 
 treatment. Humility unconsciously wishes her husband dead, 
 then suddenly realizes that she has rubbed the charm as she 
 made the wish. Swayed by superstition, but unconvinced, 
 she tests it further by wishing for young Flint to appear, 
 when lo ! he does, declaring his love for her as she sits in the 
 dim firelight stupefied by the apparent mysticism, of the 
 charm. A knock is heard, and opening the door, thinking 
 her husband has pursued her, she is arrested on the charge 
 of murder, her husband having been found dead during her 
 absence. 
 
 4 — Humility is taken back and tried for murder, with 
 Struble as judge. About to be acquitted, when brought to 
 take affirmation of her innocence upon the Bible, she breaks 
 down, and confesses she is a witch, and as such is responsible 
 for the death of her husband. She is sentenced to be burned 
 at the stake. 
 
 5 — ^Roger attempts to ride to Boston to appeal to the Gov- 
 ernor, but is waylaid by Struble, who shoots at and wounds 
 him. Observed by the Witch, she drags the injured man to 
 the nearby minister's cabin in the woods. She then attempts 
 to tell Humility, but is recognized by the guard, and thrown 
 into the jail with her. There she not only convinces Hu- 
 mility that she (Humility) is not a witch, but also proves 
 herself merely a clever impostor who lives by her wits. 
 Struble comes to Humility, but she repulses him, the Witch 
 hiding in the comer unseen. With this clue, she sees it all. 
 Slipping a scarf through the jail bars and over the head of 
 the sentinel outside, they are able to seize his keys and 
 
190 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 escape, Humility to the cabin in the woods, the Witch re- 
 turning to Struble for revenge. The sentinel gives the alarm, 
 and soldiers, pursuing Humility, attack the cabin. The min- 
 ister refuses to fight, " I am a man of God 1 " but changes his 
 mind when a bullet of the voUey fired by the soldiers pierces 
 Humility's hand. The soldiers are repulsed, but later fire 
 the cabin. At death's door, and under fire, the minister 
 marries Eoger and Humility. Meanwhile the Witch con- 
 fronts Struble in his house, where through her supposed 
 necromancy, in reality guess-work plus her knowledge of the 
 man, who has wronged her years before, she obtains the 
 written confession that he murdered Flint in the hope of 
 winning Humility for himself. Taking poison, he dies, and 
 the Witch hastens back to the cabin in the woods in time 
 to save all from burning. 
 
" WITCHCEAFT » 
 
 STOET OF THE PLAY 
 
 (Taken from Strand Theatre Program, Week of October 
 
 15-21, 1916). 
 
 Until the Governor's proclamation put an end to the folly, 
 hundreds of innocent people suffered persecution in the New 
 England Colonies in 1692-3 from the horrible delusion of 
 witchcraft. 
 
 Suzette and her mother, Huguenot refugees, take up their 
 residence in one of these colonies. The mother falls iU and 
 Suzette enlists the services of Nokomis, an Indian, to assist 
 her. Nokomis is considered a witch and Suzette's mother's 
 delirium strengthens the suspicion. 
 
 Suzette meets Richard Wayne, ward of the town miser. 
 Makepeace Struble. He accompanies her to her home and ia 
 seen by old Struble, who is very angry, desiring the girl for 
 himself. Struble sends Wayne out of the village, ostensibly 
 to join the Governor's staff, but in reality to get him out of 
 the way that he may marry Suzette. He succeeds in con- 
 vincing Suzette that the only way she can save her mother 
 from persecution as a witch is to marry him, and horrified 
 though she is by the idea, she consents. Just after the wed- 
 ding ceremony, Suzette's mother dies. Nokomis gives the 
 girl a talisman telling her it will make every wish come true. 
 
 Upon his return, Captain Wayne is thunderstruck that 
 Suzette has married Struble, and believing the old man's 
 money her only motive, fails to show her proper respect. He 
 is surprised at Suzette's dignified rebuff, realizes his great 
 love for her and decides to go away — ^forever. 
 
 Struble is brutal to his young wife, and, with the talisman 
 in her hand, she tells him he would be better dead. Shortly 
 
 191 
 
192 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 afterwards Struble is taken ill. Suzette learns from Nokomis 
 that the Indians are planning a mutiny and hurries to ob- 
 tain the assistance of Captain Wayne. In the meantime the 
 old man dies, accusing Suzette of having cursed him, and 
 when Suzette returns she is found guilty of witchcraft and 
 sentenced to be hanged. Wajme and his men save the colony 
 and he succeeds in reaching the Governor, who arrives in 
 time to save the innocent girl, and puts an end once and for 
 all to the folly of witchcraft. 
 
 CAST OF CHAKACTEES* 
 SUZETTE 115 
 
 4—5—6—8—9—10—11—13 — 1 5—17—18—21—22—24—25— 
 
 26— 27— 29— 34— 35— 36— 38— 39— 4fr— 41 11 1 7 1 9 51— 
 
 53—55—56—57—59—65—67—69—71—75—77—79—81—82— 
 
 83—85—87—88—89—90—92—93—95—96—97—99—100—101 
 
 —103—106—108—109—110—111—113—114—116—117—118 
 
 —119—120—121—125—126—127—128—129—131—133—135 
 
 —138—140—142—145—147—149—150—151—153—155—156 
 
 —158—159—160—162—163—166—167—168—169—170—171 
 
 —174^176— 178— 180— 185— 187— 190— 192— 193— 194r— 198 
 
 —199. 
 
 EICHAED WAYNE— 61 
 
 2—7—10—12—14—16—20—23—25—27—29—34^36—38—39 
 
 —40—41—42—58—61—62—68—70—72—92—98—104—107^ 
 
 108—109—110—111—112—115—116—117—118—119—121— 
 
 125—129—130—131—157—158—159—160—162—163—179— 
 
 181—182—186—188—191—193—194—196—198—199. 
 
 MAKEPEACE STETJBLE 47 
 
 1—5—6—7—20—38—42—48—50—52—54—55—56—57—58— 
 61—62- 73— 76— 78— 80— 81— 82— 83— 85— 91— 92— 93— 95— 
 97—102—104—107—108—110—111—117—129—130—135— 
 136—138—140—144—146—148—161. 
 
 • The above is a technical cast of characters furnished by the 
 continuity writer to the director. For ordinary purposes it is 
 tmnecessary to give the numbers of the scenes in which each char- 
 acter appears. 
 
« WITCHCRAFT » 193 
 
 NOKOmS 41 
 
 3—8—9—10—11—19—21—28—30—35—86—87—88— 89 — 94 
 — 96— 9Y— 98— 100— 101— 123— 127— 128— 133— 139— 141— 
 143—145—147—154—165—167—175—177—179—181—184— 
 189—190—192—198. 
 
 STIZETTE'S MOTHER 21 
 
 5— 6— 11— 18— 21— 31— 33— 37— 49— 51— 53— 55— 56— 59»— 
 7 9 81 89—92—94^96—97. 
 
 MIOTSTER 21 
 
 73—76—78—80—81—82—83—85—136—138—144^146—154 
 —161— 164— 16&— 169— 178— 185— 196— 197. 
 
 VILLAGERS— YOUNG MEN, WOMEN, AND 
 
 CHILDREN 19~ 
 
 8— 10— 43— 45-^7— 168— 169— 171— 172— 176— 185!— 187— 
 189—190—193—194—195—196—197. 
 
 LITTLE GIRL OF 8 OR 9 13 
 
 4^118—122—124^126—128—131—132—133—134—146—169 
 
 GIRL'S MOTHER 8 
 
 132—134—140—146—148—161—168—169. 
 
 1 OR 2 MEN 8 
 
 136—165—167-168—174—176—185—198. 
 
 anne'hardin 
 
 32--33— 37-^6— 60— 63. 
 ANNE HARDEST'S FATHER 
 
 60—63—64^-66—68—74^76. 
 
194 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 SOLDIERS 8 
 
 155—179—181—186—188—191—193—162. 
 
 SEVEEAL ELDERS 6 
 
 144r-146— 154—161— 164— 185. 
 
 GROUP OF NEIGHBORS— MEN AND WOMEN 6 
 64—66—68—74—76—78. 
 
 CHILDREN 4 
 
 19—86—103—105. 
 
 ANNE HARDIN'S MOTHER 3 
 
 46—60—63. 
 
 THE DOCTOR 3 
 
 60—63—148. 
 
 OEFIOERS 3 
 
 92—157—182. 
 
 GUESTS AT WEDDING 3 
 
 93—94—97. 
 
 3 LITTLE CHLLDREN- 2 SISTERS AND 1 
 
 BROTHER 3~ 
 
 132—133—134. 
 JUDGE 
 
 169—172—176. 
 
 YOUNG MEN 
 12—16. 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 195 
 
 ELDEELT WOMAN 2 
 
 45-^6. 
 
 
 STEUBLE'S SEEVANT 
 
 2 
 
 62—130. 
 
 
 YOUNG INDIAN BOY 
 
 2 
 
 137—139. 
 
 
 TOWN DEUNEAED 
 
 1 
 
 155 
 
 
 POETLY GENTLEMAN 
 
 1 
 
 155 
 
 
 TAVEEN KEEPEE 
 
 2 
 
 155-157 
 
 
 2 DEVILS 
 
 1 
 
 4 
 
 
 2 WITCHES 
 
 1 
 
 4 
 
 
 2 WOEKING MEN 
 
 1 
 
 5 
 
 1 WOEKING MAN 
 
 8 
 EABBLE 
 
 92 
 
 BYSTANDEES AT WEDDING 
 
 93 
 
196 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 LITTLE BLACK DEVIL 1 
 
 133 
 
 
 NEIGHBOR WOMAN 
 
 
 134 
 
 
 CIVILIANS 
 
 
 155 
 
 
 HOSTLER 
 
 
 155 
 
 
 SEVERAL TNELTTENTTAL MEN 
 
 
 164 
 
 
 JURY 
 
 
 169—172—176 
 
 
 GIRL OLDER THAN 8 OR 9 
 
 
 169 
 
 
 FARMER MAN 
 
 
 177 
 
 
 GOVERNOR 
 
 
 182 
 
 
 SCOUT 
 
 
 182 
 
 
 HOBBLING OLD MAN 
 
 
 188 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 197 
 
 SCENE PLOT 
 
 INTERIORS 
 
 STEUBLE'S OFFICE 
 1—20—61—102—104—107—108—109—110—111—129 
 
 NOKOMIS' HUT 
 
 3_35_101— 123— 127— 139— 145— 147— 154 
 
 LIVING EOOM— SUZETTE'S COTTAGE 
 
 5— 6— 11— 18— 21— 33— 37— 49— 51— 53— 55— 57— .75— 82— 
 
 88—90—92—94^97 
 
 WINDOW— LIVING EOOM— SUZETTE'S COTTAGE 
 17—31—50—52—54—65—67 
 
 LIVING EOOM— HARDIN'S HOUSE 
 46—60—63 
 
 BEDEOOM— SUZETTE'S COTTAGE 
 
 56—59—77—79—84^89 
 
 DOOE— SUZETTE'S LIVING EOOM 
 69—71 
 
 OUTSIDE BEDEO^OM DOOE— SUZETTE'S COTTAGE 
 83—85 
 
 LIVING EOOM— STEUBLE'S 
 112—113—114—115—116—117—135—138 
 
 BEDEOOM— STEUBLE'S 
 140—144—146—148—161 
 
 OLD COLONIAL TAVEEN 
 155—157—179—181—182 
 
 FIEEPLACE— OLD COLONIAL TAVEEN 
 156—158—159—160 
 
 MEETING HOUSE 
 
 164r-169— 170— 171— 172— 174— 175— 176 
 
198 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 CELL 
 178—180 
 
 EXTERIOES AND LOCATIONS 
 
 SUZETTE'S COTTAGE 
 
 8— 9— 10— 12— 14r— 16— 19— 32— 58— 76— 78 
 
 DOOR— SUZETTE'S COTTAGE 
 4^70—72—80—87—91—96 
 
 WINDOW— SUZETTE'S COTTAGE 
 13—15 
 
 WOODS 
 
 2— 22— 23— 24— 25— 26— 27— 29— 98— 99— 10$ —105 — lOe-— 
 
 118—119—120—121—125—142—149—150—151—152—153— 
 
 162—163—166—177—186 
 
 NOKOMIS' HUT 
 28—30—34^36—100—141—143—167 
 
 DOOE— NOKOMIS' HUT 
 122—124^126—128—137—165 
 
 INSIDE GATE— STEUBLE'S 
 38—42 
 
 OUTSIDE GATE— STRUBLE'S 
 39—41 
 
 PATH NEAR GATE— STRUBLE'S 
 40 
 
 DRIVEWAY— STRUBLE'S 
 62—130 
 
 EXTERIOR STRUBLE'S HOUSE 
 136 
 
 VILLAGE STREET— FRONT OF HARDIN'S COTTAGE 
 43—47—64 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 199 
 
 STEEET— BETWEEN HAEDIN'S AND STEUBLE'S 
 44 
 
 STEEET— EEONT OE SUZETTE'S COTTAGE 
 7—68—86— 131— 168— 188 
 
 STEEET— BETWEEN SUZETTE'S AND HARDIN'S 
 65—73—74 
 
 SIDE SUZETTE'S COTTAGE 
 48 
 
 MEETING HOUSE 
 93—173 
 
 HARDIN COTTAGE 
 45 
 
 GALLOWS HILL 
 183—187—189—190—192—193—194^195—196—197—198— 
 
 199 
 
 FOOT OF GALLOWS HELL 
 184—185—191 
 
1 MANHFACTUKEE'S TITLE: NO. 159. 
 
 2 PEODUCEK'S TITLE: WITCHCEAET. 
 
 3 FOEEWOED : In 1692-3 the New England Colonies were 
 
 held fast in the grip of a horrible witchcraft delusion. 
 Hundreds suffered persecution, young and old, rich and 
 poor, no one was safe. In Salem, alone, 19 people were 
 hanged before the Governor's Proclamation put an end 
 to this folly. 
 
 4 SUBTITLE: MAKEPEACE STEUBLE— THE TOWN 
 
 MISEE. 
 
 Scene 1 
 AGAINST BLACK BACKGEOUND— (FADE IN.) 
 
 Makepeace Struble seated at old colonial desk, looking 
 over his ledger, counting money into strong box, candle 
 lit beside him. He handles the money, mostly gold 
 and silver, lovingly, then looks around suspiciously as 
 he closes strong box and turns to make memorandum 
 in ledger. (FADE OUT.) 
 
 5 SUBTITLE: EICHAED WAYNE— MAKEPEACE 
 
 STEUBLE'S WAED. 
 
 Scene 2 
 BACKGEOUND OF TEEES AND SUNLIGHT— 
 (FADE IN). 
 
 Eichard Wayne, in hunting costume, coming down 
 toward foreground, mounted, looks cautiously about 
 him. As he gets to foreground turning and looking 
 200 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 201 
 
 backward, grins, ducks his head behind horse's neck 
 and rides out of picture toward right. As he does so, 
 Indian appears at foreground extreme left and shoots 
 arrow after him. (FADE OUT.) 
 
 6 SUBTITLE: NOKOMIS— SUSPECTED OF WITCH- 
 
 CEAET. 
 
 Scene 3 
 
 BACKGEOUND OF HUGE COLONIAL FIRE- 
 
 PLACE— (FADE EST ). 
 
 Nokomis, an elderly Indian woman (not decrepit), in 
 Indian costume, leaning over iron pot hanging over 
 fire, stirring contents and muttering to herself, reaches 
 up toward mantel over fireplace, puUs down a bunch of 
 herbs from string of them hanging from ceiling. 
 Throws them in pot, stiU muttering and stirring as the 
 steam from the pot rises like a cloud. (FADE OUT.) 
 
 7 SUBTITLE: FANNY WARD AS SUZETTE, A 
 
 HUGUENOT EEFUGEE. 
 
 Scene 4 
 
 DOOE— SUZETTE'S COTTAGE— (FADE IN). 
 
 Suzette, standing outside of colonial doorway, hold- 
 ing old-fashioned lantern with candle inside, which 
 illumines the girl's face. She leans forward, calling. 
 A little girl of 8 or 9, plainly terrified of the dark, 
 runs into the picture, clutches Suzette's arms, and 
 points to closed door. As Suzette looks toward it 
 VISION rises on door of miniature devils and witches, 
 some (if possible) holding door handle, others threaten- 
 ing with pitchforks and broomsticks. (At least 2 
 devils and 2 witches.) Suzette waves her hand towards 
 them as though brushing them aside and VISION 
 FADES. As door opens slowly and Suzette and the 
 
202 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 child stands illumined by lantern light and the light 
 from the house, Suzette smiles at the child and says, 
 " There, you see ! There are no devils or witches ! " 
 As they move to go within (FADE OUT). 
 
 8 SUBTITLE: MAKEPEACE STEUBLE COLLECTS 
 HIS KENT— IN ADVANCE. 
 
 Scene 5 
 LIVING EOOM— (COLONIAL COTTAGE) 
 (DAY) 
 
 (Hereafter designated as Suzette's Cottage.) (Big 
 fireplace, small lattice window, simple table and 
 chairs of heavy colonial structure, a heavy 
 wooden settee near fireplace.) (For full descrip- 
 tion of fireplace refer to Scene 133.) (Very little in 
 the room. No pictures on the walls in this scene.) Old 
 Struble enters, looking about him, rubbing his hands. 
 Man comes in with bundle on his shoulder. (This 
 means household goods tied up in table cover or shawl. 
 When box is mentioned later in scene I mean the 
 wooden boxes or chests which served as trunks in those 
 days.) Man throws bundle down in middle of floor, 
 and goes out. Another man, passing him with big 
 wooden box on shoulder, sets it down and also goes 
 out. As he does so, Suzette enters, cloaked and dressed 
 as though having been on a journey. She has her arms 
 about her mother. Suzette, with very daughterly affec- 
 tionate manner, leads her mother tenderly out of the 
 picture toward the wooden settle in front of the empty 
 fireplace. 
 
