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On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 A Hand-Book of 
 Workmanship 
 
 Br 
 JAMES SLEVIN 
 
 Pathe Freres Picture-Playwright 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 FARMER SMITH 
 
 Incorporated 
 Cedar Grove, N. J. 
 
tHH^ 
 
 Copyright, 1912 
 By George Henry Smith 
 
 COPYRIGHT OFFiOE 
 
 oct 3i m 
 
 JUL 2i Ib£4 
 
 Printed by 
 
 Daily Chronicle Press 
 
 Orange, N.J. 
 
To 
 
 MR. J. A. BERST 
 
 PRESIDENT OF THE GENERAL FILM CO. AND 
 VICE-PRESIDENT OF PATHE FRERES 
 
 Who has done more than any 
 other to elevate the standard 
 of moving pictures, and on 
 whom more than any other 
 the progress and success 
 of this art depends. 
 
I TAKE occasion here to acknowledge gratefully 
 the very good help of all the play and story 
 writers, and those who have written on or about 
 the subject from the time of Aristotle down, most 
 of whose works I've read and tried to profit by. If 
 I've neglected any it has been an unintentional over- 
 sight, or because of my limited knowledge of lang- 
 uages. 
 
 I also thank my many friends, whose advice I've 
 freely used, whose patience I've abused, and whose 
 good opinion has finally forced me to this tedious 
 effort. 
 
 JAMES SLEVIN. 
 
 New York City, 
 December Fourth, 
 One Thousand Nine 
 Hundred and Twelve. 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship 7 
 
 Introductory" 
 
 WE may regard a picture-play in three ways : 
 As a piece of writing, 
 As an expression of life, 
 As a picture-play or series of situations properly 
 arranged for representation on the screen. 
 
 Of course there are a great many other aspects 
 from which a picture-play may be viewed, and num- 
 erous other standpoints than the three I've men- 
 tioned. For instance, when I witness a "chase" 
 picture-play, so frequent among foreign producers, 
 and so badly aped by Americans, the conclusion is 
 thrust on me that picture-play making is the art of 
 demonstrating how many absurd obstacles can be 
 put in a man's way in a given space, without reason 
 or logical sequence. This sort of obstacle race is, I 
 understand, in certain nooks and corners of the 
 world, considered quite laughable. Personally I can 
 hardly restrain my tears when I see such an inane 
 exhibition. 
 
 In another picture-play, the story consists of a 
 man shopping with his wife and having difficulty 
 with bundles and boxes. From the subsequent 
 
On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 action, I come to the conclusion that picture-play 
 making is the art of balancing and squashing band 
 boxes. 
 
 Again when I see a somewhat mature and fat 
 hero, playing a cowboy, gotten up as no human 
 outside of moving pictures ever appeared, when in 
 company with others or alone this somewhat mature 
 and fat hero rides up hill and down dale, forward and 
 back, around and around, mounted bravely on a dis^ 
 carded street car nag, and when this continues for 
 the full twenty minutes without end or object, mean- 
 ing or direction, I can't help but think that picture- 
 play making is the art of horse-back, hide and seek, 
 or a game of chase the wind. 
 
 Most of all, when I see a moving-picture of the 
 peculiarly virtuous and otherwise insipid young 
 man, pursued and persecuted for thirty or forty 
 scenes by a particularly villainous villain, I am 
 minded for the time that our picture-playing is the 
 art of weaving a web of false evidence around an 
 all too innocent person, and I come away with the 
 uncomfortable notion that maybe after all our prison 
 house at Ossining and other such establishments 
 throughout the country are filled with poor innocents 
 unjustly accused. 
 
 There is one thing, however, that consoles me — 
 being of rather a sentimental turn, I'm glad to see 
 that all these various stories, no matter what the 
 beginning, middle or general make-up consists of, 
 
A Hand-Book §f Workmanship 9 
 
 end with the invariable hug and kiss, I think after 
 all picture-play making, in its climaxes at least, must 
 be the delightful art of hugging and kissing. For in 
 all times and places, at home and abroad, in private 
 or the public market place, in all conditions or cli- 
 mates, rain or shine, in season or out of season, the 
 hero and heroine always bury their troubles in one 
 long embrace. 
 
 Well, you may take your choice of all these as- 
 pects of the picture-play. I just mention them off 
 hand as they come to me. But now I want you to 
 consider it in the first three ways I've named. I'll 
 say them over once more. 
 
 Firstly, a picture-play may be regarded as a piece 
 of writing. This is the art of the author. 
 
 Secondly, as an expression of human life. This 
 is the art of the dramatist. 
 
 Thirdly, as a picture-play or series of situations 
 properly arranged for representation on the screen. 
 This is the art of the picture playwright or scenario 
 editor. 
 
 I'm merely going to touch on the first two and 
 that only in their relation to the third, and as soon 
 as I have pointed out their relative bearing, I'll drop 
 them and come to the main purpose of my book, 
 namely, the practical craftsmanship of the work. 
 
 Picture-play making has no rules. It is easy to 
 write out certain hints and recommendations, to tell 
 the beginner especially what not to do ; but the best 
 
io On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 guide in the matter is plain common sense, tempered 
 of course by artistic taste and mature judgment 
 
 The written picture-play, to make its proper ap- 
 peal to its public, must be sent through an exceed- 
 ingly complex machine, the moving-picture studio 
 and laboratory. The methods and conditions of 
 which are to nearly all beginners an attractive mys- 
 tery. As they have little or no opportunity to get 
 acquainted with the various equipment, mechanism, 
 etc., they are eager to learn it second hand by read- 
 ing it up. 
 
 Now then, in a plain and practical way, I'm going 
 to call attention to some of the problems and possi- 
 bilities of the picture-play. One thing is sure, and 
 must be stated at the start, that the only part of the 
 art I'm attempting to teach is a formal and mechani- 
 cal one, the art of construction. 
 
 One can learn to write a story in an effective way, 
 to group one's ideas so to arrange one's transi- 
 tions, and marshal one's forces, as best to get and 
 hold the interest of the spectator. But the inspira- 
 tion or idea comes from another source. You either 
 have it or not. If you have it you can be taught how 
 to express it. If you haven't it, you can no more 
 learn how to get it than you can learn how to grow 
 six feet tall. You either have it in you or not, that's 
 all. 
 
 But you can be consoled by the thought that you 
 are under no obligation to express that which you 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship n 
 
 do not possess; and that in the long run you are 
 saved from the many trials and heartaches of learn- 
 ing a long and tedious art. 
 