 Scene 6 
 
 THE SETTLE— (LIVING EOOM) (SEMI- 
 
 CLOSE-UP) 
 
 Suzette and mother enter the picture. Suzette places 
 
« WITCHCRAFT " 203 
 
 ite mother on the settle, takes her own cloak and 
 makes a pillow of it. Is asking her mother if she is 
 feeling very ill, when old Struble comes into the pic- 
 ture. The mother is speaking to Suzette. Struble'a 
 face shows that he does not understand. He turns to 
 the girl and asks her a question. Suzette nods, says: 
 
 9 SPOKEN TITIE: WE AEE FROM THE EEENCH 
 
 SETTLEMENT. MY MOTHEK SPEAKS ONLY 
 FEENCH BUT I SPEAK THE ENGLISH. 
 Smiles up at Struble, who nods gravely, looking at 
 the girl, gloatingly, noting how pretty she is, and 
 his claw-like hand stretches out toward her, as he 
 notes the little knitted purse she holds in her hand. 
 Suzette looks at him a moment in surprise, and then 
 as he indicates " The rent in advance," she smiles, 
 opens the purse and puts the money in his hand. In- 
 dicates to Struble that her mother is tired and he 
 must go. Struble bows and goes out of the picture 
 ■with a glance first at the money and then at Suzette. 
 Suzette kisses her mother's cheek, tells her she must 
 go out and see to the rest of their goods. The mother 
 smiles feebly, and nods. Suzette turns and goes out 
 of the picture. 
 
 Scene 7 
 
 STBEET— (OUTSID E OF SUZETTE'S COTTAGE) 
 
 Old Struble going away from cottage up street, meets 
 Eichard Wayne (in civilian's clothes) coming down 
 street towards cottage. Wayne salutes his guardian, 
 who indicates the cottage, and says: 
 
 10 SPOKEN TITLE: THE NEW TENANTS HAVE 
 
 AKKIVED. THEY ARE FOEEIGNEES. 
 Wayne indicates: "Is that so?" Doesn't seem par- 
 ticularly interested. The old man shows the money. 
 Wayne smiles and goes down the street toward the 
 
204 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 cottage as Struble goes toward his home in opposite 
 direction. 
 
 Scene 8 
 
 EXTERIOR SUZETTE'S COTTAGE 
 
 Suzette at gate, giving man instructions to pick up 
 another chest or trunk, and bring it into the house. 
 Several of the villagers, young men, women, and little 
 children standing near gate, eyeing her — among them 
 Nokomis, basket of berries on arm, stops and looks 
 ^ at the girl. Suzette sees her and the basket, turns 
 
 and beckons to her.- 
 
 Scene 9 
 EXTERIOR SIJZETTE'S COTTAGE— (CLOSE- 
 -UP) 
 
 Nokomis and Suzette. Suzette indicates to Nokomis 
 that she will take the berries from her. Nokomis nods 
 and Suzette says: 
 
 11 SPOKEN TITLE: MY MOTHER IS ILL. I WILL 
 
 PAY THE GOOD MONET IF YOU WILL 
 
 HELP ME. 
 Nokomis grunts and indicates that she will do so. 
 Starts to follow Suzette towards house. 
 
 Scene 10 
 
 EXTERIOR SUZETTE'S COTTAGE— (FULL 
 
 VIEW) 
 
 The villagers whispering to each other. One of the 
 men, pointing to the cottage which Suzette and 
 Nokomis are entering, says: 
 
 12 SPOKEN TITLE: A WITCH AND A FOREIGNER 
 
 GO WELL TOGETHER. 
 The people look at him in fear when he says witch. 
 
"WITCHCRAFT" 205 
 
 Wayne comes into the picture. One of the men de- 
 taining him, begins to talk to him. Some of the 
 children start to move away. 
 
 Scene 11 
 THE SETTLE— (LIVING EOOM SUZETTE'S 
 COTTAGE) 
 
 Suzette's mother stretched out on settle, rigid. Su- 
 zette enters picture, looks at her. The mother begins 
 to cry aloud and toss herself about. She looks fright- ' 
 ened. The Indian woman comes into the picture, 
 points at the mother, strokes her head, looking at the 
 girl keenly, and motions toward the door, starts to 
 go. Suzette looks frightened, grabs the Indian woman 
 by the armi, appeals to her. The Indian woman says 
 something again, looking keenly at the mother, indi- 
 cates : " They wiU say she is a witch." Suzette 
 shakes her head vehemently, indicates "No, no!" 
 Then says: 
 
 13 SPOKEN TITLE: HELP ME. WE CAME HERE 
 
 BECAUSE IN THE FRENCH SETTLEMENT 
 THEY BEGAN TO CALL HER A WITCH. 
 The Indian woman looks down at the girl, then at the 
 mother. Takes pity on them, remembering that she 
 too is called a witch. Feels bond between her and the 
 pretty white girl. Suzette, nodding her head, indi- 
 cates, " All right." 
 
 14 SPOEI^N TITLE: I TELL SHE SICK. I BRING 
 
 MEDICINE. 
 Turns and goes out of the picture, nodding her head. 
 Suzette goes to her mother, begins chafing her hands 
 and calling to her. As her mother stops moaning and 
 begins to scream, Suzette looks frightened, puts her 
 hand over her mother's mouth, then looks about her, 
 and goes hurriedly out of the picture. 
 
206 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Scene 12 
 EXTERIOR SUZETTE'S COTTAGE. 
 
 The group of young men and Wayne, one of the young 
 men appealing to Wayne. Wayne is trying to get 
 away from them. He says, glancing toward the cot- 
 tage: 
 
 15 SPOKEN TITLE: HOW SHOULD I KNOW 
 WHETHER THE MAID BE PRETTY? I 
 HAVEN'T SEEN HER. 
 One of the young men laughs and points toward win- 
 dow. Wayne turns and looks at window. 
 
 Scene 13 
 OPEN WINDOW— EXTERIOR OP COTTAGE— 
 (CLOSE-UP) (FLASH) 
 
 Suzette, face at the window. Her eyes show that she 
 sees Wayne. 
 
 Scene 14 
 EXTERIOR COTTAGE— (FULL VIEW) 
 (FLASH) ' 
 
 Wayne, staring at the window, takes a step toward it. 
 
 Scene 15 
 WINDOW— EXTERIOR COTTAGE— (CLOSE- 
 
 UP) (FLASH) 
 Suzette's face at the window looking at him. 
 
 Scene 16 
 
 EXTERIOR COTTAGE— (FULL VIEW) 
 
 (FLASH) ' 
 
 The men laugh as WajTie turns away from window 
 and goes down street, indicating, " He saw her that time. 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 207 
 
 all right!" "Wayne, angry at being caught, pays no 
 attention to them. 
 
 Scene 17 
 
 WINDOW— LIVI NG ROOM— (FLASH) 
 
 Snzette turns away from window which she has closed 
 and goes toward her mother. 
 
 Scene 18 
 
 SETTLE— LIVING ROOM- (SEMI-CLOSE-UP) 
 
 Suzette and her mother — ^the mother reviving. She 
 clutches Suzette feverishly and says: "What did I 
 say? Did any one hear me?" Suzette putting her 
 arm about her, reassures her, says: 
 
 16 SPOKEN TITLE: YOtT ARE SAFE HERE. 
 THOUGH YOU CALL ON GOD WHEN YOU 
 RAVE, NO ONE WILL UNDERSTAND. 
 The mother's fear fades out of her face. She pats her 
 daughter's hand and asks if she is sure. Suzette nods 
 and says she is. TeUs her mother not to worry, it will 
 be all right yet. 
 
 Scene 19 
 
 EXTERIOR SUZETTE'S COTTAGE— (FLASH) 
 
 Nokomis comes along street with bimdle of herbs 
 in hand. The children throw stones at her and call 
 after her. She shakes stick at them and goes toward 
 cottage. 
 
 Scene 20 
 
 STRUBLE'S « OFFICE "—(STRUBLE'S HOUSE) 
 
 (A sort of cross between a study and a place where 
 Struble keeps his accounts and money. He has a few 
 books, a big desk, chairs, ledger, and writing material. 
 The furniture in this room is not omate-^very plain 
 and old, but not poor looking. The rest of Struble's 
 
208 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 house is very prosperous looking.) Struble, counting 
 money, looks up, hearing someone, hastily conceals 
 the money. Wayne comes in, asks his guardian for 
 money. Struble does not want to give it to him, says : 
 
 17 SPOKEN TITLE: I'LL NOT GIVE YOU MONEY 
 
 TO SQUANDER IN BOSTON. I'M YOUE 
 GUAEDIAN UNTIL YOU'RE TWENTY- 
 FIVE. 
 The two men quarrel about it. Wayne suddenly flings 
 himself out of the room, indicating that when he is 
 twenty-five the old man will suffer. The old man 
 looks after him angrily, shouting and thumping with 
 his cane. 
 
 Scene 21 
 NEAR FIREPLACE— LIVING ROOM— (SU- 
 ZETTE'S COTTAGE) 
 
 Nokomis has built fire and is giving the mother hot 
 steaming drink. The mother, leaning against Snzette 
 is sipping it. Suzette smiles across her mother at 
 Nokomis. Nokomis looks as affectionately as an In- 
 dian can at Suzette. (FADE OUT.) 
 
 18 SUBTITLE: SPRINGTIME IN THE WOODS— AND 
 
 IN THE HEART. 
 
 Scene 22 
 THE WOODS— (DAY) (FADE IN) 
 
 (Not a gloomy part . . . Sunlight showing.) Su- 
 zette running along, singing and swinging her little 
 bonnet — wild flowers ii\ her hand. Stops and begins 
 to dance by herself. 
 
 Scene 23 
 ANOTHER PART OF WOODS— (FLASH) 
 
 Richard Wayne, in hunting costume, sees rabbit, 
 shoots gun. 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 209 
 
 Scene 24 
 PATH (SUZETTE'S PAET OE WOODS) 
 
 Suzette comes, singing, along the path. Stops and 
 screams, looking down. Sinks down — camera panning 
 with her — and strokes dead rabbit gently with her 
 finger. Eabbit doesn't move. Suzette looks at it in 
 horror, begins to cry. 
 
 Scene 25 
 WOODS— A LITTLE FUETHEE ALONG— 
 (FLASH) 
 
 Wayne comes crashing through the underbrush to 
 get rabbit. Sees Suzette, pauses, and then goes toward 
 her. 
 
 Scene 26 
 WOODS— THE PATH BY DEAD EABBIT— 
 
 (SEMI-CLOSE-UP) 
 
 Suzette, on her knees beside the rabbit, looks at it 
 pitifully. Wayne comes into the picture, stoops over, 
 touches her gently on the shoulder. She turns and 
 looks up at him, recognizing him. Gives a little 
 smile, showing that she's glad to see him, and that 
 their friendship has progressed considerably. Then, 
 looking down at the rabbit, determines to scold him, 
 and begins to rise, without smiling. 
 
 Scene 27 
 
 WOODS— ( SAME PATH) (GLOSE-TJP) 
 
 Wayne looks down at Suzette, who is on her feet and 
 turns on him passionately. Tells him he's cruel to kill 
 a poor little thing like a rabbit. He is paying atten- 
 tion to the girl herself, watching her closely, admir- 
 ingly, but not paying any particular attention to what 
 she says. Suzette is not really angry, but is coquet- 
 
210 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 tisUy pretending anger. She stamps her foot at him, 
 pointing down to the dead rabbit. Wayne wakes up 
 with a start to what Suzette says, stoops, reaches out 
 of picture, the girl staring at him. He comes back, 
 straightens himself up, rabbit in his hand. Drops it 
 in his game bag. As he does this, Suzette covers her 
 face with her hands. Wayne takes her wrists gently 
 in his hands, uncovers her face, tells her he did not 
 mean to hurt her so. Says : 
 
 19 SPOKEN TITLE: I PROMISE YOU I WON'T 
 SHOOT ANOTHER RABBIT— TO-DAY, 
 Suzette, reassured, cheers up, turns to go away. He 
 asks her where she is going. She indicates the woods, 
 telling him she is going to see the Indian woman and 
 is too busy to stop. Wayne smiles, turns and follows 
 her as she starts to go out of the picture. 
 
 Scene 28 
 
 EXTERIOR NOKOMIS' HUT— (FLASH) 
 
 (Relic of early settlers.) (Not Indian hut.) (A 
 tumble-down little shanty, built of logs.) Nokomis 
 comes to doorway, looks out, smiles. 
 
 & 
 Scene 29 
 
 PATH TO NOKOMIS' HUT— (FLASH) 
 
 Wayne and Suzette coming along, talking together. 
 Wayne's attitude to the girl is very lover-like as he 
 bends over her and holds the branches away so they 
 won't strike her. 
 
 Scene 30 
 
 EXTERIOR NOKOMIS' H UT— (FLASH) 
 
 Nokomis mutters to herself, well pleased. Turns and 
 goes into hut. 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 211 
 
 Scene 31 
 WnSTDOW— UYING EO OM— (STTZETTE'S COT- 
 TAGE) (FLASH) 
 
 Suzette's mother looking out of window. Suddenly 
 smiles, beckons with her hand. 
 
 Scene 32 
 
 EXTEEIOR SUZETTE'S COTTAGE— (FLASH) 
 
 Anne Hardin, a little maid of about nine, going 
 toward cottage, laughing and waving her hand toward 
 Suzette's mother. 
 
 Scene 33 
 
 LIVING EOOM— (SUZETTE'S COTTAGE) 
 
 Suzette's mother leaning back in big armchair, hold- 
 ing out cookie. Little Anne comes running into pic- 
 ture, takes cookie, eats it, leaning against arm of 
 chair. Suzette's mother pats the child's head, show- 
 ing simply her fondness for children and that she feela 
 lonely. Looks lovingly down at the child. 
 
 Scene 34 
 EXTEEIOE NOKOMIS' HUT 
 
 Suzette comes to the hut, dismisses Wayne. He in- 
 dicates that he is going to wait for her. Suzette 
 shakes her head, saying: "Don't wait. I may be 
 long." Suzette protests again, then goes inside. 
 Wayne calmly sits down on nearby stump or stone, 
 and waits, looking at his gun. 
 
 Scene 35 
 INTEEIOR NOKOMIS' HUT 
 
 Suzette enters, greets Nokomis, asks for berries and 
 medicine for her mother, telling Nokomis her mother 
 
212 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 has not been well. Shows anxiety. Nokomis pats her 
 arm clumsily. Takes basket, showing her berries. 
 Puts her hand up and takes bunch of herbs from 
 cluster hanging from rafters. Explains to Suzette 
 that this will do her mother good. Puts it in basket 
 with berries. Suzette thanks her as she pays her 
 money for berries. Nokomis seizes the hand holding 
 the coin, takes it in her own, palm upward, looks at 
 it, nods, grunts, and points outside. Says: 
 
 20 SPOKEN TITLE: BRAVE WAEEIOR WANTS TO 
 MAKE MAIDEN HAPPY. 
 Suzette, embarrassed, pulls her hand away, remember- 
 ing what has been said about Nokomis being a witch, 
 shakes her head, telling her she must not say that. 
 Takes basket of berries and herbs and rushes from 
 hut. Nokomis smiles, shakes her head, indicating: 
 " That's the way with girls — ^you tell them what they 
 want to hear and they pretend they don't want to 
 hear it." Smiling and mumbling, goes toward fire- 
 place. 
 
 Scene 36 
 
 EXTERIOR NOKOMIS' HUT 
 
 Wayne, waiting, points his gun toward tree, ready to 
 kill bird. Suzette comes up behind him, looks hor- 
 rified, sees what he is going to do. Wayne, hearing 
 her, instantly changes his attitude, turns around with 
 an innocent expression as though he saw nothing but 
 blue sky, and pretends to be examining his gun. 
 Suzette comes up to him, scolds him, tells him that 
 he was going to break his promise. Wayne smiles at 
 her, says : 
 
 21 SPOKEN TITLE: I SAID RABBITS, NOT BIRDS. 
 Suzette continues to scold him. He offers to give her 
 the gun to carry and he'll take the basket. Suzette 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 213 
 
 shrinks away from the gun, indignantly clings to the 
 basket, indicates that he has enough with his old gun 
 and gamebag. They go off together, Suzette still pre- 
 tending to scold him, Wayne smiling as though he 
 enjoyed it. 
 
 Scene 37 
 LIVING EO OM— (SUZETTE'S COTTAGE) 
 (FLASH) 
 
 Little Anne takes another cookie, says good-by to 
 Suzette's mother and runs away out of picture. The 
 mother sinks back in the chair wearily, but smiling. 
 
 Scene 38 
 
 GATE— OLD STEUBLE'S GEOUNDS— (FLASH) 
 
 Struble, coming down toward gate, sees lovers, stops, 
 steps behind shrubbery, looks out. 
 
 Scene 39 
 
 OTHEE SIDE OF THE STEEET 
 
 Wayne and Suzette parting. Wayne doesn't want to 
 part with her, says he is going with her. Suzette 
 shakes her head, tries to withdraw her hand he is 
 holding. She says: 
 
 22 SPOKEN TITLE: YOU MUST NOT COME WITH 
 ME. MOTHEE IS ILL. BESIDES— PEOPLE 
 WILL TALK. 
 Wayne laughs, tells her he doesn't care what people 
 say — ^he's coming to see her soon. Suzette gets a little 
 embarrassed, tries to say good-bye again and takes her 
 hand away. Wayne won't let go, and despite her 
 struggles, draws her to him, throws his arms about 
 her and kisses her. Suzette, at first frightened — 
 looks up at him, hides her head on his shoulder. 
 Wayne indicates : " Now, wiU you let me come with 
 
214 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 you?" Suzette shakes her head, indicating: "Not 
 now — it would frighten my mother." Wayne bends 
 over her, whispering in her ear, says: 
 
 23 SPOKEN TITLE: I'M COMING TO-MOEEOW— TO 
 ASK yOUE MOTHEE. 
 Stoops to kiss her again, but Suzette, with a happy 
 laugh, ducks imder his arm and runs out of the pic- 
 ture laughing. Wayne takes a step toward her as 
 though to follow her — then decides he'd better not. 
 Stands at gate — looking toward her. 
 