 Some people are born with a lively talent or 
 native bump for this art, and a very little instruction 
 and practice renders them adepts at it; while others 
 have a dent where their bump of inventiveness ought 
 to be. There are still others with a moderately de- 
 veloped faculty for writing, the plodders who reach 
 out gratefully for every help they can get, and it is 
 to these that I address the pages of my book. 
 
 I am laying down only such plain rules and indis- 
 pensable rudiments of the art as will help those who 
 already possess the necessary talent. Marconi could 
 not have invented the wireless telegraph without a 
 thorough grounding in and technical knowledge of 
 electricity, although there are thousands of others 
 with the same knowledge who could never have in- 
 vented wireless telegraphy or anything else. 
 
 The picture playwright labors under a great 
 many serious difficulties in arranging his theme or 
 story for his audience. At the start off, we assume 
 that he has a theme or story which is new, unique, 
 original and of the widest possible interest to all 
 classes. Then he must think out with great care and 
 discretion, the particular types of characters best 
 suited to carry on his story. When he has further 
 drawn on his imagination for the main incidents of 
 his action, he has to chop it up into fourteen, twenty, 
 
12 
 
 On Picture-Play 'Writing 
 
 forty or more scenes as the case may require, each 
 scene containing a fair portion of the action of his 
 story. 
 
 Having so divided his material into different 
 scenes, he must devise and arrange the proper se^- 
 quence of incidents, so> that the theme itself as well 
 as the characters expressing it are fittingly intro- 
 duced to the spectators, so that attention is caught 
 from the start and held. 
 
 Say in a story containing thirty-five scenes car- 
 ried on by different numbers of characters from one 
 alone in a scene to ninety or one hundred. 
 
 Each scene will have to belong intimately to the 
 play and be part and parcel of it. 
 
 It will have to be so arranged that it will carry 
 on the action of the story in the most natural way, 
 without bringing the characters on too frequently or 
 unnecessarily, and so as to give them all a good 
 logical reason for their coming and going. 
 
 Now these thirty-five scenes can be arranged in 
 thousands of different ways, but the particular ar- 
 rangement and design best suited to carry on this 
 particular theme and story must be thought out. 
 
 This will give you some idea of the judgment, 
 taste and discretion needed in getting fit and natural 
 sequence in your series of incidents. 
 
 Furthermore, every scene and every bit of action 
 in every scene must first of all carry on the story. 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship 13 
 
 Secondly, must develop and elucidate the char- 
 acter concerned. 
 
 Thirdly, it must fit the period, costume, location 
 and theme. 
 
 Fourthly, although natural, the action must tend 
 a trifle toward the ideal with a certain grace, rhythm 
 and harmony. 
 
 Fifthly, it should form and lead up to a perfect 
 transition, blending the particular scene with the 
 ones preceding and immediately following. 
 
 Lastly, this must be done quite implicitly and un- 
 consciously, as though the picture playwright were 
 quite unaware of it. 
 
 I have tried here to give you some idea of the 
 complexity of the picture-play makers' art. It will 
 moreover serve to explain why so few have the pa- 
 tience to learn it 
 
14 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 cA Piece of Writing 
 if; 
 
 YOU will often hear it said that the writing, or 
 literary style, has nothing to do with a pic- 
 ture-play : that the great test of merit is, will 
 it act? Now this statement, although partly true, 
 is misleading, as it is quite obvious that the more 
 attractive one's style, the clearer one's method of 
 expression, the better able one is to present a theme 
 or story. 
 
 First then make the word picture, brief, concise, 
 crisp, pointed, but adequate to the needs of the sub- 
 ject matter. Besides enabling you to sell your play, 
 this will serve to stimulate the tired brain of the 
 editor or director, and the results will show in the 
 production. 
 
 I would say that the great test of a picture-play 
 is, will it read as well as act? Here it may occur 
 to you that the great and final test of merit in a 
 picture-play as well as in any other sort of writing is, 
 will it sell? 
 
A Hand-Book if Workmanship is 
 
 Now I'm going to set aside all further considera- 
 tion of writing or of literary style. As a matter of 
 fact, the best literary criticism of the day does not 
 concern itself with moving picture writing at all. 
 The best dramatic criticism does not concern itself 
 with the picture drama, the best art criticism does 
 not concern itself with the moving picture art. This 
 is a weighty matter for authors and producers to re- 
 flect on. However, I fear that the truth and justice 
 of this decision cannot well be called into question. 
 
 It is for us who are engaged in writing for the 
 screen to try and better our standing and remove 
 this reproach. 
 
16 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 oin Expression of Life 
 
 I RECALL that as a youngster I was always an 
 inveterate reader. Fairy tale, romance, wild 
 west, anything, so long as it was a story, held 
 my attention. I must confess that Jesse James and 
 Cole Younger were very attractive figures to me in 
 those days. Although I was never quite satisfied as 
 to the moral rectitude of their mode of life, their 
 bravery and daring were so marked, their adven- 
 tures so stirring, that I found them on the whole 
 very much to be admired. Indeed, I considered their 
 lives far more interesting than that of any school 
 boy in the land. 
 
 Now the average moving picture audience is very 
 much like a child. It wants a story, without any 
 regard to the lesson or moral to be drawn from it; 
 without regard to truth, history, character or any- 
 thing else outside of entertainment. Though this 
 is all very true, one cannot deny that the demand for 
 a story or series of incidents, for this swift succes- 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship n 
 
 sions of exciting, empty situations, with no concern 
 about truth, life or character development, is really 
 very childish. 
 
 What I want to say is, mere situations and inci- 
 dents, mere stories presented as such, are nothing 
 but crude melodrama, unless they are used as a 
 means of character development and expression of 
 human life. 
 
 In a really live picture-play the characters should 
 control the story, but in no case excepting a dead 
 play does the story control the character. This is 
 the essential difference between a live play and a 
 dead one. 
 
 Nearly everyone who has written on the subject 
 of play or story writing has brought this very matter 
 up for discussion. 
 
 A picture-play undoubtedly can be written, as 
 most of them have been written, without anything 
 that can be called character, but it is hard to con- 
 ceive of a picture-play without a story of some sort. 
 
 Now, although this is quite true, it is entirely 
 unimportant to our argument. We all know that 
 story or action is by history, tradition and common 
 sense, the base and foundation of the picture-play, 
 but is not its noblest element, nor that by which its 
 standard or rating of merit should be measured. 
 
 The skeleton of a man is his fundamental element 
 no doubt, and even when stripped of skin and flesh, 
 with some slight assistance, it can still retain its 
 
is On Picture-Play 'Writing 
 
 form and upright position, as we may see in any 
 anatomical museum ; whereas, a man without bones, 
 would be about as able to stand upright as a jelly 
 fish. However, it would be the height of absurdity 
 to say that the skeleton and not the brain, flesh, 
 nerves, etc., is therefore the noblest and most im- 
 portant part of man. 
 
 It seems to me that what is most fitted for the 
 picture-play is to show character in story or action. 
 
 I'm not in any way condemning story telling, nor 
 the value of situation, I simply say that the rating of 
 merit in situation and story is its relation to, and 
 presentation of a better knowledge of, human life 
 and character. And this brings me to the third and 
 really most important part of my book, the picture- 
 play or series of situations properly arranged for 
 representation on the screen, which I shall deal with 
 as completely as space will permit, under its various 
 subdivisions and captions. 
 
A Hand-Book if Workmanship 19 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 <lA Picture -Play— The Theme 
 
 BY the word theme I mean either its subject or 
 its story. For although most of us have some 
 sort of specific theme in mind when we sit 
 down to write, it sometimes happens that a story is 
 conceived without any definite theme in mind at all. 
 Again the story is just as liable to suggest the theme 
 as the theme is to suggest the story. So instead of 
 deliberately going about writing a play on prohi- 
 bition, labor unions, or the evil of trusts, and then 
 looking about for a story to illustrate it, you will 
 often find it more practical to conceive of the story 
 first, and illustrate your specific theme, if you decide 
 to have one at all, as you go along. 
 
 In place of an abstract specific theme, one many 
 wish to illustrate some broad phase or condition of 
 human life, without confining oneself to any particu- 
 lar character or group of characters. One's artistic 
 right in this regard cannot be denied one may even 
 claim the precedent of the classics for tableau plays 
 of this sort 
 
20 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 The writer who knows some interesting aspect of 
 life so intimately that he can make it live again on 
 the screen, can safely defy the narrow prejudices of 
 the critics, and offer his tableau play with only as 
 much of story and situation as truthfully belongs to 
 it. 
 
 Many charming domestic plays, and idyllic 
 pictures of country life are ruined artistically by 
 dragging in neck and crop some thrilling melodrama. 
 
 Start your picture-play with a unique theme, an 
 original story, an impressive character, a strikingly, 
 interesting or unusually funny situation or a typical 
 phase of society, keeping always in mind that the 
 highest aim of the picture-play is to convey a true 
 knowledge of human life and character. 
 
 There are ninety millions or more of our fellows, 
 living here with us in our own country, not to men- 
 tion the billions living in all other countries of the 
 world, each presenting in his or her life a moving 
 picture full of varied action and interest, besides 
 developing a character of great complexity. 
 
 This is the fruitful source from which we can 
 draw our story, situation, character or theme. Now 
 the art of picture-play making helps you to abstract 
 with rare taste and mature judgment the very quin- 
 tessence of the characters, situations and phases of 
 life, and so to condense and pack them that they can 
 be presented in a picture-play of from eighteen to 
 twenty minutes duration. 
 
A Hand-Book §f Workmanship 21 
 
 An easy method of stimulating your imagination 
 will be to tabulate all the professions, industries, 
 occupations, social conditions, modes of life, and 
 styles of character that you have any knowledge of, 
 and fit your stories or ideas accordingly. This will 
 give you wider range, and will add greater variety to 
 the subjects of your writings. 
 
 It may happen that the impulses to try your hand 
 at writing will come to you, and you will sit down 
 with the determination to set your mind to work and 
 to invent a story or plot. After an effort of this 
 sort, you may invent something, but I'm always sus- 
 picious of stories so invented. You'll often find, if 
 you are entirely truthful with yourself, that instead 
 of inventing an original idea in such cases, you are 
 more likely to be drawing on the bank account of 
 your memory. 
 
 On the other hand, you may sit listlessly, with- 
 out any thought of writing at all, and through your 
 mind without any premeditation or warning, an idea 
 flashes. Now ideas coming in this way are generally 
 more to the purpose. They have the advantage of 
 being natural and spontaneous, and are much easier 
 to carry out in the detail of construction. 
 
 With regard to ideas for picture-plays, you are 
 in a position similar to the operator at the wireless 
 telegraph station. You may sit for hours without 
 anything of interest occurring to your imagination, 
 when from the most unexpected sources a message 
 
22 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 arrives. Again you are like the wireless operator in 
 so much as you are to judge of the importance or 
 value of the message, also you are expected to have 
 the requisite technical knowledge for recording it, 
 and giving it out through the proper channels to the 
 waiting public. 
 
 So I would say that the story or idea that comes 
 to you naturally and without effort on your part, 
 the story that, so to speak, chooses you, is generally 
 much better than the story you might choose. 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship 23 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 What Is Dramatic? 
 
 CRISIS or conflict is the very essence of the 
 dramatic in the picture-play. The play itself is 
 a more or less rapidly developing crisis in 
 destiny, or circumstance. The big dramatic scene 
 of a play is a crisis within a crisis. 
 
 Picture-play making in a way is the art of pre- 
 senting a crisis, just as story writing is the art of 
 gradual developments. Its slowness of method is 
 one of the principal points in which the story is dif- 
 ferent from the play. The story writer gives you 
 great sections of life with gradual unfolding of char- 
 acter and conditions, while the playwright gives you 
 only the culminating points or climaxes, the rapid 
 and startling changes. 
 
 However, it is quite obvious, that not every crisis 
 is suitable drama. A surgical operation, a civil 
 service examination, an ordinary marriage, may pre- 
 sent an actual crisis in a man's life without being fit 
 material for presentation on the screen. Now we 
 
24 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 can recognize the dramatic crisis in this way : First 
 of all it comes about as the result of several minor 
 crises, involving emotional excitement, and the un- 
 folding of character. 
 
 Take for instance one of the most ordinary and 
 hard worked of crises, a bankruptcy. Most people 
 who figure in the daily accounts of bankrupts simply 
 drift to leeward by slow gradations, experiencing 
 discouragement, fear, hopelessness and despair, in 
 a more or less degree, according to their particular 
 temperament, or the condition of their livers. In all 
 this there may be matter for a good story, though 
 not even one really dramatic scene. But bankruptcy 
 sometimes occurs in the form of one or more sudden 
 sharp crises, and so has been made use of to excel- 
 lent effect 
 
 In many of the old melodramas we've seen the 
 business man, glance at the news ticker, open a 
 telegram or newspaper, only to find that he is financi- 
 ally ruined. In so many of our stock market plays, 
 Wall Street, or wheat pit plays, this has been done 
 until we are tired of it. Gambling of various kinds 
 has been as frequently used to bring about a dra- 
 matic crisis in someone's life, often ending in at- 
 tempted suicide. 
 