 Scene 40 
 FUETHEE ALONG PATH— (EXTEBIOE STBU- 
 BLE'S GATE) (FLASH) 
 
 Suzette turns, looks back at the gate and smiles hap- 
 pily, waves good-bye to Wayne. 
 
 Scene 41 
 THE GATE— (FLASH) 
 Wayne waves to Suzette — she goes tiirough gata 
 
 Scene 42 
 INSIDE GATE— (BEHIND SHETJBBEEY)— 
 
 (FLASH) 
 
 Old Struble angry, crouches out of sight, as Wayne 
 comes in the grounds and passes him. After Wayne 
 goes out of picture, Struble sneaks out toward gate 
 cautiously. 
 
 Scene 43 
 VILLAGE STEEET— (IN FEONT OF HAEDIN 
 COTTAGE) (FLASH) 
 
 (Opposite side of street and a little above Suzette's 
 cottage.) Group of people whispering, about the gate. 
 Turn and point. 
 
« WITCHCRAFT " 215 
 
 Scene 44 
 STEEET— (BETWEEN HAEDIN COTTAGE AND 
 
 STBUELE'S HOUSE) (FLASH) 
 Suzette coming down street. 
 
 Scene 45 
 
 EXTERIOE H AEDIN COTTAGE— (FLASH) 
 
 An elderly woman pushes through group of people and 
 goes up towards house. 
 
 Scene 46 
 
 LIVING EOOM— (HAEDIN HOUSE) 
 
 (Somewhat similar in character to that of Suzette'a 
 cottage except that it has a more littered appearance, 
 because there are little children in it, and it has a 
 more settled and furnished appearance.) Anne Har- 
 din, the child to whom Suzette's mother gave cookie, 
 lying on settle, head propped up with pillows, toss- 
 ing, crying, looks very iU, mother bending over the 
 child, wringing her hands. The middle-aged woman 
 enters, asks questions. The mother begins to cry. 
 The woman pats her shoulder, says : 
 
 24 SPOKEN Title : the DOCTOE WON'T BE BACK 
 FOE AN HOUE. I'LL DO WHAT I CAN. 
 Bends over the child, rubbing its hands. The mother 
 goes out of the picture, comes in with hot herb tea 
 in bowl. The woman lifts it to the child's lips. The 
 child pushes it away. The woman finds a bit of cookie 
 in the child's hands. Asks her who gave it to her. 
 The child points in the direction of Suzette's cottage. 
 The two women exchange glances, indicate : " The for- 
 eigner ! " Mother begins to cry again. The middle- 
 aged woman forces the child to drink the tea. 
 
216 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Scene 47 
 EXTERI OB HAEDIN COTTAGE— (FLASH) 
 
 The group. Suzette has passed them and is in the 
 foreground going toward her own house. They point 
 after her, whispering. Suzette feels this. Her face 
 shows a bit of alarm. 
 
 Scene 48 
 EXTERIOR SHDE OF SUZETTE'S COTTAGE 
 WITH LATTICED WINDOW— (FLASH) 
 
 Old Struble comes along little side path. Humea 
 toward window. 
 
 Scene 49 
 LIVING ROOM— (SUZETTE'S COTTAGE) 
 
 Mother of Suzette sitting at table with small wooden 
 box, with brass hinges and clasp, open before her. 
 She takes jewels, string of pearls, several necklaces, 
 rings, pins, bracelets — and fingers them. Suzette 
 comes into the picture and puts her hand on her 
 mother's shoulder gently. The mother starts, looking 
 around, clutching the jewels. Looks reUered when 
 she sees Suzette. 
 
 Scene 50 
 
 WINDOW— INTERIOR LIVING ROOM— 
 
 (FLASH) ' 
 
 Old Struble, peering through, sees the jewels, his eyes 
 gleaming with avarice. 
 
 Scene 51 
 LIVING ROOM 
 
 Suzette and her mother unconscious of the old man 
 watching them. Suzette asks her mother what these 
 things mean. Her mother glances at the jewels, cov- 
 
« WITCHCRAFT " 21';^ 
 
 ers them with her hands, looks up at her daughter 
 and says: 
 
 25 SPOKEN TITLE: (In French) WHEN WE LOST 
 
 EVERYTHING EOE THE FAITH, I SAVED 
 THESE FOE YOU. (Fade into EngUsh.) 
 Suzette puts her arms about her mother's neck, kisses 
 her, then looks at the jewels curiously, lifting them 
 up, admiring them. Her mother watches her with a 
 faint smile as though it amused her to see the inno- 
 cent love of beautiful things in this daughter who 
 had to do without them. Then a look of sadness comes 
 over her face. She puts her hand on her child's arm 
 and says: 
 
 26 SPOKEN TITLE: (In French): IF I DIE, THEY 
 
 WILL BEING MONEY ENOUGH FOE YOUE 
 MAEEIAGE POETION, OE TAKE YOU 
 BACK TO FEANCE. (Fade into English.) 
 Suzette shakes her head, pushes the jewels away, 
 throws her arms about her mother, begs her not to die 
 but to stay with her. As the mother comforts her, 
 kisses her, she feels the eyes of the old miser on her. 
 Looks up. 
 
 Scene 62 
 
 WINDOW— INTEEIOE LIVING EOOM— 
 
 (FLASH) 
 Old Struble's face against the window, looking at the 
 jewels. 
 
 Scene 53 
 LIVING EOOM 
 
 The mother turns, frightened, begins to push the jewels 
 back in the box, her hands trembling. Suzette helps 
 her, asks her what is wrong. The mother tries to point 
 toward window, but her hand shakes, and the seizure 
 begins. Suzette looks at window. 
 
218 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Scene 54 
 WINDOW— INTERIOR LIVING ROOM— 
 
 (FLASH) 
 Struble's face gone — the window blank. 
 
 Scene 55 
 LIVING ROOM 
 
 Suzette thinking her mother has had an hallucination, 
 turns to tell her so — finds her mother iU — ^her head 
 thrown back — her eyes closed — her body rigid — her feet 
 and hands twisting. She is muttering. (Note: Not 
 an epileptic fit — more the efFect of a bad heart attack 
 or some serious brain trouble.) Suzette, frightened, 
 reaches for pitcher on table — pours water in glass — 
 begins to sprinkle on mother's face. As she does so, 
 Struble comes into picture. Suzette looks up at him 
 frightened — puts her hand over her mother's mouth. 
 Then concludes that this is useless. Struble looks 
 shocked. As he looks at the mother, says : " Deyil's 
 Latin ! " Suzette shakes her head, angry — says scorn- 
 fully: 
 
 27 SPOKEN TITLE: SHE SPEAKS FRENCH. NOT 
 DEVIL'S LATIN. MY MOTHER IS NO- 
 WITCH. 
 Struble looks at her doubtfully — calculatingly, as it 
 begins to dawn on him that he can use this witch- 
 craft threat to make her do what he desires. Suzette 
 begs him to help her, and together they half lift, half 
 support the mother out of the picture. 
 
 Scene 56 
 
 BEDROOM— (SUZETTE'S COTTAGE) 
 
 (High four-posted bed.) Struble and Suzette come 
 into the picture, supporting the mother — ^get her on 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 219 
 
 the bed. She comes out of the seizure — opens her 
 eyes. Her daughter gives her a drink of water- 
 speaks to her soothingly. Struble keeps himself in the 
 background. The mother turns her head, closes her 
 eyes, tries to sleep. Struble beckons to the girL She 
 follows him out of the room. 
 
 Scene 67 
 UVING EOOM 
 
 Struble enters — Suzette following him — comes up to 
 him anxiously. He begins to tell her that there's 
 danger of her mother being accused of witchcraft. 
 Suzette, terribly frightened, says: 
 
 28 SPOKEN TITLE: SUPERSTITION DEOVE US 
 
 HERE. MY MOTHER SPEAKS STRANGELY 
 WHEN SHE IS ILL, AND THEY SUS- 
 PECTED HER. 
 Looks at Struble for sympathy and righteous indig- 
 nation at the very thought of them suspecting her 
 mother. Old Struble purses up his mouth — nods his 
 head solemnly and points outside — says : 
 
 29 SPOKEN TITLE: THEY SUSPECT HER HERE. 
 
 BUT I WILL BE YOUR FRIEND. 
 Suzette horrified, implores him to help her — begins to 
 cry. He pats her shoulder with his bony hand — 
 starts to draw her to him, but the girl involuntarily 
 draws back. Struble realizes he has gone as far as 
 he can this time — ^pats her shoidder again — chucks 
 her under the chin — tells her to be a good girl, and 
 he will take care of her. Goes o£E snaihng and chuck- 
 ling to himseH at his diplomacy. The girl stands 
 looking after him in horrified amazement — then as he 
 goes out of the picture, she bursts into tears, turns 
 and goes out of the picture toward bedroom. 
 
220 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Scene 58 
 EXTERI OR SUZETTE'S COTTAGE 
 Wayne, going toward cottage, meets Struble coming 
 from it. Struble tells him that the mother is iU and 
 turns the young man back, Wayne is reluctant— 
 indicates that at least he could inquire, but Struble 
 tells him that he must not— that the mother is ill and 
 the girl anxious — indicates that he has something to 
 say to himr-anxious to get Wayne away from Su- 
 zette, buttonholing him — pidls him along — says con- 
 fidentially : 
 
 30 SPOKEN TITLE: I'VE CHANGED MT MIND. 
 
 YOU SHALL START TO-NIGHT TO JOIN 
 
 THE GOVERNOR'S STAFF. 
 Wayne astonished and delighted. The old man 
 watching him foxily, delighted that he shall go and 
 be kept away from Suzette. Wayne tries to break 
 away from his guardian, but Struble insists upon 
 talking about the journey. Wayne interested in 
 spite of himeelf at the thought of realizing his am- 
 bition, goes with a backward look at the cottage. 
 
 Scene 59 
 
 BEDROOM— SUZETTE'S COTTAGE— (FLASH) 
 
 Suzette kneeling beside her mother's bed — ^her face 
 hidden. The mother puts her hand on her head — 
 feebly trying to comfort her. (FADE OUT.) 
 
 Scene 60 
 LIVING ROOM— HARDIN COTTAGE— (NIGHT) 
 (FADE IN) 
 
 Anne Hardin crying — twitching — screaming — the 
 Doctor frowning — shaking his head — the father and 
 
"WITCHCRAFT" 221 
 
 motlier telling him about the cookie, showing him 
 little crumpled piece of cookie the child had in her 
 hand. The Doctor shakes his head — indicates that 
 he doesn't know what to say — ^finally says, solemnly: 
 
 31 SPOKEN TITrE : IT MAT BE THAT THE CHILD 
 HAS BEEN— BEWITCHED. 
 The father, terribly angry, begins to stride about, 
 gesticulating, declaring he will have the guilty person 
 punished. 
 
 Scene 61 
 "OFFICE"— STEUBLE HOUSE 
 
 Old Struble talking to Bichard Wayne, who is 
 dressed ready to ride away. Struble gives him money 
 and advice, patting his arm and talking very fast. 
 Sichard takes the money — ^looks down at his guardian 
 a moment thoughtfully — ^then smiles — extends his 
 hand, and says: 
 
 32 SPOKEN TITLE: FOR THE MONEY AND THE 
 CAPTAIN'S COMMISSION I THANK YOU, 
 BUT— I AM LOATH— TO LEAVE HEDFORD 
 SO SUDDENLY. 
 Old Struble looks at him a little anxiously — then indi- 
 cates " that's all right " — ^he'U soon be back. Begins to 
 hustle him towards door, following him with advice, 
 quite evidently anxious to get him away. 
 
 Scene 62 
 
 DRIVEWAY- EXTEEIOE STRUBLE'S HOUSE 
 
 The horse saddled — a servant holding it. Richard 
 comes on — says good-bye to his guardian — moimts his 
 horse and rides off. Old Struble watches him with a 
 satisfied air — then instead of going into the house, 
 goes down the path toward the gate. 
 
222 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Scene 63 
 
 LIVING ROOM— HARDIN COTTAGE 
 
 The mother and doctor cautioning the father to be 
 still lest he disturb the child. The father turns from 
 them angry and goes out of the room hastily. The 
 mother and doctor turn and try to soothe the fretful 
 child. 
 
 Scene 64 
 
 GATE— EXTERIOR HARDIN COTTAGE 
 
 Group of neighbors — men and women, standing, wait- 
 ing, and talking. The father comes out excited — turns 
 and shouts, shaking his fist: 
 
 33 SPOKEN TITLE: THE FOREIGNER HAS BE- 
 WITCHED MY CHILD. 
 Consternation and horror on the part of the neigh- 
 bors. The father moves out of the picture in the 
 direction of Suzette's cottage, followed by the 
 neighbors. 
 
 Scene 65 
 WINDOW — SUZETTE'S COTTAGE — (NEAR 
 
 DOOR) (FLASH) 
 Suzette hears noise — looks out of window. 
 
 Scene 66 
 STREET— (SEEN FROM SUZETTE'S WINDOW 
 —A LITTLE BEYOND HARDIN COTTAGE) 
 (FLASH) ' 
 
 Anne Hardin's father coming along with a group of 
 people following 'him. He looks threatening and 
 angry — waves his hands — talking vehemently about 
 witchcraft. The others shuddering — frightened. 
 
" WITCHCRAFT » 223 
 
 Scene 67 
 WINDOW— SUZETTE'S C OTTAGE— (PLASH) 
 Suzette turns from, window — goes toward door. 
 
 Scene 68 
 STEEET IN FRONT OF SUZETTE'S COTTAGE 
 —(FLASH) 
 
 Eichard riding down the street — ^passes the group 
 and dismounts at Suzette's door. 
 
 Scene 69 
 DOOE— INTERIOR SUZETTE'S COTTAGE— 
 
 (FLASH) 
 Suzette at door — bolts it. 
 
 Scene TO 
 EXTERIOR DOOE— SUZETTE'S COTTAGE— 
 
 (FLASH) 
 Eichard knocks on door. 
 
 Scene 71 
 DOOE— INTERIOR SUZETTE'S COTTAGE— 
 
 (FLASH) 
 
 Suzette hears the knock, but is afraid to open it — 
 thinks for a moment it might be Richard, but isn't 
 sure — ^makes up her mind that she will not open the 
 doop — stands trembling against it. 
 
 ■ Scene 72 
 DOOR— EXTEEIOR SUZETTE'S COTTAGE— 
 
 (FLASH) 
 
 Eichard waiting — knocks again — receives no response 
 — ^tums and regretfully goes out of picture. 
 
224 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Scene 73 
 STREET— rUETHER UP— (OPPOSITE DIREC- 
 
 TION) 
 
 Makepeace Struble coining along towards Su^ette'a 
 cottage — meets minister hurrying along toward Har- 
 din cottage. They stop and speak, then walk on to- 
 gether. Suddenly Makepeace points and urges the 
 minister to hurry. 
 
 Scene 74 
 STREET— BEYOND SUZETTE'S COTTAGE— 
 (FLASH) 
 
 The group, led by the anxious father, going toward 
 Suzette's cottage. 
 
 Scene 75 
 LIVING ROOM— INTERIOR SUZETTE'S COT- 
 TAGE— (FLASH) 
 
 Suzette terrified, turns from the door and rushea 
 toward mother's bedroom. 
 
 Scene 76 
 GATE— EXTERIOR STRUBLE'S COTTAGE 
 
 Struble and the minister meet the group and stop ■'ho 
 girl's father. Makepeace cautions the girl's father 
 to be quiet. The father, angry, and protesting vio- 
 lently. The minister lifts his hand and quiets them — 
 says: "Do nothing until I have examined this 
 woman." The crowd listens to him sullenly — ^make 
 no move to ^tand aside. 
 
 Scene 77 
 BEDROOM— SUZETTE 'S COTTAGE— (FLASH) 
 Suzette, having rushed in and closed the door behind 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 225 
 
 her, is leaning against it — listening, and watching 
 with anxiety, her sleeping mother. 
 
 Scene 78 
 THE GATE— EXTERIOR STJZETTE'S COTTAGE 
 —(FLASH) 
 
 Makepeace and the minister induce the people to 
 stand back, promising to investigate thoroughly. The 
 minister and Makepeace go to the cottage door and 
 knock. 
 
 Scene 79 
 BEDROOM— INTERIOR STJZETTE'S COTTAGE 
 
 Suzette, leaning against door, hears knock — is ter- 
 ribly frightened. Glances at her mother — comes to a 
 decision — ^goes out of picture resolutely — (closing 
 door after her, if it is practicable.) 
 
 Scene 80 
 DOOR— EXTERIOR SUZETTE'S COTTAGE— 
 
 (FLASH) 
 
 Minister and Makepeace. Makepeace urging the min- 
 ister to leave it all to him — the minister shaking his 
 head, tells Makepeace he must do his duty. 
 
 Scene 81 
 DOOR— INTE RIOR LIYINQ ROOM— (FLASH) 
 
 Suzette, opening door, frightened. The minister and 
 Makepeace come into the room. As they walk for- 
 ward out of the picture, she follows them. 
 
 Scene 82 
 LIVING ROOM— NEAR FIREPLACE— (SEMI- 
 CLOSE-UP) 
 Suzette indicates chairs for the minister and Make- 
 
226 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 peace, but the minister declines to sit, calls her to 
 him — begins to ask her about herself and her mother. 
 Suzette answers him, — finally says, proudly: 
 
 34 SPOKEN TITLE: THOUGH WE AEE FOREIGN- 
 ERS, YET ARE WE OF THE SAME FAITH 
 AS YOURSELF. 
 The minister impressed by this. Suzette follows up 
 her advantage by imploring both men vehemently not 
 to disturb and distress her mother. They insist on 
 seeing her. Suzette goes to Makepeace Struble who 
 has been glancing on her, figuring in his mind how 
 he would use this thing to miarry her. She asks him 
 to help her. He takes her hand and is fondling it. 
 Although she is filled with repugnance, she dares not 
 withdraw it. She puts her fingers to her lips and 
 Makepeace beckons to the minister. They all go 
 toward the bedroom. 
 
 Scene 83 
 
 OUTSIDE BEDROOM DOOR— (FLASH) 
 
 Suzette and the men. Suzette gets her hand away 
 from Makepeace — opens door and indicates they 
 should look. They bend forward, looking eagerly. 
 
 Scene 84 
 BEDROOM— (SHOT FROM DOORWAY) 
 
 (FLASH) 
 Suzette's mother asleep. 
 
 Scene 85 
 DOORWAY BEDROOM 
 
 Suzette closes the door — confronts both of the men 
 determinedly — tells them they shall not disturb her 
 mother. The minister and Makepeace confer to- 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 227 
 
 gether and agree to go for the night and not to dis- 
 turb her. Siizette is veiy grateful. The minister goes, 
 saying: 
 
 35 SPOKEN TITLE: I WILL EXAMINE YOUR 
 
 MOTHEK IN THE MOENING. 
 Suzette and Makepeace watch him as he goes out of 
 the picture. Makepeace tells Suzette that he would 
 like to see her in the morning — turns to go, again 
 stroking her hand. Suzette gets it away from him 
 with loathing, which she endeavors to eomibat. As he 
 goes out of the picture, she looks down at the hand 
 which he has been holding — ^then tosses her head 
 back — determined not to think about it — only of her 
 mother — turns toward her mother's bedroom. (FADE 
 OUT.) 
 
 36 SUBTITLE: THE ONLY WAY. 
 
 Scene 86 
 STEEET— NEAR SUZETTE'S COTTAGE— 
 (FADE IN) 
 
 The old Indian woman, Nokomis, coming along the 
 street toward Suzette's cottage — children running 
 after, screaming at her — ^throwing stones — calling her 
 witch. Say : 
 
 37 SPOKEN TITLE: YOU AND THE FOEEIGNER 
 
 WITCH EODE THE BEOOMSTICK LAST 
 
 NIGHT. WE SAW YOU. 
 Nokomis turns and chases the children with stick. 
 Then shakes her head and goes toward cottage door. 
 
 Scene 87 
 DOOEWAY— SUZETTE'S COTTAGE —(FLASH) 
 
 (Door open) Suzette, standing in the doorway. 
 Nokomis comes up to her. They go in together. 
 
228 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Scene 88 
 LIVING EOOM— STJZETTE'S COTTAGE 
 
 Nokomis and Suzette enter. Nokomds indicates: 
 "Did you hear the children?" Suzette nods. No- 
 komis implores her to get her mother away, — says : 
 
 38 SPOKEN TITLE: GET MOTHER AWAY. SALEM 
 
 TOWN HANG HEAP WITCHES MONDAY. 
 
 Suzette shudders, doesn't know what to do — ^tellfl 
 
 Nokomis her mother is too ill to move. Nokomia 
 
 goes toward bedroom. 
 
 Scene 89 
 BEDROOM 
 
 Suzette's mother lying back on pillows, looking ill 
 and old. Looks up as Nokomis enters — takes medicine 
 the old squaw gives her — ^pats Suzette's hand — ^teUs 
 her she'll soon be better. Suzette bursts into tears and 
 hurries from the room. Nokomis looks after her. The 
 mother begins to talk to Nokomis. 
 
 Scene 90 
 LIVING ROOM— (FLASH) 
 
 Suzette enters — throws herself full length on the 
 settle — ^begins to weep. 
 
 Scene 91 
 EXTERIOR SUZETTE'S COTTAGE— (FLASH) 
 
 Old Makepeace Struble, all fixed up in his best clothes, 
 smirking and smiling, comes to the cottage door — 
 knocks. 
 
 Scene 92 
 LIVING ROOM 
 
 Suzette raises her head — calls "Come!" — gets to her 
 feet. As she stands there, wiping her eyes, old Struble 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 229 
 
 comes into the picture and up to her, Suzette startled, 
 goes to him — asks if anything is wrong. He asks her 
 how her mother is this morning, indicating the bed- 
 room. Suzette begs him to tell her what to do for 
 her mother. Old Makepeace shakes his head — ^indi- 
 cates he doesn't know — it's a pretty serious matter. 
 She'll undoubtedly be named as a witch. The girl, 
 frantic, indicates what can she do — ^her mother is too 
 ill to moTe. Old Struble, who has been gloating over 
 her, adjusts his ruffles, and says, leaning over her, 
 taking her by the wrists: 
 
 39 SPOKEN TITLE: MAEET ME AT ONCE. I AM A 
 MAN OF ENFLUENCE AND CAN PKOTECT 
 YOU— AND YOUR MOTHER. 
 The girl, simply overwhelmed at such an idea, starts 
 back, staring at him — indicates that she doesn't want 
 to marry him. The old man turns away — indicates 
 that that's all right if she doesn't care what becomes 
 of her mother. The girl, unhappy and frightened, 
 stretches out her hand. He seizes it, and bends over 
 it. As he does this she draws away. He tells her 
 there's no one else. Says to her that she needn't count 
 on Wayne — ^he's gone and left her. Indicates that 
 she's helpless unless he helps her. VISION OF Cap- 
 tain Wayne rises — Wayne sitting at table in f uU regi- 
 mentals, drinking with one of his brother officers — 
 (not drunk). Wayne seems, in the vision, utterly gay 
 and careless and to have forgotten all about Suzette. 
 As she starts, putting her hand on her heart, VISION 
 fades— and old Struble who is holding her hand again, 
 b^ins to plead his cause. The girl in a quick revul- 
 sion of feeling throws his hand aside and tells him that 
 she will not marry him. Old Struble turns on her 
 threateningly — storms — ^points toward bedroom door, 
 and indicates it will go hard with her mother. VISION 
 arises either on stone chimney-piece above fireplace or 
 
230 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 on wall alongside of the girl's mother falling by the 
 wayside — the rabble stoning her — as the VISION 
 FADES the girl puts her hand over her eyes, and 
 turning to the old man, faces him resolutely — says: 
 
 40 SPOKEN TITLE: IF YOU WELL SAVE MY 
 
 MOTHEK, I'LL MARRY YOU TO-MOEROW. 
 
 The old man joyfully assures her he will do just that 
 
 for her. As he takes both of her hands in his and 
 
 stoops toward her— (FADE OUT). 
 
 IT SUBTITLE: A USELESS SACRIFICE. 
 
 Scene 93 
 
 DOORWAY— THE MEETING HOUSE— (FADE 
 
 IN) (DAY) 
 
 Struble coming out with Suzette on his arm. She 
 is dressed as, a bride. (Remember a Puritan bride.) 
 She has a necklace on, one of the pieces of jewelry 
 her mother had in the jewel box. As they go down 
 the steps together, Struble puts his hand on the neck- 
 lace to look at it, disguising the action with an at- 
 tempt at caress. Suzette involuntarily starts away 
 from him, so violently that the necklace imclasps in 
 his hands. Struble and his wife face each other. An 
 ugly look comes over the bridegroom's face as he sees 
 the terror in the girl's face — ^then he smiles — puts the 
 necklace in his pocket — shakes his finger at her, re- 
 proving her for wearing gauds — remarking that he will 
 keep it safely. Takes her hand, puts it on his arm 
 again, and they go in the direction of Suzette's cottage. 
 The guests and bystanders looking on — ^the women in- 
 dicating that Makepeace Struble has shown queer 
 taste in taking this foreign creature to wife. The 
 young men looking after Struble enviously, and at the 
 girl rather scornfully, indicating that they wonder 
 
" WITCHCRAFT » 231 
 
 how she could marry an old scarecrow like Struble 
 when there were young men like themselves about. 
 
 Scene 94 
 
 LTVTNG ROOM— SUZETTE 'S COTTAGE 
 
 Suzette's mother sitting in chair with pillow at her 
 head — looks ill, Nokomis, looking after her, tells her 
 they must be coming from church now. Says to 
 mother : 
 
 42 SPOKEN TITLE: WHY YOU LET HER MARRY 
 OLD STRUBLE TO SAVE YOU? 
 The mother looks at her — shakes her head, indicat- 
 ing she doesn't understand. Nokomis mutters. The 
 mother indicates she feels very ill — Nokomis reaches 
 for cup of medicine. As she puts it in mother's hand, 
 the mother gasps — drops the cuj) — puts her hand to 
 her heart and falls back, dead. Nokomis looks at her 
 — ^feels her brow and heart — realizes she is dead — 
 bends over her, moaning. 
 
 Scene 95 
 
 EXTERIOR, SUZETTE'S COTTAGE 
 
 Suzette, accompanied by Struble and several of the 
 company, go toward door. Suzette breaks from the 
 others and goes in as though to rush to her mother. 
 
 Scene 96 
 
 INTERIOR LIVING ROOM— (SEMI-CLOSE-UP) 
 
 Nokomis, leaning over the dead woman, raises her 
 head as Suzette rushes into the picture towards her 
 mother. Suzette seeing Nokomis weep, cries out and 
 throws her arms about her mother — finds that she is 
 cold and dead — cleans over her weeping. 
 
232 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Scene 97 
 LIVING EOOM— (FULL VIEW) 
 
 Old Struble and the other people entering the room. 
 Nokomis comes toward them, pointing toward the girl 
 and her mother — tells them that the woman is dead. 
 Old Struble puts his hand on the casket containing 
 the jewels which is on the table — orders Nokomis to 
 leave the house — Nokomis goes; the people who have 
 followed old Struble in, stand back awed. As Struble 
 goes toward the girl (FADE OUT). 
 
 43 SUBTITLE: THE HOMECOMING, 
 
 Scene 98 
 TRAH^WOODS— (NEAR NOKOMIS' HUT) 
 
 (DAY) (FADE IN) 
 
 Captain Wayne, in uniform, riding toward Hedford, 
 looking about him, happy at the thought that he is 
 going to see Suzette again. He is smiling. Nokomis, 
 at the door of her hut, looks up at him. He smiles 
 and calls to her. She acknowledges his salute with a 
 grunt, and stands watching him out of sight — ^then 
 turning shakes her head and looks in opposite direc- 
 tion, shading her eyes with her hand. 
 
 Scene 99 
 FOOTPATH THROUGH WOODS— (LEADING 
 
 TO NOKOMIS' HUT) 
 
 Suzette, basket in hand, coming along slowly. She is 
 coming in through brush behind hut — ^has not seen 
 Wayne. She waves her hand toward Nokomis and 
 commences to run out of the picture. 
 
 Scene 100 
 EXTERIOR NOKOMIS' HUT 
 
 Nokomis at the door, watching Suzette. Suzette 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 233 
 
 comes into the picture and greets her — giving her the 
 little basket full of meat, bread, and yegetables, says : 
 
 44 SPOKEN TITLE: THERE, NOKOMIS— THE SILLY 
 
 PEOPLE WHO CALL YOU WITCH SHAN'T 
 
 STAEVE YOU! 
 
 Nokomis takes it, thanking her, indicating that she 
 
 has something for Suzette. Goes into hut. Suzetto 
 
 follows her. 
 
 Scene 101 
 INTEEIOE NOKOMIS' HUT 
 
 (This has been one of the earlier settler's rough log 
 cabins and is now a little tumble-down, but has great 
 stone fireplace — iron pot hangs over fire — ^herbs on 
 string hanging from rafters — a big black cat — a toad 
 or two — a bird and a little dog.) Nokomis puts Su- 
 zette's basket in a safe place and takes from rough 
 loantle a beaded talisman on a beaded chain, gives it 
 to Suzette, saying: 
 
 45 SPOKEN TITLE: WEAR IT. IT WILL MAKE ALL 
 
 WISH COME TKUE. 
 Suzette smiles, shakes her head rather sadly as though 
 that were not possible, but thanks the Indian woman. 
 Puts it around her neck. As she stretches her hand 
 up, the old woman sees something, goes to Suzette, 
 pushes the ruffle of her sleeve aside and points to 
 angry red mark and bruise, asking who did it. Su- 
 zette pulls down sleeve, mortified, tries to tell her she 
 fell and hurt herself. The old woman isn't so easily 
 fooled. Says to her: 
 
 46 SPOKEN TITLE: NO LIE TO NOKOMIS. HUS- 
 
 BAND DID IT. YOU MADE BAD MARRIAGE. 
 Shakes her head sadly. The girl tries to be cheerful, 
 indicates it can't be helped, looks at talisman* 
 
234 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Thanks Nokomis again, pats her hand and goes out 
 of hut. 
 
 Scene 102 
 " OFFICE "— STEUELE'S HOUSE 
 
 Old Struble at desk. Has just concluded inventory 
 of his wife's jewels. The box is open beside him. 
 It amounts to a comfortable sum in pounds. 
 
 47 INSEET : Page of paper in front of him — with figures 
 showing how much it is in English pounds. 
 He leans back, weU pleased, rubbing his hands and 
 smacking his lips. 
 
 Scene 103 
 THE WOODS— FOOTPATH 
 
 Suzette is met by a rabble of children. They have 
 sticks and stones in their hands, an empty hornet's 
 nest on a pole, a dead cat at the end of a stick, a 
 pan on which one of them is beating with a stick, and 
 a general collection of odds and ends, such as would 
 appeal to children's minds as either capable of inflict- 
 ing an injury or making a noise. They stop Suzette 
 and ask her the way to the witch's hut. Suzette, 
 indignant, says: 
 
 48 SPOKEN TITLE: THERE AEE NO WITCHES. 
 
 NOKOMIS IS ONLY A POOE OLD INDIAN 
 
 WOMAN! 
 The children laugh at her, and teU her she doesn't 
 know anything, that Nokomis is a bad witch and they 
 gleefully tell Suzette what they are going to do with 
 her. They ask her again where the witch's hut is. 
 Suzette thinks for a moment, then points off into the 
 woods in opposite direction from Nokomis' hut. One 
 of the bigger boys laughs at her, indignant, points in 
 the direction of Nokomis' hut and says: 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 235 
 
 49 SPOKEN TITLE: SHE IS LYING TO US. SHE IS 
 IN THE HUT. 
 Suzette sees she cannot save Nokomis tliat way — at 
 her wit's end what to do. Suddenly seizes the broom 
 from one of the boys, jumps up and down, waving 
 broom in the air and screeching like a mad-cat. This 
 so terrifies the children that they run out of the pic- 
 ture, screaming and dropping things. 
 
 Scene 104 
 "OFFICE" STEUBLE'S HOUSE 
 
 Wayne enters, hand outstretched. Old Struble hastily 
 shuts the jewel box and thrusts the memorandum 
 under a pile of papers, turns to greet his ward, not par- 
 ticularly overjoyed. Tries to pretend a little warmth, 
 but isn't Tery good at pretending, and Wayne can see 
 that he is not over-welcome. 
 
 Scene 105 
 WOODS— (FLASH) 
 
 (Some distance from where the children first met 
 Suzette.) Children angry, shaking their fists in the 
 direction of Suzette. 
 
 Scene 106 
 ANOTHER PART OF THE WOODS— (OPPO- 
 
 SITE DIRECTION) (FLASH) 
 
 Suzette, leaning on the old broom_, looks back at the 
 children, laughs, throws the broom down and runs off 
 in the direction of home (Struble home). 
 
 Scene lOY 
 " OFFICE "— STRUBLE'S HOUSE 
 
 Old Struble and Wayne talking earnestly. Wayne 
 indicates that he is going to settle down and work 
 
236 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 hard at his profession. Old Struble looks at him 
 approvingly. Wayne, after a quick glance at the 
 guardian, says: 
 
 60 SPOKEN TITLE: WHAT HAS BECOME OF THE 
 LITTLE FRENCH MAID? 
 Old Struble looks up at the young man maliciously, 
 indicating himself, and begins to tell his ward he is 
 married. The yoimg man can hardly believe his ears, 
 jumps to his feet, stands looking down at his guardian, 
 who watches him with cynical amusement. 
 
 Scene 108 
 
 "OFFICE" STEUBLE'S HOUSE— (SEMI- 
 
 CLOSE-UP) 
 
 Struble, watching Wayne, cynically notes how hard 
 he is taking the news. Bichard has been practically 
 stimned, not only from the fact that his guardian has 
 married at aU at his age, but also that it should be this 
 girl. He looks at his guardian incredulously, says: 
 "You can't mean you married her?" Old Struble 
 leans back in his chair smiling at him sardonically, 
 tosses his head back, indicates: "I mean it — ^I'm not 
 the old fossil you seem to think me, young sir." 
 Richard stiU staring at him incredulously, when Su- 
 zette enters the picture. Coming up to her husband, 
 ehe puts her arm on the back of his chair, sees Rich- 
 ard and starts. Richard, too, starts. Old Struble puts 
 his claw-like 'hand on Suzette's arm, indicates her 
 with a leer to Wayne, and says: "This is my wife." 
 Suzette holds out her hand. 
 
 Scene 109 
 "OFFICE" STRUBLE'S HOUSE— (CLOSE-UP) 
 Suzette and Richard then look at each other. H© bows 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 237 
 
 over her hand without touching it. The misery in 
 her face as she realizes that he condemns her for 
 what she had done, and that he will never under- 
 stand why she married Struble. Anger and con- 
 tempt on Richard's face. He thinks she has mar- 
 ried the old man for his money. 
 
 Scene 110 
 
 "OFFICE" STEUBLE'S HOUSE— (CLOSE-UP) 
 
 Old Struble grinning evilly as he watches the young 
 people. 
 