 The dramatic crisis deals in emotions, and the 
 more emotion and greater variety you can get out 
 of a situation, the nearer you are to the dramatic. 
 The more crisply you handle your scene, the more 
 
A Hand-Book if Workmanship 25 
 
 novelty and unexpected thrill you extract from it, 
 the more acceptable is your art. 
 
 A conflict, a clashing of wills, opposing interests, 
 a fight of some kind is always dramatic, also the 
 sudden change from joy to gloom, from hope to 
 despair, when brought about naturally and with 
 good cause. 
 
 It may be as Maeterlinck says in his "The Tragic 
 in Daily Life," that an old man seated in his arm- 
 chair, waiting patiently, with his lamp beside him, 
 submitting with bent head to the presence of his 
 soul and his destiny; motionless as he is, does yet 
 live in reality a deeper, more human and more uni- 
 versal life than the lover who strangles his mistress, 
 or the captain who avenges his honor. However, the 
 slow internal tragedy of his soul is material for the 
 novelist, and not for the swift, crisp methods of the 
 picture-play. 
 
 This crispness, however, may easily degenerate 
 into absurd melodrama; as in a picture which I've 
 recently seen. There was a much persecuted 
 heroine confined for some cause which I could not 
 well make out, on the third floor of a tenement 
 house. .Now for some reason or other she was in 
 imminent danger with no apparent chance of escape ; 
 it seemed that she had no resource but to submit to 
 the villain who was even then at the door, or to dash 
 herself from the third story window to the narrow 
 street below. Suddenly there appeared on the scene 
 
26 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 three Chinamen who by a special dispensation of 
 providence happened to be accomplished acrobats. 
 Now the second climbed onto the shoulders of the 
 first, the third onto the shoulders of the second, 
 forming a sort of human step-ladder for the lady's 
 rescue. The heroine, it would seem, had latent 
 acrobatic talents herself, combined with the most 
 fool-hardy daring, for she mounted the shoulders of 
 the one who stood on top, and was successfully car- 
 ried across the street to the third story of another 
 tenement, which for some mysterious reason had a 
 convenient balcony to receive her. 
 
 In another recent picture, released by a Western 
 firm, after many scenes of more or less dullness, a 
 man found himself caught on the roof of a burning 
 building. At the last moment of his agony, when 
 he was on the point of being devoured by the flames, 
 a derrick suddenly swung down from mid-air with 
 two men dangling from a chain. Recognizing the 
 man on the roof as a fellow hero in distress, they 
 quickly rescued him, and they all made a safe descent 
 while the building located on a city street was burn- 
 ing to the ground with never a fireman in sight. 
 
 Now, although these things show dramatic crises 
 after a fashion, they are nevertheless great absurdi- 
 ties, and in no way rational or commendable drama, 
 or fit for the purpose of the picture-play. 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship 27 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 True To Life 
 
 IT seems to me that there is no other question so 
 often misquoted, so little understood and so 
 variously abused among spectators, writers, pro- 
 ducers and critics, as this one of being true to life in 
 a picture-play. 
 
 The moving picture art is unlike any other, inas- 
 much as it employs in its method of expression real 
 men and women, in their actual homes, playgrounds, 
 battlefields, ships, railroad trains or wherever found. 
 Now this method has created a very false impression 
 in the minds of many, that a picture-play is good 
 and "true to life" insomuch as it is an exact picture 
 of all the details of real life, with all its actors doing, 
 living, marrying and giving in marriage just as they 
 do in real life. This is very far from true, as we 
 shall find on closer and more thorough analysis. 
 
 In the first place, taking the ordinary play of 
 about eighteen to twenty minutes duration, the 
 picture-playwright has only an average of about 
 
28 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 three minutes in which to introduce, develop and 
 unfold each character ; whereas nature makes about 
 seventy odd years for the same work. Now you will 
 see at a glance that a picture-play ordinarily can 
 only give you about one twenty-fourth of one- 
 million-five-hundred-thousandth part of what nature 
 offers. 
 
 Keeping in mind the very great variety and com- 
 plexity of every human personality, the almost in- 
 finite aspects and phases in which it may be studied, 
 it is easily believable that there are in the life of the 
 average seventy years duration, hundreds of thou- 
 sands of varying characteristics, according to the mo- 
 ments the writer selects for interpretation, and ac- 
 cording to the way in which he chooses to look at 
 them. 
 
 If the writer tries to show all of a many-sided 
 character, completely so as to give the spectator a 
 clear idea of the whole life history of the man, his 
 methods and details must be widely different from 
 nature's details and methods. 
 
 The mere smallest fraction of a character cannot 
 be like a whole character, nor can a character that 
 has to be presented in about three minutes be like a 
 character that is presented in seventy or more years; 
 there must be many and considerable concessions, 
 quite extensive compromises and accommodations, 
 and setting aside of detail. In fact the writer must 
 be guilty of quite some falsification if he desires his 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship 29 
 
 characters to be anywhere near true to life in their 
 most essential and innermost qualities. Hence, 
 picture-play making has been called the truth of the 
 unreal. 
 
 The same thing must apply to situation and inci- 
 dent. The method of presentation of a story in mov- 
 ing pictures is as unlike real life as the landscape 
 painted on canvas is unlike real water, trees, and 
 earth. This does not mean that there is no such 
 thing as honest and real interpretation of character 
 and incident. On the contrary great character and 
 events can be shown quite faithfully and truthfully 
 in the moving-picture, but never as in real life. If 
 you were to make the experiment you would find 
 the few who looked at your "real life picture" ac- 
 cusing you of the utterest insincerity and falsifica- 
 tion. 
 
 The most ordinary mistake is to say that a char- 
 acter or incident is unreal because it is unusual. It 
 is enough to drive one insane to hear or read the 
 complacent comment of good folk from Hoboken or 
 Flatbush or some other nick-in-the-woods, who find 
 a picture-play not true to life," because its char- 
 acters, incidents and situations are not such as they 
 meet with every day at the corner grocer's in Flat- 
 bush or Hoboken. They do not realize that what 
 happens at the corner grocer's in Hoboken or Flat- 
 bush or the characters that congregate there, may 
 be of very little interest to the rest of the world, in 
 
30 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 fact may be of no account whatever to other patrons 
 of the pictures. Though of course every individual 
 character in Hoboken and Flatbush is of interest 
 and importance to the picture-play maker as a study 
 at least. But if a story deals with unusual inci- 
 dents from some other part of the world, and un- 
 usual characters which do not hail from Hoboken 
 or Flatbush, they should not therefore be criticised 
 by these good folks as unreal and untrue to life. 
 
 It is important to learn to distinguish between 
 the unusual or uncommon, and the unreal. 
 