 Scene 111 
 
 " OFFICE " STEUBLE'S HOUSE— (FULL VIEW) 
 
 Wayne bows, excuses himself, saying he must go and 
 remove the dust of travel, goes from room. Suzette 
 stands looking after him — wondering why he treats her 
 so contemptuously — then thinks he may suspect her of 
 having stepped between him and the fortune he might 
 have gotten from old Struble. Suzette starts — turns 
 to Struble, who has been watching her jealously, and 
 says: 
 
 51 SPOKEN TITLE: LET NOT OUR MAEEIAGE 
 ALTEE THE FACT THAT EICHAED 
 WAYNE IS YOUR HEIR. 
 Old Struble gets very angry — asks what business it is 
 of hers what he does with his money — ^picks up ruler 
 from table — strikes her as she shrinks away — grabs 
 hold of her hand — puUs her to him — twists her arm 
 imtil she cries out for mercy. Flings her aside 
 roughly. Suzette staggering back — regains her bal- 
 ance — turns as though to speak to him — ^then decides 
 that it is of no use — goes sadly from room, as he sinks 
 back into the chair — glowering at her, mad with 
 jealousy. 
 
238 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Scene 112 
 LIVING EOOM— STRU BLE'S HOUSE 
 
 The table is set at one end. Eichard Wayne comes 
 into the picture — stops at fireplace near foreground — 
 takes high-back chair which practically conceals him 
 from anyone entering the room unless they know he 
 was there. (If the old-fashioned easy-chair with 
 " wings " was in existence in 1692-3, use that, — if 
 not, the easy-chair of the period.) He swings chair 
 around so that the back is toward room and he faces 
 the fire — sinks out of sight in the chair, leaning his 
 head on his hand. 
 
 Scene 113 
 LIVING EOOM— STRUBLE'S HOUSE 
 
 Suzette comes into the room with plates on a tray — 
 walks down to table past Eichard, without seeing him. 
 
 Scene 114 
 THE TABLE — LIVING EOOM — STRUBLE 
 HOUSE— (CLOSE-UP) 
 
 Suzette comes close to table — puts down plates — 
 looks it over — sees that it's aU right — stands thinking 
 a moment — ^puts hand to her neck — takes out talisman 
 (or it falls out, swinging on its bead chain) — ^looks at 
 it — remembers what the old Indian woman said to her 
 — holds it in her hand and says: 
 
 52 SPOKEN TITLE: IF WISHES COME TRUE— LET 
 RICHARD WAYNE BE MY FRIEND. 
 Presses the talisman to her heart. 
 
 Scene 115 
 LIVING ROOM— AT FIREPLACE— (CLOSE-UP) 
 Richard in chair at fireplace, hears this — turns around 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 239 
 
 — smiles cynically — thinks she has done this for eflEect — 
 starts to rise. 
 
 Scene 116 
 
 AT TABLE— LIYINQ EOOM— (C LOSE-UP) 
 
 Suzette at table. She has slipped the talisman under 
 the neck of her gown again, and taking a step forward 
 from the table, meets Eichard who comes into the pic- 
 ture, smiling. Suzette at first looks embarrassed — then 
 greets him warmly — indicates " Since we'll have to see 
 a great deal of each other, why can't we be friends ? " 
 Eichard, quite sure she is playing a game, determines 
 to play it too — greets her warmly and tells her that 
 he desires it more than anything else. They turn 
 toward table. 
 
 Scene 117 
 
 AT TABLE— LIVING EOOM— (SEMI-CLOSE-UP) 
 
 Old Struble enters picture — looks at them, grudgingly 
 orders them to sit down. Eichard and he sit down. 
 Suzette at first waiting on them. Eichard makes a 
 fuss over Suzette waiting on him. — tries to touch her 
 hand. The old man sees this — angry. Suzette puz- 
 zled and annoyed. Then when Suzette has taken things 
 from the sideboard to table and starts to sit down, 
 Eichard places chair for her — makes a great deal of 
 this small courtesy — puts his hand on her shoulder — 
 keeps it there until the old man sees it and is angry. 
 Suzette alarmed and puzzled. Then, as Eichard goes 
 back to his place, indifferent to her resentment and 
 old Struble's black looks, thinking he has gauged her 
 character and she's worth nothing — angry at his 
 guardian for being such an old fool to marry her; with 
 Struble furious at both of them ; with Suzette leaning 
 back in her chair, looking at Eichard in amazement — 
 (FADE OUT). 
 
240 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 53 SUBTITLE: WAYNE MAKES ONE MISTAKE- 
 
 OLD STEUBLE MAKES ANOTHER. 
 
 Scene 118 
 FO OTPATH— WOODS— (FADE IN) 
 
 Suzette going along footpath in woods toward Noko- 
 mis' hut, carrying basket with food in it. A little 
 girl of eight or nine following along, hanging on her 
 hand, skipping, talking merrily to her, Wayne cornea 
 into picture from opposite direction, so that he will 
 come face to face with Suzette — he stops and waits for 
 her. As Suzette comes up to him, he bows and greets 
 her smiling. Suzette's face hardens. Suzette gires 
 the child the basket — motions to her to go along with 
 it. The child does so — runs out of the picture in 
 opposite direction to that which they entered. Su- 
 zette turns and confronts Eichard Wayne. 
 
 Scene 119 
 FOOTPATH— WOODS— (CLOSE-UP) 
 
 Suzette turns on Wayne indignant — asks him why he 
 follows her about. Wayne laughs, tries to kiss her 
 hand. Suzette pulls it away — says: 
 
 54 SPOKEN TITLE: 'TIS NOT EIGHT "TiSST YOU 
 
 FOLLOW YOUE GUARDIAN'S WIFE 
 
 ABOUT— THIS WAY. 
 Wajme thinks she is posing — ^listens to her with an 
 amused smile — ^begins to laugh, and before Suzette 
 is aware of his intention, takes her in his arms. Su- 
 zette frees herself — tells him angrily: 
 
 56 SPOKEN TITLE: SINCE YOU HAVE "NO~EE- 
 
 SPECT FOE MAEEIAGE— OE FOE ME— GO! 
 
 Eichard, impressed in spite of himself, looks at her a 
 
 moment in surprise — then as she moves to pass him, 
 
 seizes her by the arm which Struble hurt. The girl 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 241 
 
 winces, putting her hand involuntarily over the place. 
 Eichard notices this, still holding her arm, pushes back 
 the cuff. 
 
 Scene 120 
 FOOTPATH— (CLO SE-UP) 
 
 Suzette's arm — black and blue bruises and a great 
 angry red welt across it. 
 
 Scene 121 
 FOOTPATH— WOODS— (CL OSE-UP) 
 
 Eichard and Suzette. Eichard lifts his face full of 
 astonishment, anger, and resentment, says: "Did he 
 do that?" The girl tries to pull her hand away — 
 refuses to answer him. Eichard, ashamed of him- 
 self, bows his head over Suzette's hand without kiss- 
 ing it — drops it — ^looks at the girl, and says: 
 
 56 SPOKEN TITLE: FOEGIVE ME! 
 
 Suzette looks at his bowed head — tries to speak — can- 
 not — turns her head away, clasping and unclasping 
 her hands — ^begins to speak. 
 
 Scene 122 
 NOKOMIS' HUT— (FLASH) 
 
 (Door ajar.) The child comes up to the door — ^peeks 
 in. 
 
 Scene 123 
 LNTEEIOE NOKOlVaS' HUT 
 
 Nokomis bending over pot at fireplace — ^big black cat 
 watching her. She stirs the pot, muttering to herself. 
 
 Scene 124 
 DOOEWAT— EXTEEIOE "NOKOMIS' HUT— 
 
 (FLASH) 
 
 The child, half frightened, turns to go — then turns 
 back — ^fascinated — looks in again. 
 
242 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Scene 125 
 FOOTPATH— WOODS 
 
 (Eichard and Suzette.) Suzette finishing telling 
 Richard why she married Struhle. Eichard takes her 
 hand in his — ^bends over it — and presses it to his lips, 
 says: 
 
 57 SPOKEN TITLE: I UNDEESTAND— AND I AM 
 GOING AWAY FOREVEE. 
 Suzette stands for a moment, stunned at the thought 
 of his going — stretches out her hands toward him — 
 remembers and brings them back again — puts the hand 
 that he had kissed over her own lips for a moment as 
 though suppressing her own sobs — tears in her eyes — 
 turns and rushes out of the picture toward Nokomis' 
 hut. 
 
 Scene 126 
 EXTEEIOR NOKOMIS' HUT 
 
 (Door ajar.) Suzette comes up to hut — sees child 
 looking in — touches her gently on the shoulder — the 
 child jimips, frightened — almost drops the basket. 
 Suzette takes it from her hand and tells her to come 
 into the hut. The child shakes her head — indicates — 
 she doesn't like it in there — she'll wait outside. Su- 
 zette tries to persuade her — then sees that the child is 
 really in earnest and goes into the hut with the basket, 
 indicating that the child mustn't go so far away. The 
 child remains at doorway, looking after Suzette. 
 
 Scene 127 
 INTERIOR NOKOMIS' HUT— NEAR FIRE- 
 PLACE 
 
 Suzette enters — goes to the old woman and gives her 
 the basket with vegetables, meat and a bit of flour, 
 and watches her as she stirs the pot and drops the 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 243 
 
 meat Suzette has brouglit into the pot. As she stirs, 
 the old woman looks up — sees that Suzette is sad— 
 speaks to her. Suzette draws the talisman from its 
 hiding place (around her neck) touches it, and says 
 to the old woman: 
 
 68 SPOKEN TITLE: I'M ATEAID OF THIS. THE 
 ONLY WISH I'VE MADE HAS TUENED 
 OUT BADLY. 
 The old woman smiles, indicating: "Keep it a little 
 longer— it may be useful yet." Suzette puts it back. 
 The Indian woman offers her some berries to eat. 
 Suzette refuses, indicates she must go out to the child 
 waiting outside — goes out of picture toward door. 
 The Indian woman following her, gazing after her with 
 admiration and gratitude. 
 
 Scene 128 
 EXTEEIOR NOKOMIS' HUT 
 
 Child at doorway, peering in, turns as Suzette comes 
 out. They move away together in the direction of the 
 village. Suzette taking the child's hand and speaking 
 kindly to her. Nokomis has come to the door and 
 watches them go. 
 
 Scene 129 
 "OFFICE" STEUBLE'S HOUSE 
 
 Old Struble at desk, looking at lifted lid of jewel box, 
 containing his wife's jewels. On lid of box appears 
 VISION of Suzette's face turned toward Eiehard as 
 they looked when they first caught sight of each other. 
 Old Struble slams the lid and scowls into space, 
 jealous. Eiehard Wayne enters, dressed for traveling 
 — tells him he is going. Struble pretends to be sur- 
 prised and sorry — urges him not to go. Eiehard is 
 firm — indicating that he must go — moves out of the 
 room — followed by Struble, who is secretly delighted. 
 
244 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Scene 130 
 
 EXTERIOE STRU BLE HOUSE— DRIVEWAY 
 
 Horse saddled, waiting for Wayne — servant holding it. 
 Wayne enters, followed by his guardian — mounts and 
 rides off — his guardian saying good-bye and watching 
 him out of sight with an evil smile. 
 
 Scene 131 
 STREET— IN FRONT OF SUZETTE'S OLD COT- 
 
 TAGE 
 
 Suzette bids good-bye to the child who runs in the 
 gate. Suzette starts to go up the street. As she does 
 so, Wajrne rides into the picture and down the street, 
 going toward Suzette — ^Uf ts his hat but does not stop — 
 goes on out of the picture. Suzette involuntarily stops 
 — clasps her hands against her bosom, stands watching 
 him as he rides out of the picture with an expression 
 which indicates she thinks he is riding out of her life. 
 
 Scene 132 
 LIVING ROOM— SUZETTE'S OLD COTTAGE 
 
 The child who was with Suzette enters. Her mother 
 is giving the three other children their supper — ^mush 
 and milk — in little bowls. As she gives the children 
 the mush and milk, they walk out of the picture toward 
 fireplace. The oldest child (the one who was with 
 Suzette) is given her bowl, too, with a little scolding 
 for being so late. She walks out of the picture to 
 the fireplace. 
 
 Scene 133 
 FIREPLACE— LIVING ROOM— (CLOSE-UP) 
 
 (A good picture of exactly the kind of fireplace desired 
 is shown on p. 79 of " Colonial Days." by Wilbur F. 
 Gords. This fireplace is very deep — ^has seat on in- 
 side of fireplace, along one side. If practicable would 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 245 
 
 like the VISIONS to be shown against the blackened 
 back of the fireplace, a little above the fire line so 
 that the fire, low, not blazing, would be burning be- 
 neath the VISION. If this is not practicable, can 
 arrange that the VISION fall in another place in 
 mantel above fireplace — ^but the firebaek would be 
 most effective.) The three small children sitting on 
 the long seat inside fireplace, their little bowl of mush 
 and milk in their laps, eating. The oldest child comes 
 into the picture — takes little stool in front of fire and 
 sits down with her back partly turned to camera, fac- 
 ing her sisters and brothers. They ask her where she's 
 been. She glances over her shoulder to see that none 
 of the grown-ups are about, listening, leans forward 
 and points mysteriously at the firebaek. VISION rises 
 there of the interior of Nokomis' hut in which Noko- 
 mis goes through the same motions that she did when 
 she was putting the meat and vegetables into the 
 Btew — Suzette standing beside her, also; hut as the 
 child tells it, Nokomis is a terrible, impossible old 
 witch with a pointed cap and a long hooked nose and 
 claw fingers. Likewise what she drops into the stew is 
 not meat and vegetables but toads, little snakes or 
 long worms — dead birds with all their feathers on, and 
 a kitten or two. Suzette is also a witch, but not so 
 ugly, and a talisman she fingers, instead of being com- 
 posed of beads is a little skull— the eyes gleaming like 
 pinpoints of fire (If this is possible to get over). 
 Instead of a black cat, a little devil with horns and 
 a tail, is watching the two. VISION FADES OUT. 
 The children are horror-stricken— unable to eat, but 
 the oldest one keeps on talking and points again to the 
 fireplace. Another VISION rises of Nokomis going 
 up the chimney astride of a broomstick. Suzette and 
 the little devil follow her in the same manner. As the 
 child tells this and the VISION FADES OUT. the 
 youngest child screams and drops her bowl of mush and 
 
246 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 milk, commences to tremble and twitch and scream 
 •with fright. 
 
 Scene 134 
 LIVmQ ROOM— (rULL SHOT) 
 
 The mother and a neighbor woman rush in and to the 
 children. The mother declares that the child has 
 been bewitched. The other children clutch her skirts 
 as she stops to comfort her. The child who has been 
 the cause of all this is frightened as the rest, but 
 stubbornly answers the neighbor woman, insisting that 
 she did see it and that it was just as she said. 
 
 Scene 135 
 LIVING ROOM— STEUBLE HOUSE 
 
 Suzette comes in, sinks down into easy-chair, covering 
 her face with her hands. Old Struble enters picture 
 and commences to rail at her, accuses her of having 
 allowed Wayne to make love to her, strikes her with 
 his stick. Suzette, indignant, thrusts him back, de- 
 nounces him for his cruelty to her. She is hys- 
 terical and as she points to him with one hand and 
 touches her talisman with her other hand, she says: 
 
 59 SPOKEN TITLE: WICKED OLD MAN— YOU 
 
 BEING PEOPLE NOTHING BUT UNHAPPI- 
 NESS. YOU WOULD BE BETTEE— DEAD! 
 The old man is astonished. This is the first time 
 Suzette has ever turned on him. He is a little 
 frightened, too, and pointing to the talisman, asks her 
 what it is. Suzette, seeing his superstitious fear, plays 
 on it, and answers him mysteriously. 
 
 60 SPOKEN TITLE: I WEAR IT BECAUSE IT 
 
 GEANTS ME— ALL MY WISHES. 
 Shaking with fear, the old man goes out of the pic- 
 ture, glancing back at her. Suzette stands looking 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 247 
 
 Sown at the talisman, wondering if she has found & 
 way to keep him off. 
 
 Scene 136 
 EXTERIOR STBUBLE HOUSE 
 
 The minister and one or two men coming toward 
 house. Struble comes out to meet them, hurries to 
 the minister, commences to teU him at once about his 
 wife, says: 
 
 61 SPOKEN TITLE: GO— REASON WITH MY WIFE I 
 
 SHE HAS CURSED ME— AND WISHES 
 
 ME DEAD. 
 
 The others agree that the minister is the one to speak 
 
 to Suzette. The minister and Struble go toward 
 
 house. 
 
 Scene 13Y 
 EXTERIOR NOKOMIS' HUT 
 
 A young Indian boy (Nokomis' grandson) dressed in 
 ordinary clothes of the day — the cast-off clothing of 
 some white boy — ^but without shoes, tomahawk thrust 
 in his belt, comes to Nokomis' door. Listens a moment, 
 knocks and enters. (Note: This boy must be very 
 young so that his clothes will look as though they 
 might fit Miss Ward.) 
 
 Scene 138 
 LIVING ROO M— STRUBLE HOUSE 
 
 Suzette leaning against table, holding talisman in her 
 hand, thinking as she looks at it. The minister and 
 Struble come into the picture. Suzette greets minis- 
 ter, motioning to chair. The minister sits and ad- 
 dresses Suzette almost as though she were a prisoner 
 at the bar. Suzette astonished— doesn't understand. 
 He commences to accuse her— Suzette understands 
 now, says firmly: 
 
248 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 62 SPOKEN TITLE: I DO NOT BELIEVE IN 
 WITCHES OE DEVILS. 
 Struble and the minister horrified. Struble so worked 
 up that he shakes his fist at her, begins to scream and 
 rave, falls forward in sort of a fit. The minister and 
 Suzette catch him before he falls out of the picture, 
 putting him in chair. Suzette bends over him. The 
 minister stands looking down at him and at Suzette, 
 shaking his head. 
 