 I quote at some length in another part of this 
 work, a picture-play in which there is a situation 
 where a burglar pauses in his burglarizing of a 
 house to adjust a lovers' quarrel, and bring it to a 
 happy ending. Now this is a situation which might 
 not occur more than once in a thousand years; yet 
 it is entirely probable and serves to get beneath the 
 crust of a thoroughly human character in a way 
 that only such a situation would have served. But 
 it is in no way an unreal situation such as the often 
 repeated situation where one or more characters 
 overhears long dialogues and witnesses important 
 actions occurring among others in the same room, 
 or in ridiculously close proximity; or where we are 
 asked to believe that a detective can pass unrecog- 
 nized among those who know him intimately, when 
 disguised merely by the use of a false mustache or 
 wig. 
 
A Hand-Book if Workmanship 3i 
 
 Yet spectators, critics, and even producers who 
 accept these stale impossible old tricks with enthu- 
 siasm, will call in question some incident, character 
 or situation, which is merely unusual or uncommon, 
 and has not happened in their particular nick-in-the- 
 woods. 
 
 In the matter of probability; we find nature vio- 
 lating it every hour. You can scarcely open your 
 daily paper without reading of some almost un- 
 believable happening. So when you see a situation 
 or character presented in moving pictures, do not 
 condemn it because it has not happened to fall under 
 your limited observation or occurred in your nar- 
 row circle of acquaintance. 
 
 You should only ask yourself if what you have 
 seen has been vividly expressed by the picture 
 maker, whether it fits reasonably into his theme and 
 bears consistent relation to the rest of his story. 
 
 It probably has never occurred in this world 
 that any group of persons have gone through the 
 characteristic and dramatic incidents of their lives 
 in such a way that they could be exactly copied for 
 use in a picture-play. 
 
 We have all had certain dramatic moments, or 
 scenes of some short duration, and we all have 
 characters and are living lives that present material 
 for the picture playwright. But none of us have 
 ever lived through or taken part in a scene that 
 
32 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 could be exactly copied for the screen in all its de- 
 tails, especially in matter of duration of time. 
 
 So distrust all judgment of a picture-play that 
 views it as an exact copy of real life. Remember 
 that neither in this nor in any other art can any- 
 thing be tastefully presented in mere imitation of 
 nature. 
 
A Hand- Book gf Workmanship 33 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Routine of Construction 
 
 I'LL start off with an illustration which will help 
 you to understand what I mean by picture- 
 play construction. I want you to transfer your- 
 self in imagination to our national capital at Wash- 
 ington, situated on its hill overlooking the city. 
 Picture to yourself the surrounding landscape be^ 
 fore the capitol building was constructed, the num- 
 berless irregular and varied lines and curves the 
 landscape then presented. 
 
 The architect came along, and after a definite 
 plan and design, with all specifications and details, 
 constructed the enormous and beautiful building, on 
 the top of the hill, in quite the finest location he 
 could select. 
 
 Now note the difference between this excellently 
 designed building, and the surrounding landscape 
 as it was. The lines of the building are symmetri- 
 cal, exact according to a certain plan and design. 
 The surrounding landscape was careless, confused 
 and unsymmetrical. 
 
34 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 The picture playwright is the architect of his 
 country's picture drama, and what the architect did 
 for that wild countryside, the picture maker must do 
 for his country's life and character. 
 
 First of all there must be correct design in every 
 detail of his work. The total effect of the capitol 
 building is that it was built after a carefully wrought 
 design. The effect of the former landscape or coun- 
 tryside was, that it was apparently thrown about 
 without any play whatever. Nature's work is full 
 of willfulness, carelessness and confusion; man's 
 work is full of purpose, arrangement and definite 
 design. 
 
 All rules of construction are arbitrary and rela- 
 tive. The highest intention of a picture play should 
 be not to turn out a nice and clever bit of crafts- 
 manship, but to give a better insight into human 
 life and character. 
 
 Your story should be so constructed that it does 
 not present events as they actually happen, but so 
 that it will leave an impression on your mind after 
 the eighteen or twenty minutes traffic of the screen, 
 similar to what you would retain if you had been 
 able to, and had possessed the patience to give the 
 weeks, months or years necessary for the observa- 
 tion of such a happening in real life; as though you 
 had been intimately acquainted with all the char- 
 acters or personages who took part in the story, 
 so that at the end of the picture-play, the impres- 
 
A Hand-Book if Workmanship 35 
 
 sion on your mind would be somewhat after the 
 manner of a memory of something through which 
 you yourself had lived years before, of which only 
 the most striking, important and vivid details re- 
 main with you. 
 
 You see construction is after all merely the art 
 of selection, condensation and arrangement. 
 
 Now then, keeping all this in mind, your first 
 step in construction of a picture-play should be to 
 draw up on paper a brief scenario or routine of 
 scenes, entrances and exits of characters and group- 
 ing of incidents. 
 
 Later this can be dispensed with, when by con- 
 stant practice you have so developed your memory 
 and power of concentration that you can retain a clear 
 outline of your story in your mind, always ready 
 for reference, without any such aid. .However, do 
 not attempt this feat till by long practice and experi- 
 ence you are sure you can accomplish it. Other- 
 wise you will fall into a go-as-you-please system of 
 construction, which will confuse your ideas and de- 
 feat your purpose as a writer. 
 
 In a picture-play, grouping of incidents, transi- 
 tions, proportion and balance are so essential that a 
 clear outline either on paper or in your memory is 
 as necessary to you as a set of plans is to an archi- 
 tect about to put up an important building. 
 
 This method of first laying out a play in outline 
 
36 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 or scenario form comes to us from, the writers of 
 the regular or legitimate drama. 
 
 In fact, years ago the playwright of the Italian 
 commedia dell' arte depended entirely on such a 
 brief scenario or outline of scenes, leaving it to the 
 actors to fill in the dialogue and action. Now the 
 same method was in use shortly before Shake- 
 speare's time, as we can see from some "Ms." or 
 "Plats" which are still extant in England. 
 
 This scenario or brief scheme of the coming on 
 and going off of the actors, was used in this way. 
 It was hung up conveniently in the wings where the 
 actors referred to it from time to time to refresh 
 their memories, and then made their entrances ac- 
 cordingly. When on the stage, they talked till they 
 had finished their particular bit or run out of breath, 
 then the next actor or group of actors came on to 
 relieve them, and so they labored through the two 
 or three hours of their play, if such it might be 
 called. 
 
 This same method was made use of by the old 
 fashioned minstrel show "after piece" and the "med- 
 icine shows" which were at one time popular in 
 certain parts of our own country, but which died a 
 natural and unlamented death about ten years ago. 
 