 Scene 139 
 INTERIOE NOKOMIS' HUT 
 
 The Indian boy has taken off his civilized clothes and 
 is now dressed like an Indian warrior going on the 
 warpath. Has war-paint and feathers and is adjust- 
 ing tomahawk in belt. Nokomis is helping him put 
 paint on his cheeks. She is talking to him as she does 
 so eagerly. Bfer manner is that of a grown person 
 humoring a child who is playing a game seriously. 
 Nokomis gathers something from what he says, leans 
 forward alertly, and asks him a question. The boy 
 answers, sticks tomahawk in belt and holds up two 
 fingers. Nokomis looks alarmed, asks him again. He 
 replies in the same manner, then indicates that she is 
 to keep the clothes he has taken off for him. Nokomis 
 throws them on a pile of blankets and garments in 
 corner. Indian boy grunts, indicates that that will be 
 all right, goes out, Nokomis watclung him. 
 
 Scene 140 
 STEUBLE'S BEDEOOM 
 
 Struble ill, lying on bed, his wicked mean little eyes 
 following Suzette about, hatred of her showing in every 
 glance. He strikes her hand away when she tries to 
 smooth the pillow, refuses to take cup from her, won't 
 take it until the mother of the little child (Scene 132) 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 249 
 
 acting as nurse, comes— takes it, tastes it herself and 
 gives it to him. At the sign from the nurse, Suzette, 
 much distressed, goes from the picture. The moment 
 she goes, the old man sits up in bed, and pointing 
 after her, says: 
 
 63 SPOKEN TITLE: SHE HAS BEWITCHED ME— 
 SHE WANTS ME TO DIE. 
 The nurse tells him to be quiet, puts him back on 
 pillows, and continues to give him contents of the cup. 
 
 Scene 141 
 EXTERIOB NOKOMIS' HUT— (LONG SHOT) 
 
 Nokomis, alone, fastens door, starts to walk off in direc- 
 tion of village. Turns to look back at hut, stumbles 
 over rock in road and falls. Tries to get up, falls 
 again, sits down on ground, rubbing her ankle, groan- 
 ing. 
 
 Scene 142 
 PATH IN WOODS— NEAR HUT— (FLASH) 
 
 Suzette, coming along the path, worried, holding talis- 
 man in her hand, going toward Nokomis' hut. 
 
 Scene 143 
 PATH IN FEONT OF NOKOMIS' HUT— (FULL 
 VIEW) 
 
 Nokomis lifts her hand, listens and calls. Suzette 
 comes running into the picture, bends over the old 
 woman, grives her a hand, begins to help her up. 
 
 Scene 144 
 STRUBLE'S BEDROOM- (FLASH) 
 
 Struble sitting up in his bed, gesticulating feebly. 
 The minister and several of the elders grouped about 
 his bed, listening as he denoimces his wife. 
 
260 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Scene 145 
 INTERIOR NOKOMIS' HUT 
 
 Nokomis sitting on pile of blankets and garments at 
 side of fireplace where Indian boy's clothes are — Su- 
 zette bathing her ankle. The Indian woman, looking 
 at the girl — ^finally leans over and says : 
 
 64 SPOKEN TITLE: TWO TRIBES INDIANS MAKE 
 
 FIGHT— KILL WHITE MEN. HOW TELL 
 
 CAPTAIN WAYNE? 
 Suzette so startled she drops cloth she is making 
 bandage of into basin of water. She was bathing 
 Nokomis' foot — ^tums to Nokomis to ask her if it is 
 true. Nokomis nods — teUs her it is — points to her- 
 self then to her ankle. Suzette points to herself. 
 Nokomis shakes her head. Suzette insists — snatches 
 up Indian blanket from beside Nokomis — wraps it 
 around herself — pretends she is an Indian squaw. No- 
 komis laughs — shakes her head — thinks — ^puts hand 
 down beside her — claws out from among the heap of 
 garments she is leaning on the Indian boy's bundle. 
 Indicates it to Suzette. Suzette stoops — picks it up — 
 unties it and holds up boy's clothes — looks at them 
 and then at Nokomis. Nokomis says: 
 
 65 SPOKEN TITLE: INDIAN BOY NO WANT— YOTJ 
 
 TAKE— HEAP SAFE. 
 Suzette looks from the garments to the Indian woman 
 — ^noda her head — ^begins to smile. 
 
 Scene 146 
 STRITBLE'S BEDROOM 
 
 The little child, who said Nokomis and Suzette were 
 witches, led in. The minister begins to question her. 
 Struble in bed — ^leans forward excitedly and begins to 
 ask questions. The child looks from one to the other, 
 
« WITCHCRAFT " 261 
 
 half frightened, nods her head. Struble, greatly ex- 
 cited, turns to the minister and elders and indicates: 
 "Tou see, it's true!" Gets so excited that he falls 
 back, clutches his throat, choking. The nurse comes 
 into the picture, orders the others to leave the room. 
 They start to go. 
 
 Scene 147 
 INTERIOR NOKOMIS' HUT 
 
 Suzette in boy's clothes, fastening her collar, feels 
 talisman — takes it out — holds it toward Nokomis — 
 says : " I came to bring this back. It's an evil thing." 
 Nokomis shakes her head — doesn't take it back. Su- 
 zette tells her that she wished her husband dead and he 
 is ill. The old woman smiles — says: 
 
 66 SPOKEN TITLE: ONLY BEADS— TOUR HUS- 
 
 BAND OLD BAD MAN. HATE MAKE SICK 
 
 —NOT BEADS. 
 Suzette asks Nokomis if she thinks that is so. Old 
 woman goes on to teU why she thinks it is. Suzette 
 slips talisman back round her neck, turns to go. No- 
 komis suddenly realizes that it is dangerous for the 
 girl to go — ^holds her back — ^tells her not to go. Su- 
 zette shakes her head — says: 
 
 67 SPOKEN TITLE: THE SOLDIESS MUST BE 
 
 WARNED. NO ONE WILL HARM ME. 
 Goes toward doorway. Nokomis stretching out her 
 hand and calling to her. (FADE OUT.) 
 
 68 SUBTITLE: THE POISON OF HATE. 
 
 Scene 148 
 STRUBLE'S BEDROOM— (NIGHT) (FADE IN) 
 
 Old Struble very ill — the doctor shaking his head — 
 says: 
 
252 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 69 SPOKEN TITLE: HE MAY LIVE THE NIGHT. 
 WHEEE IS HIS WIPE? 
 The nurse shakes her head. The minister enters. 
 The doctor speaks to him — asks him if he knows. The 
 minister shakes his head — looks at the man on the bed 
 — then indicates he will find her — goes from the room. 
 
 Scene 149 
 DEEP IN THE WOODS— (MOONLIGHT) 
 
 Suzette in boy's clothes, traveling along in the moon- 
 light, half afraid, jumping at every sound, but hurry- 
 ing on. Finally hears something — stops still — ^fright- 
 ened — looking this way and that — ^finally looks up. 
 
 Scene 150 
 TREE (DEEP IN WOODS) (CLOSE-UP) 
 (FLASH) (MOONLIGHT) 
 
 A big owl on a branch has just finished hooting — ^look- 
 ing down at the girl. 
 
 Scene 151 
 DEEP IN THE WOODS— (MOONLIGHT) 
 
 Suzette, looking up at him, shakes her fist, indicating, 
 " Nasty old thing, you frightened me ! " Goes along, 
 hurrying — looking from side to side. 
 
 Scene 152 
 
 DEEP IN THE WOODS (ANOTHER PART) 
 
 (MOONLIGHT) (FLASH) 
 
 If possible — a flash here of a fox, wolf, or other wild 
 
 animal, common to the Massachusetts woods at that time 
 
 — ^not out on the path, but peering out of the bushes. 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 253 
 
 Scene 153 
 DEEP IN THE WOODS (FURTHER ALONG) 
 
 (MOONLIGHT) (FLASH ) 
 
 The little figure of the frightened girl in boy's cloth- 
 ing running through the woods. 
 
 Scene 154 
 INTEEIOE NOKOMIS' HUT 
 
 The old woman lying down on the pile of blankets and 
 garments — ^rising slowly up, blinking her eyes, facing 
 the minister and one or two of the elders, one of whom 
 has a blazing stick from the fireplace in his hand, serv- 
 ing as an illumination. The minister asks the woman 
 about Suzette. The old woman answers: 
 
 70 SPOKEN TITLE: SHE'S NO WITCH. I NO KNOW 
 WHERE GO. 
 The minister and elders impatient. They turn to go. 
 The man holding the brand flings it down in fire- 
 place. Nokomis starts to lie down again. (FADE 
 OUT.) 
 
 Scene 155 
 INTERIOR OLD COLONIAL TAVERN— NEAR 
 DOOR (NIGHT) (FADE IN) ^ 
 
 (These taverns were the place of meeting for the best 
 people in town, and the tavern need not be shown fuU 
 of loafers — ^they were the only meeting places where the 
 godly as well as the ungodly could get refreshments.) 
 Soldiers, civilians, eating and drinking — not very 
 many of them in sight. Suzette comes on — travel- 
 stained, worn, and weary, — just as a town drunkard 
 is being admonished by a portly gentleman who is 
 pointing him out with his stick. The tavern keeper, 
 with many apologies, is directing his hostler to remove 
 him. Suzette dodges the town drunkard and rushes 
 
264 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 into the portly gentleman. He takes her by the ear 
 and threatens her with his cane. She dodges from 
 under his grasp and runs to the tavern keeper who 
 takes her by the arm and is about to send her flying 
 as a boy and a nuisance, when she looks up at him — 
 puts her finger to her lips, and says: 
 
 71 SPOKEN TITLE: IS CAPTAIN WAYNE HEEE? I 
 MUST SEE HIM. 'TIS VASTLY IMPOETANT. 
 The keeper looks at her with respect at the mention 
 of Captain Wayne. Excuses himself to the portly gen- 
 tleman, and walks out of the picture. Suzette walks 
 toward the fireplace. 
 
 Scene 156 
 FIREPLACE— TAVERN— (NIGHT) (FLASH) 
 
 Suzette enters — falls exhausted on settle. 
 
 Scene 157 
 ANOTHER PART OF TAVERN— (NIGHT) 
 
 (FLASH) 
 
 Wayne and several of the ofiicers drinking ale, eat- 
 ing, and discussing military matters. The keeper 
 comes in, takes Wayne by the shoulder, indicates that 
 someone wants to see him. Wasme rises, excuses him- 
 self with a bow, and follows the keeper out of picture. 
 
 Scene 158 
 FIREPLACE— TAVERN— (NIGHT) 
 
 Suzette, curled up on settle, asleep, head on arm. 
 Wayne comes into picture, taps her on shoulder. As 
 he does so, looks down at her, gives an exclamation, 
 bends toward her. 
 
 Scene 159 
 SETTLE— FIREPLACE— (NIGHT) (OLOSE-TTP) 
 
 The two faces — Wayne's bending over Suzette, indi- 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 265 
 
 eating: "My God, what does this mean?" Suzette's 
 eyes slowly opening as she smiles up into his face, 
 forgetting for a moment her errand and her costume. 
 
 Scene 160 
 
 SETTLE — FIREPLACE — (NIGHT) (SEMI- 
 
 CLOSE-UP) 
 
 Suzette jumps to her feet, conscious of the fact that 
 someone may be watching her, puts her finger to her 
 lips, indicates to Wayne : " I must see you alone." 
 Wayne indicates that he understands and looks about 
 him. Tells her it's aU right — to tell him now. Su- 
 zette begins to talk. Tells him her news — says: 
 
 72 SPOKEN TITLE: THE TEIBES WILL EISE TO- 
 GETHER. THEY PLAN TO SUEPRISE 
 THE FORT TO-MORROW NIGHT. 
 Wayne, greatly surprised, makes the girl repeat it 
 over again. Tells her she's on time and has saved 
 them all. Forgets himself for a moment, leans over 
 and puts his hand on hers, his face showing how much 
 he appreciates what she has done, and all he would like 
 to say to her. Suzette draws her hand away, indicat- 
 ing that he must be careful. He looks around him 
 carefully, recognizing the need for caution, unless he 
 would expose her to insult. They turn and go out 
 of the picture together, talking earnestly. 
 
 Scene 161 
 
 OLD STEUBLE'S BEDROOM— (NIGHT) 
 
 Old Struble dead. The minister and elders standing 
 about bed. The nurse has put sheet over Struble's 
 face. The minister and elders begin to consult, indi- 
 cating the dead man. (FADE OUT.) 
 
256 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSfflP 
 
 Scene 162 
 THE EDG E OF THE WOODS— (DAYLIGHT) 
 
 (LONG SHOT) (FADE IN) 
 
 Suzette and Wayne come toward camera and woods. 
 In background, small squad of soldiers waiting. 
 Wayne stops, points to the woods, speaks. 
 
 Scene 163 
 EDGE OF WOODS— (CLOSE-UP) 
 
 Wajme and Suzette. Wayne urges Suzette to let him 
 send escort with her. Suzette shakes her head — says: 
 
 73 SPOKEN TITLE: I'M SAFER WITHOUT ESCOET 
 
 AS LONG AS NO ONE KNOWS I AM— 
 
 SUZETTE. 
 Holds out her hand. Wayne stoops as though to kiss 
 it. Suzette stops him, looking over her shoulder 
 warily. Wayne realizes it won't be safe to show emo- 
 tion — takes her hand and holds it tightly — ^looking at 
 her. Wayne looks after her for a moment — then turns 
 and goes out of picture in opposite direction toward 
 soldiers, calling to them as he goes. 
 
 Scene 164 
 INTERIOR MEETING HOUSE— (DAYLIGHT) 
 
 Solemn meeting of the minister and the elders and 
 several other influential men. The minister announces 
 to the others: 
 
 74 SPOKEN TITLE: DAME STRUBLE IS ACCUSED 
 
 OF WITCHCRAFT AND MUST BE APPRE- 
 HENDED AND BROUGHT TO TRIAL. 
 The others agree, solemnly shaking their heads. 
 
 Scene 165 
 EXTERIOR NOKOMIS' HUT— DOORWAY. 
 Nokomis seated on doorstep, answering questions of 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 257 
 
 one or two men from Tillage, shaking her head. They 
 start to go toward village. Nokomis looks in opposite 
 direction. 
 
 Scene 166 
 EXTEEIOE NOKOMIS' HUT— DOOEWAT. 
 
 Suzette, in boy's clothing, running toward the hut. 
 
 Scene 167 
 EXTEEIOE NOKOMIS' HUT 
 
 Nokomis waves her hand, indicating " Keep back ! " 
 As she does so, the two men look back and run out 
 of picture in the direction of Suzette. Nokomis rises — 
 stands leaning against the doorway. — As the two men 
 come back into the picture holding Suzette between 
 them. Suzette and Nokomis plead with them to let 
 Suzette come into hut and change her clothes. The 
 men evidently regarding the clothes as part of the 
 witchcraft, refuse — drag her with them toward the vil- 
 lage. 
 
 Scene 168 
 VILLAGE STEEET— (IN EEONT OP SU- 
 
 ' ZETTE'S OLD HOUSE) 
 
 People in groups talking, the mother of the child, who 
 went with Suzette to the hut, especially vigilant, di- 
 rects attention to her child continually. Suddenly the 
 crowd point ofE and wait. Suzette comes on, dragged by 
 the two men down to foreground. The crowd point at 
 her. The minister comes into the crowd — indicates 
 the girl, and says: 
 
 75 SPOKEN TITLE: EEMOVE THE WICKED AND 
 UNGODLY COSTUME IN WHICH SHE AT- 
 TENDS SATAN'S EEVELS. 
 The people nod their heads — agree that it should be 
 done. Suzette begs them to let her be free — ^to let her 
 
258 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 go home. They refuse and drag her out of the picture. 
 (FADE OUT.) 
 
 16 SUBTITLE: INTOLEEANCE ON THE BENCH 
 AND SUPERSTITION IN THE JURY. 
 
 Scene 169 
 (See picture in " Colonial Days," p. 145 — ^very bare 
 room. The meeting house was used as a place of trial 
 in many cases.) Suzette facing the judge and jury. 
 A number of people crowding to see the trial. (Note: 
 In none of these crowds should there be over 50 people 
 shown. Keep the mob down to indicating a small set- 
 tlement. In these days 200 was a large town.) Su- 
 zette being tried — ^the judge badgering her. Suzette 
 standing, turns on them vehemently, and says: 
 
 77 SPOKEN TITLE: THEEE IS NO DEVIL SAVE IN 
 
 THE HEAETS OF WICKED MEN. MALICE 
 AND HATE AEE THE ONLY WITCHES. 
 
 The people and the judge shocked and horrified at this. 
 
 The minister, sitting beside the judge, shakes his head. 
 
 The child is brought forward — immediately commences 
 
 to scream and twitch — calls out — ^pointing at Suzette: 
 
 78 SPOKEN TITLE: SHE'S PINCHING ME! I SEE 
 
 THE DEVIL LIKE A TEENY YELLOW 
 BIED, WHISPEEING IN HEE EAE! 
 Throws herself around, screaming. The mother tries 
 to restrain her. Another and older girl screams and 
 throws her arms in the air, indicating that she, too, is 
 tortured. 
 
 Scene 170 
 INTEEIOE MEETING HOUSE— (CLOSE-UP)' 
 
 (FLASH) 
 
 Suzette, as she looks pitingly on them. 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 259 
 
 Scene 171 
 
 INTEEIOB MEETING HOTTSE— (LONG SHOT) 
 
 (FLASH) 
 
 The crowd — some of them shaking their fists at Suzette, 
 indicates she ought to be hung. 
 