 The growth from this loose method of construc- 
 tion in the sixteenth century proceeded by easy 
 steps to the more or less complete play which was 
 read from the prompt box or prompt side of the 
 
A Hand-Book if Workmanship 37 
 
 stage. By the way, I assume that you know what 
 a prompt box is. Even in my own time I have seen 
 one of those abominations and anachronisms of the 
 theatre in actual use. 
 
 Well, as soon as the theatre became a recognized 
 business, not to say art or profession, and the actors 
 were classed as at least nearly respectable vaga- 
 bonds, the complete play was found absolutely 
 necessary to the very existence of the theatre, and 
 the old method of extemporizing or improvising from 
 a scenario or scheme of scenes was relegated to 
 cheap minstrel "after pieces," "medicine shows" 
 and in due course to the scrap heap, where such 
 methods rightfully belong. 
 
 For some reason or other this "medicine show" 
 method of play construction was dug out of the 
 scrap heap and was made use of in the earlier 
 picture-plays of five or six years ago. In fact such 
 crude and archaic methods are still almost univers- 
 ally followed in most moving picture studios up to 
 the present day. 
 
 However, this order of things must soon give 
 way to the complete and properly constructed pic- 
 ture-play, with detail of dialogue and action as it 
 has in the legitimate theatre. 
 
 The sooner this comes about the sooner we shall 
 get away from the inane form of entertainment 
 which now is given in most of our show houses, 
 and pass on to a better and higher order of work. 
 
38 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 In this way only can we aspire to an even compe- 
 tition with the legitimate drama. For this we don't 
 need the talking picture, with its film-record form- 
 ing perfect synchronism of action and sound, all we 
 need is better plays, produced in a more painstaking, 
 tasteful manner, by competent directors and artists. 
 
 Of course, there are some difficulties yet to be 
 overcome in the photographing, developing, print- 
 ing and projecting of the pictures, but these are 
 comparatively slight, and will undoubtedly be over- 
 come in due course. The main difficulty in the way, 
 the main obstacle to normal progress, that which 
 makes the ordinary moving picture a laughing stock 
 and a byword to people of judgment, good taste 
 and discretion, is the crude method by which the 
 picture-play is constructed and produced. 
 
 To illustrate this matter more clearly, I'm tempt- 
 ed to quote a scenario which recently passed through 
 my hands, also to describe the method in which it 
 was staged. 
 
 One of the scenes read : "Man and woman enter 
 on bridge and talk as they pass along." 
 
 Now the first thing that occurs to one's mind 
 is, what are they, old or young? tall or short? fat 
 or lean? black, white or yellow? Then what in the 
 name of common sense are they talking about? 
 Politics or the public school question? Woman's 
 suffrage, war, or the weather? Are they quarreling 
 or courting? 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship 39 
 
 Of course by studying the entire manuscript, it 
 was possible to make out some vague notion of who 
 and what the characters might be, and what they 
 might possibly be discussing. Though five compe- 
 tent judges before whom I laid the matter could 
 come to nothing approaching an agreement in the 
 matter. 
 
 Now this obscurity and confusion should be 
 entirely unnecessary. The scene should have been 
 clearly written, the topic of their conversation so 
 clearly indicated that there could be no possible 
 doubt in the matter. Yet there is nothing more 
 common or frequent in scenarios than such mean- 
 ingless scenes. 
 
 I've often come across scenes like this: "Mary 
 and Joe come into parlor and have a love scene," or 
 "Dan and Pete meet in the park and have a quarrel," 
 or "Mother and daughter are in an excited conver- 
 sation." Such a method of construction is nothing 
 more nor less than an acknowledgment of one's in- 
 ability to describe properly a scene, and the wish to 
 fall back on the mercy of the director or actor. 
 
 Recently I was in a moving picture studio where 
 a picture-play was being produced. Now hours upon 
 hours had been used up in the arranging of the stage 
 settings, properties, lights, etc. This was of course 
 all commendable, since the directors did not quite 
 know what they wanted, and with them every new 
 setting for a scene was an experiment in an unknown 
 
40 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 field. But what attention was paid to the rehearsal 
 of the scenes? Practically none at all. I doubt 
 very much if any of those taking part in the play 
 had anything but the vaguest notion of the story. 
 
 It happened that there was only one girl in the 
 scenes I witnessed, and she was scared stiff, and 
 confused out of all idea of expression or vivacity by 
 the constant shouting of the director, even while the 
 scene was being played, and the camera boy was 
 photographing it. 
 
 The directions that were shouted were such as 
 made it difficult to hold a straight face. For instance, 
 at the very end of the final scene, a very ordinary 
 and unimpressive piece of action was given, namely : 
 "sitting in a chair." Now this is the way it was 
 conducted: The hero and heroine had deliberately 
 placed themselves at the nearest approach to the 
 camera, and the other characters had all walked out. 
 Then the director shouted to the girl playing the 
 heroine, "Ask him to sit down." She did so timidly 
 and modestly as was becoming, but the absurdity of 
 the matter rose from the fact that there was only 
 one chair in the scene, and she had been directed to 
 sit in it herself. She said, "Won't you come over 
 and sit down, please?" or something to that effect. 
 Then she took the hero by the hand and led him 
 over to the only chair, in which she herself deliber- 
 ately sat, leaving the hero chairless. A discourtesy 
 
A Hand-Book °f Workmanship 41 
 
 that I'm sure the little lady would have been quite 
 incapable of in her own home in real life. 
 
 Now then, while they were in this position, 
 heroine sitting, hero standing, the director shouted: 
 "Talk." Both gave a noticeable start as their nerves 
 were already on edge, and not having the remotest 
 idea of what they were supposed to say, they both 
 moved their lips, attempting to talk at one and the 
 same time, without either making any pretense at 
 listening or attending to what the other was saying. 
 Then the director shouted, "Smile;" and after the 
 usual startled jump at the sound of the master's 
 voice, both indulged in a particularly forced and 
 strained grimace, quite as painful to behold as no 
 doubt it was to accomplish. And so this valuable 
 contribution to the moving picture art came to an 
 end. 
 
 You may ask, won't this look alright when pre- 
 sented on the screen? Indeed it will not. It will 
 look exactly as it did in the making, if not worse. 
 The camera does not lie, and when it leans toward 
 falsification at all, it is not in the matter of flattery 
 nor of correcting and covering up of mistakes and 
 absurdities. It is rather in the matter of making 
 new mistakes or exaggerating those already made. 
 