 Scene 172 
 
 INTERIOR MEETING HOUSE (NEAB JUDGE'S 
 
 BENCH) (SEMI-CLOSE-UP) 
 
 Suzette, swaying with weakness, indicates a chair, and 
 asks if she may sit down. They refuse. The men, 
 one on each side of her, jerk her to her feet as she 
 sways. The judge leans toward prisoner and says: 
 
 79 SPOKEN TITLE: DID YOU NOT SEHTYOUR- 
 
 SELF TO THE DEVIL TO COMPASS THE 
 
 DEATH OF YOUR HUSBAND? 
 
 Suzette, astonished, leans toward him — repeats, " The 
 
 death of my husband — Is he deadf " The judge points, 
 
 Suzette turns and looks toward open doorway. 
 
 Scene 173 
 
 OPEN DOORWAY OF MEETING HOUSE— 
 
 (SHOT AS SEEN B Y SUZETTE) (FLASH) 
 
 The coffin of Struble is borne past the wide-open doors, 
 on the way to the cemetery. 
 
 Scene 174 
 
 ME ETING HOUSE— (FLASH) 
 
 Suzette sees the coffin — screams — puts her hand before 
 her eyes, and starts to fall forward in a dead faint, 
 but is caught and held by the two men. 
 
260 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Scene 175 
 MEETING HOUSE— (CLOSE-UP) (FLASH) 
 
 Nokomis sees this — turns and hurries out of the pic- 
 ture. 
 
 Scene 176 
 MEETING HOUSE— (FULL VIEW) 
 
 Suzette, held up by two men, opens her eyes as the 
 judge rises and pronounces her sentence. He says at 
 the conclusion: 
 
 80 SPOKEN TITLE : THEN SHALL YOU BE HANGED 
 BY THE NECK UNTIL YOU BE DEAD AND 
 MAY GOD HAVE MEECY ON YOUR SOUL! 
 Suzette turns and answers him proudly, that she is 
 innocent. As she is led by the two men out of the 
 picture, she looks at the people firmly in the face, and 
 as she passes them they shake their fists at her and 
 threaten her — she answers them only by saying, " I am 
 innocent — I am not a witch ! " 
 
 Scene 177 
 WOODS 
 
 Nokomis, hurrying along, meets a man who has been 
 plowing, driving two horses ahead of him. Nokomis 
 stops him — ^pleads with him, frantically, to loan her a 
 horse — tells him about Suzette. He stops and speaks 
 to her. She shakes her head — begs him for a horse. 
 He indicates she can take it and welcome — ^he says: 
 (If necessary) 
 
 81 SPOKEN TITLE: I'D GIVE MOEE THAN A HORSE 
 
 TO STOP THIS TERRIBLE PERSECUTION. 
 
 NO ONE IS SAFE! 
 
 Nokomis thanks him. As she mounts bareback and 
 
 rides away, he looks after her — shakes his head and 
 
 goes on his way. 
 
" WITCHCRAFT » 261 
 
 Scene 178 
 
 CELL 
 
 Suzette chained. The minister pleading with her to 
 recant and confess. A man, accompanying minister 
 with pen and paper: (Note: Quill pen and sand box) 
 ready to write down confession. Suzette refuses to 
 confess — shakes her head — says : " I am innocent — 
 I've nothing to confess." The minister again entreats 
 her to consider she is near her end and must tell the 
 truth. Suzette shakes her head and persists in her 
 refusal. 
 
 Scene 179 
 INTERIOE TAVEEN— NEAR DOOEWAY 
 
 (Note : This is the same tavern to which Suzette came 
 in search of Wayne, but it has been taken possession 
 of by soldiers and is being used as headquarters. 
 No landlord or waiters about. Soldiers everywhere, 
 with their guns stacked up, going out on duty. A few 
 soldiers guard Indian prisoners tied up.) Nokomis 
 enters between two soldiers — is stopped by another — 
 who calls to a third to get Captain Wayne. The third 
 soldier goes out of picture. The others surround No- 
 komis and begin to question her. She refuses to an- 
 swer them — indicates that she will speak to no one but 
 the Captain. Wayne enters the picture. Nokomis 
 goes to him — ^begins to tell him about the girl. The 
 soldiers and Wayne show their indignation and aston- 
 ishment. Wayne frantic at the news, seizes the In- 
 dian woman and almost shakes the wind out of her. 
 
 Scene 180 
 C ELL— (FLASH) 
 
 Suzette alone, her face turned toward window — the 
 sunlight touching her hair and face. She is looking 
 longingly out. 
 
262 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 Scene 181 
 INTERIOR TAVERN 
 
 Wayne tells the old woman to wait where she is — 
 turns and rushes out of the picture. The moment he 
 does so, Nokomis turns and hurries out toward door. 
 One of the soldiers starts to stop her, but she calls 
 out to him that it is all right— Captain's order, and he 
 lets her go. 
 
 Scene 182 
 
 TABLE— ANOTHER PART OF TAVERN 
 
 The Governor seated at table, talking with several of 
 the officers. They have maps spread before them, and 
 a man, dressed as a trapper or scout, gives them in- 
 formation. Wayne rushes in frantic with anxiety, 
 begins to tell them, says: 
 
 82 SPOKEN TITLE: SHE SAVED THE SETTLE- 
 
 MENT FROM THE ESTDLO^S AND NOW— 
 THEY WOULD HANG HER AS A WITCH! 
 The Governor frowns — strikes the table with his hand 
 — then puts his hand on Wayne's shoulder — says in- 
 dignantly : 
 
 83 SPOKEN TITLE: I AM SICK OF THIS FOLLY; 
 
 AND AS GOVERNOR MEAN TO PUT A 
 STOP TO IT. YOU SHALL CARRY MY 
 PROCLAMATION TO THEM, 
 WajTie thanks him warmly — takes the paper that the 
 Governor selects from those on the table — and hur- 
 ries out. The Governor watches him with interest — 
 turns to the other men and indicates there is more 
 than mere anger in the captain's desire to get to Hed- 
 ford. The others agree — they smile, knowingly, as 
 they bring their heads together in discussion. (FADE 
 OUT.) 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 263 
 
 84 SUBTITLE: ON GALLOWS HILL. 
 
 Scene 183 
 ON GALLOWS HILI^(FADE IN) (FLASH) 
 
 (DAYLIGHT) 
 
 The people gathered — ^the gallows ready — most of the 
 people have stones and sticks in their hands. They are 
 aU whispering together and looking dowu the hill. 
 
 Scene 184 
 FOOT OF HILL (FLASH) 
 
 Nokomis coming along on horseback. The horse gives 
 out. Nokomis gets down — ^tries to coax it along. The 
 horse refuses to move. She turns and hurries up the 
 hill. 
 
 Scene 185 
 AT TH E FOOT OF GALLOWS HILL— (AN- 
 OTHER SPOT) (FLASH) 
 
 Suzette, between two men, being led toward gallows. 
 Behind her, the minister and several of the elders. 
 
 Scene 186 
 THE WOODS— (FLASH) 
 
 Wayne and several of his men, riding "hell for 
 leather " through the woods. 
 
 Scene 187 
 AT THE GALLOWS— (FLASH) 
 
 Suzette ia brought to the gallows and turns to face 
 the crowd. 
 
 Scene 188 
 STREET IN FRO NT OF STTZETTE'S OLD COT- 
 TAGE— (FLASH) 
 Wayne and his men ride in, calling out. An old 
 
264 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 man, hobbling on a stick, points to Gallows Hill. 
 They ride oS in that direction. 
 
 Scene 189 
 
 GALLOWS HILI^(FLASH) 
 
 (Shot from direction of gallows — so that crowd faces 
 camera.) The crowd. Nokomia worming her way 
 toward gallows. 
 
 Scene 190 
 
 GALLOWS HILI^CLONG SHOT) 
 
 (Long shot from the crowd so that Suzette faces 
 camera.) Suzette tells them that she is no witch, 
 affirming she is innocent. The crowd commences to 
 hurl sticks and atones — some of the smaller ones strike 
 her. One man seizes a big one. Nokomis flings her- 
 self in front of Suzette as he throws the stone. 
 
 Scene 191 
 FOOT OF GALLOWS HILL— (FLASH) 
 Wayne and his men, riding toward camera, shouting. 
 
 Scene 192 
 
 GALLOWS HILL— (CLOSE-TJP) (FLASH) 
 
 ITokomis on the ground — Suzette bending over her, 
 weeping. 
 
 Scene 193 
 GALLOWS HILL— (LONG SHOT) (FLASH) 
 
 The crowd, armed with more stones, turns from Su- 
 zette as the shouting soldiers ride through them. 
 Wayne, with his whip, strikes right and left at the 
 men who are throwing stones. 
 
" WITCHCRAFT " 265 
 
 Scene 194 
 GALLOWS HILL (CLOSE-UP) 
 
 Suzette has risen and stretches out her hands, as 
 Wayne, dismounted, waving a proclamation, walks into 
 the picture, stands between her and the crowd, pro- 
 teetingly — turns to the crowd, angrily — ^wayes the gov- 
 ernor's proclamation. 
 
 Scene 195 
 GALLOWS HILL— (FULL VIEW) (FLASH) ' 
 The crowd surge forward, listening. 
 
 Scene 196 
 GALLOWS HILL— (CLOSE-UP) 
 
 Wayne addressing the crowd — Suzette behind him, 
 watching him. He says: 
 
 85 SPOKEN TITLE: TO THE MEETING HOUSE! 
 TOUR MINISTEE SHALL READ TOU 
 TOUR GOVEENOE'S PEOCLAMATION ! 
 Hands the proclamation to the minister who comes 
 into the picture and turns toward Suzette. 
 
 Scene 197 
 GALLOWS HIL L— (FULL VIEW) (FLASH) 
 
 The crowd dispersing — ^following the minister — go- 
 ing toward meeting house. 
 
 Scene 198 
 GALLOWS H ILL— (SEMI-CLOSE-UP) 
 
 Suzette bending over Nokomis, who is being sup- 
 ported by a man. One or two people who have 
 lingered watching. Suzette stoops over Nokomis, who 
 opens her eyes. Wayne comes into picture, stoops 
 over and touches Suzette. She puts her hand against 
 
266 CINEMA CRAFTSMANSHIP 
 
 his shoulder and holds him off — then takes out talis- 
 man, holding it toward him, and says earnestly: 
 
 86 SPOKEN TITLE: I MAT BE A WITCH AFTER 
 
 ALL! MAXEPEACE DIED BECAUSE— I 
 
 HATED HIM! 
 The old woman looks up at them both — smiles feebly 
 — touches the talisman which is hanging from the 
 girl's neck and says: 
 
 87 SPOKEN TITLE: NO MAGIC. OLD MAKEPEACE 
 
 —HIM DIE— NATURAL. NOKOMIS KNOWS. 
 Puts Suzette's hand in Wayne's. Suzette looks at 
 Wayne. The man holding Nokomis, lifts her up and 
 half leads, half carries her out of the picture — Noko- 
 mis looking back at the two young peeple and smiling 
 feebly. Wayne puts his arm about Suzette. 
 
 Scene 199 
 
 GALLOWS HILL— (CLOSE-UP) 
 
 Suzette and Wayne. Wayne has his arm about Su- 
 zette and is pointing off, telling her of a new life for 
 both of them — out of this narrow little town — as 
 Suzette puts her hand in his and lifts her face, fuU of 
 hope, indicating that once more she believes happi- 
 ness is possibile. (FADE OUT.) 
 
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 Moving Picture World, N. Y., 1916. 
 Slevin, James, " On Picture Play Writing." Farmer, Smith 
 
 Inc., Cedar Grove, N. J., 1912. 
 
 Talbot, Frederick A., "Practical Cinematography and Its 
 Applications." Lippincott, Phila., 1913. 
 
 Thomas, Arthur W., "How to Write a Photoplay." The 
 Photoplaywrights Association of America, Chicago, 
 1914. 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 269 
 
 Tumbiill, Margaret, "The Close-up." Harper & Bros., 
 
 N. Y., 1918. 
 Wagner, Eob., « Filmf oik." The Century Co., N. Y., 1918. 
 Welsh, Eobert, "A-B-C of Motion Pictures." Harper & 
 
 Bros., N. Y., 1916. 
 Wright, William Lord, " The Motion Picture Story." Lun- 
 
 deen Pub. Co., Pergus Palls, Minn., 1915. 
 
INDEX 
 
 Action, In the continuity, 100, 
 116 
 
 Adams, Miss Maude, 175 
 
 Adaptation, 64-95; market val- 
 ue of, 81, 83, 173; routine of 
 film adaptation, 86-95 
 
 Admirable Crichton, The, 70, 
 137, 142 
 
 Adventurer, The, 28 
 
 Advertising value, 81, 84; of 
 copyright material, 171, 172 
 
 jEschylus, 34, 58 
 
 Agamemnon, 58 
 
 Alarm Clock Andy, 41 
 
 Alexander, 1 
 
 Amarilly of Clothesline Alley, 
 139 
 
 Amazons, The, 143 
 
 Anglin, Miss Margaret, 42 
 
 Animals in Comedy, 140, 141 
 
 Antigone, 48 
 
 Archer, Mr. William, 5, 10 
 
 Aristotle, 5, 7, 8, 9, 150 
 
 Art and Commercialism, 158, 
 183 
 
 Art, the photoplay aa an, 2, 3, 4 
 
 As You Like It, 27 
 
 Atherton, Mrs. Gertrude, 66 
 
 Atlantic Monthly, The, 168 
 
 Atwill, Mr. Lionel, 42 
 
 Austen, Jane, 46 
 
 Authors' League Bulletin, The, 
 88 
 
 Balzac, G2 
 
 Barker, Mr. Granville, 53 
 
 Barrie, Sir James M., 2, 70, 71, 
 
 136, 137, 175 
 Barrymore, Mr. John, 25, 42 
 Barrymore, Mr. Lionel, 25, 143 
 Beach, Mr. Rex, 174 
 
 271 
 
 Belasco Theatre, 159 
 Bella Donr.a, 17 
 Bennett, Miss Enid, 169 
 Beranger, Mrs. Clara, 42, 76, 86 
 Bergere, Miss Ouida, 42, 86 
 Bergson, M. Henri, 141 
 Beyond the Horizon, 18 
 Biograph Company, The, 111, 
 
 177 
 Binney, Miss Constance, 176 
 Birds' Christmas Carol, The, 84 
 Birth of a Nation, The, 114, 
 
 153, 161 
 Bit of Heaven, A, 84 
 Bluelird, The, 55, 158 
 Boleyn, Anne, 47, 52 
 Brady, Cyrus Townsend, 174 
 Broken Blossoms, 6, 41, 114, 
 
 153, 164 
 Browning, 183 
 Bruce Scenics, 62 
 Bnmeti&re, 7 
 Burhadges, the, 58 
 Burke, Mr. Thomas, 164 
 Butler, Samuel, 43 
 
 Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, The, 17, 
 42, 50, 51, 53 
 
 Caesar, Julius, 1, 46 
 
 Calderon, 18 
 
 Camera directions, 121, 124 
 
 Captions, see titles 
 
 Caricature, 45 
 
 Cast of Characters, 124; exam- 
 ple of, 192-196 
 
 Cause and efifect, 6 
 
 Censorship, 166, 167, 168 " 
 
 Chaplin, Mr. Charlie, 28, 133 
 
 Characterization, in the pho- 
 toplay, 33-48; by words, 109; 
 
272 
 
 INDEX 
 
 by costume, 38, 39, 40, 41; 
 sources of, 45, 46, 47; com- 
 mercial value of, 175, 176; 
 types of, 44, 45 
 
 Cheat, The, 42 
 
 Cheating Cheaters, 27 
 
 Chester, Mr. George Gandolph, 
 182 
 
 Chester Outing Pictures, 62 
 
 Chesterton, Mr. Gilbert K., 22, 
 145 
 
 Chopin, 48 
 
 Chronicles of England, Irelwnd, 
 and York, 79 
 
 Churchill, Mr. Winston, 83 
 
 Cinematic value, 116, 117, 172 
 
 Clark, Miss Mari"ierite, 158 
 
 Climax, 10, 11, 13; definition 
 of, 11 
 
 Closet drama, 2 
 
 Close-up, the, 98, 99, 109, 120 
 
 Coherence, 130 
 
 Color in motion pictures, 71, 72, 
 73 
 
 Comedy, 132-145; definition of, 
 '32, 133; comedy drama, 
 135; "slapstick," 132, 135; 
 distinguished from tragedy, 
 133; of action, 132, 138; of 
 character, 132; of costume, 
 132; of situation, 132; of 
 words, 138, 139 
 
 Comedy of Errors, 79 
 
 Commercial needs, 157, 158, 
 161, 166, 167. 168, 169, 170, 
 171, 175, 176, 177, 178, 179, 
 182, 183 
 
 Community Bureau of Motion 
 Pictures, 183 
 
 Complication, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 
 13, 15, 16 
 
 Comstock, Anthony, 146 
 
 Conclusion, 15, 16, 19 
 
 Conflict, 5, 6 
 
 Confucius, 164 
 
 Connecticut Yankee in King 
 Arthur's Court, 143 
 
 Conquering Power, The, 62 
 
 Continuity, 96, 127; definition 
 of, 97; example of, 200; pro- 
 
 fessional continuity writing, 
 85, 90, 126, 127, 172 
 Copperhead, The, 78, 81 
 Copyright material, 81, 85, 171, 
 
 172 
 Coriolanus, 79 
 
 Costume, delineation of charac- 
 ter by, 38, 39, 40, 41 ; identi- 
 fication by, 23, 24, 25; as 
 evidence, 27; as disguise, 27, 
 28; as protagonist, 26; cos- 
 tume plays, 161 
 Crisis, anticipating the, 10; 
 definition of, 11, 12; in the 
 serial, 181; in the reel, 124 
 Criterion Theatre, 153 
 Criticism, cinematic, 146-156 
 Crothers, Miss Rachel, 173 
 Curwood, Mr. James Oliver, 178 
 Cut backs, for contrast, 123; 
 for emphasis, 122; for sus- 
 pense, 121, 123 
 