 But you will say, aren't there some good and 
 really artistic pictures made from brief scenarios o* 
 outlines of plot? Hasn't this form and method of 
 construction been found sufficient for some produc- 
 
42 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 tions of merit? To this I say yes. The moving 
 picture business so far has developed about half a 
 dozen men, who have the necessary art, good taste, 
 judgment and technical knowledge fittingly to pro- 
 duce a moving picture play even from such raw 
 material. But every one of them is a capable writer, 
 and creator of picture-plays, and I contend that it 
 is simply a matter of memory and concentration 
 with them. Their play is written in their excellently 
 trained minds, for they are a sort of genius created 
 by the very exigencies of the case which I am de- 
 scribing. And there is not one of them who would 
 not welcome the perfectly written picture-play or 
 any other step forward in the betterment of their art. 
 
 For the rest, there are not so many who can be 
 safely entrusted with the production of a picture- 
 play even when completely and carefully written. 
 Some of them, as well as the actors they employ, 
 show such a complete ignorance of essential matters 
 of taste and civilized customs, that any particular 
 point of offense seems almost too trivial for mention. 
 A casual observance of the many pictures exhibited 
 daily about you, will bear out the truth and fairness 
 of what I say. And this is not a matter easily 
 remedied. 
 
 It has been suggested that some producers as 
 well as actors might profitably take positions as 
 servants in respectable households, assuming that 
 they could qualify as servants, and there learn the 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship 43 
 
 rudiments of good manners, and how civilized men 
 and women live, their customs, their style, and ideas 
 of politeness in their daily life. How they greet 
 one another in the street or at home. How they 
 talk, laugh, walk. How and when they sit or stand. 
 How and when they remove their hats, lay aside 
 their cane, gloves and top-coat. How to assist a 
 lady with her coat or wraps. How to assist a lady 
 into or out of a carriage or automobile and how 
 people of refinement eat and drink. Most particu- 
 larly this — their table manners. 
 
 As this suggestion is impracticable and impossi- 
 ble to those whom it might most benefit, insomuch 
 as servants are generally required to have letters 
 and other evidence of good character, I would sug- 
 gest, since there are abundant books on this subject, 
 that it should all be carefully read up, by those who 
 know how to read, and observed in theatres, also in 
 the lobby s, corridors and dining rooms of our better 
 class hotels and cafes, and even in the churches and 
 on the street. 
 
 Another very great danger to those employed in 
 the moving-picture business, as well as to those 
 employed on the stage, is that their business is so 
 exacting and absorbing that it takes them away 
 from all social intercourse with people in other 
 walks of life. They get away from the knowledge of 
 standards and ideals of real life, and form standards 
 and ideals of their own. So their minds and imagin- 
 
44 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 ations become warped and ingrown. Talking shop 
 is the extent and variety of their conversational 
 ability, and they are in great danger of forming a 
 separate and distinct social class as the gypsies have 
 done. 
 
 And these are the people among whom you will 
 most often hear it said that stories and pictures-plays 
 are rejected because they are too good or high class 
 for the patrons of our theatres. 
 
 This only goes to show their own caliber of mind 
 and not that of the spectator. There is nothing in 
 the heavens above, or on the earth, or in the sub- 
 ways beneath the earth, or in the mind of the moving 
 picture producer or exhibitor, too good or high class 
 for the patrons of moving pictures. 
 
 As an excellent example of good and high class 
 work which has been vastly popular and greatly 
 appreciated for some time, we can turn to nature. 
 The Creator's opinion of the minds of his spectators 
 was shown when he hung the stars in the heavens, 
 stretched the wonderful stage curtain of the sky 
 above us, when He gave us the marvelous variety 
 of light effects, of dawn and of evening, and the 
 lightning and the shooting stars, surrounded us with 
 all the wonderful flowers, blossoms, rivulets, land- 
 scapes and other beauties of nature, of which our 
 best art is but a weak imitation. In argument 
 against the very wise producer you can say, that 
 these wonderful demonstrations of high art have 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship 45 
 
 remained popular for some time, and in all proba- 
 bility will continue successfully at the same old 
 stand, the moving picture producer and small exhibi- 
 tor to the contrary notwithstanding. 
 
 Now then, to return to the actual work of picture- 
 play construction. The first scenario or scheme and 
 outline of characters, situations and scenes should 
 be in no way hide-bound. On the contrary, it should 
 be simply provisional, and subject to endless change. 
 There must be so close an interdependence between 
 situation, character and detail of action, that the 
 writer cannot afford to bind himself in advance, to 
 any absolute plan. 
 
 You will often find that instead of adhering to 
 your original scheme, you drift almost entirely away 
 from it, sometimes changing even what you con- 
 sidered your main situation or big scene. 
 
 This occurred to me quite recently when I was 
 writing a picture-play released under the title of 
 "Anguished Hours." This idea originally was sug- 
 gested by that old song the "Mistletoe Bough," 
 which relates in substance how a young woman on 
 the night of her marriage, playfully hid in an old air 
 tight chest, which by a fatal accident closed on her, 
 with a spring lock. Her husband and friends search- 
 ed vainly for her, finally giving up in despair. I 
 developed a further complication, I forgot whether 
 it's in the song or not, of how everyone misjudged, 
 the young woman, and said she had eloped with a 
 
46 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 man who had been rather attentive to her that 
 evening, and who suddenly went away about the 
 time she disappeared. Now years after, the old 
 song says, the husband going through the attic of 
 the castle where this old chest was kept, opened it 
 and found the skeleton of his lost bride. 
 
 I at once fell in love with the situation. "Ha!" 
 said I, "what a scene where the husband shall find 
 the skeleton of his lost bride in the old chest. If 
 that doesn't make them sit up and take notice, what 
 will?" 
 
 I began the play. The first scenes went alright, 
 and the story seemed to develop superbly, till I came 
 to the scene of the skeleton in the chest. .1 battled 
 with it for some hours quite in vain, when suddenly 
 I saw what was wrong. My big scene did not fit 
 at all. It did not satisfy my sense of justice that 
 this young and innocent woman should die for no 
 reason whatever, and that her perfectly good and 
 upright husband should suffer this terrible shock, 
 for no better cause than the mere entertainment of 
 a few picture-play spectators. It struck me that it 
 was quite as barbarous as the spectacles shown in 
 the coliseum of the ancients, when brave men and 
 virtuous women were slaughtered in the arena to 
 make a Roman holiday. 
 
 So my big scene had to go. I cut it out and at 
 once everything went quite smoothly. It was my 
 sense of justice that was offended by this scene. My 
 
A Hand-Book §f Workmanship 47 
 
 sense of the fitness of things, of right and wrong, 
 and depend upon it the spectator watching the 
 picture show, no matter how casually, has this same 
 sense of justice too. 
 
 Now then, I would lay down this general rule in 
 the matter, if you construct a picture in which you 
 unnecessarily or unjustly kill or injure a man, 
 woman, child, or animal, you commit an offense 
 against art, at least equal to the offense you would 
 commit against the law, should you actually be 
 guilty of the same brutal violence in real life. 
 