 Daniel Deronda, 55, 56 
 
 Dante, 150 
 
 Dark Fleece, The, 181 
 
 David Copperfield, 46 
 
 Dear Brutus, 71 
 
 Deburau, 42 
 
 Deception, 17, 42, 46, 52, 55 
 
 de Maupassant, Guy, 65 
 
 De Mille, Mr. Cecil, 20, 22, 23, 
 
 39, 70, 164 
 De Mille, Mr. William, 65, 70 
 u Vega, Lope, 18 
 Derr Biggers, Mr. Earl, 25 
 da Vinci, 1 
 Dialogue, see Titles 
 Dickens, 34, 45, 46, 61 
 Dionysus, Theatre of, 58 
 Disguise, 27, 28 
 Dissolve, 119, 120 
 Doll's House, A, 6, 57, 163 
 Don't Change Your Husband, 23 
 Double Exposure, 118, 119 
 Down to Earth, 143 
 Drew, Mr. and Mrs. Sidney, 137 
 Drinkwater, Mr. John, 46 
 Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, 75, 
 
 76, 77, 82, 83 
 
INDEX 
 
 273 
 
 Dual role, 118 
 
 du Barry, Mme., 47 
 
 Dumas, 9, 139 
 
 Eastman Theatre, 159 
 Echergaray, 18 
 Edgeworth, Maria, 33 
 Educational films, 182 
 Electra, 42 
 Eliot, George, 46 
 Elizabethan productions, 58 
 Eltinge, Julian, 28 
 Emerson, Mr John, 86, 115 
 Emperor Jones, The, 18 
 Emphasis, 130 
 Ending, the happy, 16, 17, 18, 
 
 19 
 Ervine, Mr. St. John G., 68 
 Euripides, 7, 58 
 Everett, Charles 0., 141 
 Everyman, 48 
 Exposition, 9, 10, 11, 21 
 Exteriors, 99, 125, 198, 199 
 
 Fading in and Fading out, 117, 
 118, 119, 120, 121 
 
 Fairbanks, Mr, Douglas, 28, 
 105, 115, 135, 136, 143, 176 
 
 Fairfax, Miss Marion, 86 
 
 Fall of Babylon, The, 65, 153 
 
 Famous Players-Lasky Com- 
 pany, 17, 53, 66, 84, 128, 169, 
 170, 171, 184 
 
 Faversham, Mr. William, 42 
 
 Feature films, 86, 87, 111, 112 
 
 Ferguson, Miss Elsie, 175 
 
 Fielding, 33 
 
 Flash, 121. 122, 123 
 
 Follow, 124 
 
 Fuieshadowing, 10 
 
 Four Horsemen of the Apoca- 
 lypse, The, 17, 71, 72 
 
 Frederick, Miss Pauline, 17, 73, 
 169 
 
 French Revolution, 80 
 
 Progs, The, 145 
 
 Galsworthy, Mr. John, 2 
 
 Garden of Allah, 60 
 
 Get Rich Quick Wallvngford, 182 
 
 Gibbon, 65 
 
 Gilded Lily, The, 43, 
 
 Glsh, Miss Dorothy, 111 
 
 Gish, Miss Lillian, 30, 111, 175, 
 
 176 
 Globe Theatre, 58 
 Goethe, 6 
 Gol I Bug, The, 61 
 Goldsmith, 27 
 Goldwyn Company, The, 66 
 Golem, The, 42, 52, 53 
 Good Gracious, Awnabelle, 27, 
 
 142 
 ''own of Destiny, The, 25 
 Greased Lightning, 13 
 Great Adventure, The, 143 
 Great Expectatio: j, 61 
 Great Love, The, 30, 39 
 Greenwich Village Theatre, 160 
 Griffith, Mr. D. W., 29, 30, 31, 
 
 109, 111, 121, 122, 177 
 
 Hall, 79 
 
 Hamilton, Mr. Clayton, 9, 66, 
 
 166 
 Bamlet, 25, 36, 65, 79 
 Hampden, Mr. Walter, 42 
 Hart, Mr. William S., 141, 
 
 176 
 Deadin' South, 28 
 Beart of Midlothian, The, 61 
 Heartbreak House, 69, 70 
 Hearts of the World, 30, 122 
 Hedda Gabler, 42 
 Henry, O., 19, 173 
 Henry IV, 38 
 Hen/ry VIII, 46, 47, 52 
 Hergesheimer, Mr. Joseph, 77, 
 
 181 
 Hichens, Mr. Robert, 17, 60 
 His Picture in the Paper, 136 
 History of English Literature, 
 
 45 
 Holinshed, 79 
 Homer, 1 
 Hoodlum, The, 28 
 Hopkins, Mr. Arthur, 62 
 Hopwood, Mr. Avery, 66 
 Housman, Mr. Laurence, 53 
 How Could You, JewnT, 25 
 
274 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Hughes, Mr. Rupert, 42, 66 
 Hume, 65 
 
 Humility o' Hedford, 184; 
 eynopsis of, 188 
 
 Ibanez, Blasco, 71 
 
 Jbbetson, Peter, 42 
 
 Ibsen, 18, 46, 56, 57 
 
 Idols of Olay, 42 
 
 Imaginary Invalid, The, 143 
 
 Ince, Mr. Ralph, 58 
 
 Ingram, Mr. Rex, 71 
 
 Inness, 106, 158 
 
 Inside of the Cup, The, 83 
 
 Interiors, 99, 125, 197 
 
 Intolerance, 65 
 
 Introduction of characters, 106, 
 
 10 , 108, 109 
 Iris in and iris out, 120, 121 
 Irving, Mr. Henry, 42, 58 
 
 Jack and the Beanstalk, 153 
 
 James, Henry, 130 
 
 Jane Glegg, 18 
 
 Jane Eyre, 80, 81 
 
 Jr a Bead, 77 
 
 Jest, The, 25 
 
 Joan and Peter, 43 
 
 Joan the Woman, 42, 65, 153, 
 
 161 
 John Ferguson, 18, 68, 69 
 Jones, Mr. Henry Arthur, 2, 5, 
 
 66 
 Jones, Mr. Robert Edmond, 62 
 Joseph Andrews, 33 
 Joseph, the story of, 12 
 Journalism, School of, 147 
 
 Kalem Company, 64 
 Keenan, Mr. Frank, 169 
 Kenilworth, 56 
 Kennedy, Miss Edith, 86 
 Kennedy, Miss Madge, 136, 140 
 Kinemacolor, 72 
 King Lear, 17, 48 
 Kiss for Cinderella, A,l\ 
 Knoblock, Mr. Edward, 66 
 Kummer, Misa Clare, 142 
 Kyd, Thomas, 79 
 
 Lady and the Tiger, The, 16 
 
 L'aiglon, 46 
 
 LoMghter, 141 
 
 La/e) of the Land, The, 38 
 
 Leacock, Mr. Stephen, 145 
 
 Leaders, see titles 
 
 Leave It to Susan, 140 
 
 Les Misirahles, 6, 44, 45, 114 
 
 Lewes, George Henry, 46 
 
 Life, 145 
 
 Limehouse Nights, 164 
 
 Lindsay, Mr. Vachel, 154 
 
 Little Theatre, The, 159 
 
 Little Eyolf, 57, 167 
 
 Location, 125, 198, 199 
 
 Locke, Mr. William, 158 
 
 Long Shot, 97, 98 
 
 Loos, Miss Anita, 86, 105, 136 
 
 Louis XV, 47, 52 
 
 Love Light, The, 42 
 
 Lubltsch, Mr. Ernst, 46, 51 
 
 Macbeth, 36, 48 
 
 Mack Sennett Comedies, 141 
 
 Macpherson, Miss Jeannie, 42, 
 
 116 
 Maeterlinck, Mr. Maurice, 158 
 Maigne, Mr Charles, 86 
 Male and Female, 137 
 Man Above the Law, The, 17 
 Man of Destiny, The, 46 
 Mansfield, Richard, 42 
 Marion, Miss Frances, 42, 86, 
 
 105 
 Mark Twain, 143, 144 
 Market, the photoplay, 157-183 
 Marlowe, Miss Julia, 42 
 Marriage of Figaro, The, 145 
 Martha, 27 
 
 Marsh, Miss Mae, 111 
 Martin, Miss Vivian, 169 
 Mary Stuart, 46 
 Master Builder, The, 56 
 Master of Ballantrae, The, 61 
 Matthews, Prof. Brander, vi, 
 
 5, 7 
 Matthison, Miss Edith Wynne. 
 
 42 
 Maugham. Mr, Somerset, 43, 66 
 Medea, 42, 58, 64 
 
INDEX 
 
 275 
 
 Meighan, Mr. Thonms, 175 
 
 Menaechmi, 79 
 
 Merchant of Venice, The, 27, 38, 
 
 70, 162 
 Meredith, George, 36, 141 
 Michelangelo, 1 
 ifiddlemarch, 46 
 ifillionaire Vagrant, The, 28 
 Miracle Man, The, 163, 165 
 Miracle Plays, 59 
 Moliere, 2, 136, 143, 175 
 Morality plays, 48, 59 
 Motivation, 14, 15, 75 
 Mutual Film Company, 64 
 
 Napoleon, 1, 47 
 
 Nazimova, Mme., 42, 79, 169, 
 
 175, 176 
 Kew Amsterdam Theatre, The, 
 
 159 
 yew Republic, The, 153, 154, 
 
 168 
 mine o'clock Town, The, 13 
 Non-copyright material, 81, 171 
 Numbering in the Continuity, 
 
 99 
 
 Oberammergau, 114 
 
 (Edipus Rex, 64 
 
 Old Curiosity Shop, The, 61 
 
 Old Nest, The, 42 
 
 Oliver Tioist, 61 
 
 On the Uses of the Comic 
 
 Spirit, 141 
 O'Neil, Mr. Eugene, 7 
 Opp, Miss Julie, 42 
 Othello, 36 
 
 Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded, 33 
 Pan, or Panoram, 120 
 Pantomime, 115, 116, 117, 130, 
 
 174 
 Paradise Lost, 48 
 Paramount Pictures, 141 
 Paramount Post Pictures, 62 
 Parker, 65 
 
 Parker, Sir Gilbert, 66 
 Passion, 17, 42, 46, 52 
 Passion Play, 114 
 Patents Company, The, 64 
 
 Paths Company, The, 178 
 
 Penrod, 182 
 
 Perry, Bliss, 49, 50 
 
 Peter Pan, 175 
 
 Phillips, Mr. Henry Albert, 109 
 
 Philosophy of Style, 9 
 
 Pickford, Miss Mary, 28, 81, 
 
 111, 135, 154, 158, 177 
 Pictorial Review, 173 
 Pinero, 2, 143 
 
 Pitkin — definition of plot, 36 
 
 Plautus, 79 
 
 Plutarch's Lives, 79 
 
 Plot, 5-32; definitions of, 5, 6, 
 
 8; evolution of, 34 
 Pee, Edgar Allan, 51, 61 
 Poetics, 8 
 
 Poetry, Comedy and Duty, 141 
 Pollock, Mr. Channing, 66 
 Pollyanna, 105 
 Prescott, 65 
 Prizma Pilms, 72 
 Profligate, The, 18 
 Program system, the, 86, 87, 
 
 112, 113, 114, 153, 160; unit 
 program, 113 
 
 Projection, 124 
 
 Prometheus Bound, 34, 176 
 
 Propaganda, 166 
 
 Prunella, 53, 54, 55, 158, 159, 
 
 166 
 Publicity, 149 
 Punch, 145 
 
 Racine, 175 
 
 Eadcliffe, Mrs., 33 
 
 Ray, Mr. Charles, 13, 28, 41, 
 
 135, 141, 169, 176 
 Rebecca of Sunnyirook Farm, 
 
 81, 161 
 Reed, Dr. R. Ralston, 184 
 Reel, footage, 110, 115; multi- 
 ple, 111, 124; dramatic limi- 
 tations of, 112; number of 
 scenes in, 116 
 Reid, Mr. Wallace, 14 
 Reisenfeld, Mr. Hugo, 153 
 Resurrection, The, 73, 74 
 Binehart, Mrs. Mary Roberts, 
 66 
 
276 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Rialto Theatre, The, 153 
 Richard III, 36, 46 
 Ricbardson, Samuel, 33 
 Rivoli Theatre, The, 153 
 Roads of Destiny, The, 173 
 Rob Roy, 61 
 Romance of Happy Valley, The, 
 
 40 
 Romance of the Redwoods, The, 
 
 154 
 Rostand, Mr. Edmond, 46 
 Bothapfel, Mr. Samuel, 113 
 
 Saints Progress, 181 
 
 Salt of the Earth, 84 
 
 Sareey, 7 
 
 Sardou, Victorien, 65 
 
 Satire, 136, 137 
 
 Bat irday Evening Post, 13, 84, 
 
 153, 168 
 Scenario, 96, 97, 126; sample, 
 
 184-266; technique of the, 95- 
 
 125 
 Scene, 97, 98, J15, 116; plot, 
 
 125 
 ScenicB, 62 
 
 School for Scandal, The, 27, 145 
 Scott, 61 
 
 Second Mrs. Tanqueray, The, 18 
 Selig, 64 ■ 
 
 Semi-close-up, 9". 99 
 Sentimental Tommy, 70 
 Serial, the, 178, 179, 180, 181 
 Setting, 49-63; definitions of, 
 
 49, 50; fantastic, 53; in the 
 
 continuity, 98; in the scene 
 
 plot, 125 
 Seven Keys to Baldpate, 20, 21 
 Seven Swans, The, 158 
 Shakespeare, 1, 18, 46, 47, 58, 
 
 70, 79, 162, 175 
 Shaw, Mr. George Bernard, 2, 
 
 46, 47, 69, 132 
 She Loves and Lies, 28 
 Sheridan, 27, 136 
 Sheriff's Son, The, 13 
 She Stoops to Conquer, 27 
 Short Story Writing, 36 
 Shoulder Arms, 28, 133, 134 
 Siddons, Mrs., 42 
 
 Silas Marner, 13, 56 
 
 Simonda, 45 
 
 Smitb, F. Hopklnson, 62 
 
 Smollett, Tobias, 33 
 
 Sophocles, 1, 7, 58 
 
 Sothern, Mr. E. H., 42 
 
 Source, The, 10 
 
 Spanish Tragedy, The, 79 
 
 Spencer, Herbert, 9 
 
 Spinoza, 36 
 
 Spoken title, 93, 94, 100-110, 
 117 
 
 Stagirite, the, 7 
 
 Star system, the, 175, 176, 177, 
 178 
 
 Stella Maris, 158, 166 
 
 Stevenson, Robert Louis, 6, 61, 
 75, 130 
 
 Stockton, Mr. Francis Richard, 
 15, 16 
 
 Stringer, Mr. Arthur, 178 
 
 Struggle, 5, 6 
 
 Study of Prose Fiction, A, 49 
 
 Sub-title, 93, 94, 100-110, 117 
 
 Suppliants, The, 34 
 
 Surprise, 19, 20, 21, 22 
 
 Suspense, 5, 6, 10; definition 
 of, 5 
 
 Sweet, Miss Blanche, 111 
 
 Swinburne, 2 
 
 Symbolism, 165 
 
 Synopsis, as a selling agent, 
 129, 130; English in the, 129, 
 130; example of, 191; ex- 
 tended, ■'.27, 128; skeleton, 
 128; technique of, 126, 131 
 
 Tale of Two Cities, A, 38, 75, 
 
 80 
 Talmadge, Miss Constance, ISfi, 
 
 176 
 Talmadge, Miss Norma, 28 
 Tarkington, Mr. Booth, 182 
 Technique, scenario, 95-125 
 Tennyson, 2 
 Terry, Ellen, 58 
 Thackeray, 34 
 Theory of the Theatre, 9 
 Thirteenth Chair, The, 19 
 Timeliness, 144, 145 
 
INDEX 
 
 277 
 
 Timon of Athens, 79 
 
 Titles, copyright of, 83 ; change 
 
 of, 84; sub, 93, 94, 100-110, 
 
 117; spoken, 93, 94, 100-110, 
 
 117 
 Tolstoy, 73 
 
 Tourneur, Mr. Maurice, 53, 55 
 Trait, the dominant, 45 
 Tree, Sir Herbert Beerbohm, 70, 
 
 162 
 Triangle Company, 25, 64 
 True Heart Susie, 39, 40 
 Turnbull, Mr. Hector, 42, 128 
 Turnbull, Miss Margaret, 184, 
 
 187 
 Twelfth Night, 27 
 
 Unity, in the synopsis, 130, 131 
 Universal appeal, 160 
 UnseU, Miss Eve, 86, 110 
 Urban Company, 72 
 
 Vamty Fair, 145, 168 
 
 Veiller, Mr. Bayard, 19 
 
 Vignetting, 129 
 
 Virgil, 1 
 
 Vision within the frame, 117, 
 
 118, 119; straight, 117, 118; 
 
 fade, 118, 119, 120 
 
 Vitagraph Company, The, 80, 
 177, 178 
 
 Wagner, Mr. Rob, 153 
 Ward, Mrs. Humphry, 60 
 Washburn, Mr. Bryant, 135, 141 
 Way Down East, 31, 72 
 Wells, Mr. H. G., 43 
 Weston, Mr. George, 84 
 What Every Womam Knows, 70, 
 
 71 
 Whispering Chorus, The, 22, 24, 
 
 164, 165 
 White Circle, The, 62 
 Why Change Tour Wifef, 39 
 Wiggin, Mrs. Kate Douglas, 84 
 Wild and Wooly, 28 
 Wilhelm Meister, 5 
 Williams, Prof. John Talcott, 
 
 147 
 Winter's Tale, The, 36 
 Witchcraft, 184-266 
 Woman God Forgot, The, 161 
 Words on the screen, 100-110; 
 
 cinematic, 130; in comedy, 
 
 136 
 
 Young, Miss Clara Kimball, 169 
 
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