 From your scenario, or brief outline of the action 
 of your story divided into from twelve to forty 
 scenes, with introduction of your principal char- 
 acters, their various coming on and going off, con- 
 tention and by play in the different situations, you 
 come down to the work of construction. 
 
 First of all you must begin to evolve a clear idea 
 of the principal characters you have conceived in 
 your imagination as best fitted for presentation in 
 the particular story or series of situations which 
 you have thought out. 
 
 With regard to the number of characters you 
 should use in a particular story; this of course is 
 purely relative. My favorite answer to the question 
 is: that you naturally use fewer characters in a 
 secret elopement than in a national convention, in 
 a duel than in a battle scene. 
 
48 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 The only safe rule in this matter is to use only 
 as many principals or leading characters as you can 
 conveniently develop and as many extra or auxiliary 
 characters as the best interpretation of your theme 
 or story demands. 
 
 In a broad social study, or a picturesque romance, 
 you may have as many auxiliary figures as you 
 please, keeping in mind always that if you wish to 
 particularly develop any unusually impressive char- 
 acter, you must keep that character very much in 
 the foreground, and not allow the merely auxiliary 
 characters to interfere nor absorb too much atten- 
 tion themselves. 
 
 In a subtle comedy, or a tragedy involving some 
 important point of ethics, the principal characters 
 should be few, and should have the foreground to 
 themselves as much as possible. 
 
 It may not be out of place here to say that the 
 reason why the "dramatis personae" or people ap- 
 pearing in a play are called "characters" is because 
 those chosen or imagined by the playwright for 
 such a purpose are supposed to be the sort in whom 
 character predominates, impressive types who repre- 
 sent the outcome or crystallization of unusual ex- 
 periences and carry with them the atmosphere of 
 their particular walk in life, not merely insipid and 
 uninteresting people who serve to fill in the back- 
 ground, and for the most part pass unobserved. 
 
 I hope it is unnecessary to warn you against the 
 
A Hand- Book gf Workmanship 49 
 
 use of over eccentric names, and silly puns in the 
 make-up of your manuscripts, such as A. Piker, the 
 Tinhorn gambler, and Miss Fewclothes, the Salome 
 dancer. 
 
 The name of a character should be brief first of 
 all, so that if you have occasion to use it in a letter 
 or subtitle it will not take up too much time for 
 picturing it on the screen, and so that it can be 
 easily read, and remembered. Then it should be 
 characteristic without being eccentric. Farcial 
 names, within reasonable limits, may be used in 
 farces; eccentric names on occasions in eccentric 
 comedy, while soberly appropriate names may be 
 used in serious drama. 
 
 Look out for clearly establishing the relationship 
 of each character to all of the other characters, also 
 to the locations and surroundings in which they are 
 found. 
 
 Such as, for instance, in the opening scene of a 
 play you might describe Job Worth, a substantial 
 middle-aged farmer, is harvesting his grain field. 
 He indicates by removing his hat, moping his brow 
 with a bandana, and puffing out a long breath, or in 
 some other characteristic way, that it is hot work. 
 He then looks off expectantly, shading his eyes with 
 his hand, and indicates by expression that he sees 
 some one coming, and is pleased. He calls off in 
 the same direction in which he has looked and 
 beckons and says, "Hurry Jane, I'm waiting for 
 
50 
 
 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 you." Then proceeds to drive his horses beneath 
 some convenient shade trees. Turning he looks off 
 once more and waves his hand in the direction from 
 which he has already indicated he has seen some one 
 coming. 
 
 Scene 2. A foot path running through a grain 
 field. Jane, a sprightly young country girl, Job 
 Worth's daughter, is coming along in the direction 
 of the field where we saw Job Worth. She is carry- 
 ing a lunch basket, and a stone jug of drinking water. 
 Now she indicates that she sees her father waving 
 to her and waves back and calls to him in a girlish 
 fashion saying, "I'm hurrying as fast as I can." 
 Then she secures a firmer hold of the jug and basket, 
 and runs off in the direction of the place where we 
 left the father. 
 
 Scene 3. In the same field as we saw before, 
 only pictured from a different viewpoint, Job Worth 
 has now put his horses in the shade, and is waiting 
 at the foot of a large oak three in the foreground for 
 the arrival of his daughter. Directly she comes on, 
 stands besides him and so by the manner of their 
 greeting, their attitude toward each other, their 
 relative ages, the service Jane is rendering to Mr. 
 Worth in bringing his lunch, and jug of water, and 
 her way of giving them to him, the relationship is 
 established. His relationship to the field, reaper, 
 and horses has also been brought within the range 
 of reasonable probability by his care and use of 
 
A Hand- Book °f Workmanship 5i 
 
 them. The afternoon lunch and jug of water need 
 not be explained as it is almost a universal custom 
 in the West and Northwest, to stop for a half hour 
 in the mid-afternoon, to rest and refresh man and 
 beast. Anyhow, the action itself and the object of it 
 is self explanatory. 
 
 So with a little forethought and ordinary ingenu- 
 ity, many details which are frequently neglected can 
 be just as easily cleared up. 
 
 If a man is seated on the porch of a cottage in 
 his shirt sleeves, reading a paper or magazine, or 
 otherwise comfortably occupied, it is reasonable to 
 suppose that he lives in that cottage. If a woman 
 approximately the same age as the man, steps out 
 on the porch, with her hat off, and greets him with 
 some little caress or other sign of affection, it is 
 quite easy to surmise that she is his wife. Then if a 
 little girl comes romping in at the gate, with a few 
 school books swinging from the end of a strap, and 
 kisses the woman and climbs onto the man's knee, 
 we conjecture with good cause that she is their child, 
 just returning from school, etc. 
 
 So the fisher maiden, the Indian girl, the art 
 model, the bank clerk, the lawyer, doctor or clergy- 
 man, the cowboy or Indian brave, the astronomer 
 or inventor, or whatever the type of character, he 
 or she must be clearly established in the early part 
 of the picture-play, in all his or her bearings and 
 
52 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 relationship to the story, location and other char- 
 acters presented 
 
 It may occur to you that family relationship is 
 generally expressed in real life, in jealousy, bicker- 
 ings, quarrels and contention. Now this is no doubt 
 very true, and presents an interesting phase of life, 
 and a worthy lesson in domestic virtue. If by intro- 
 ducing your characters in a family brawl, you place 
 them properly in your story, why not? I certainly 
 see no cause for objection. All this can be more 
 clearly seen in a sample picture-play which I will 
 show later on. 
 
 Having introduced our characters and established 
 their relationship to one another, and to their sur- 
 roundings, we then watch them carefully through- 
 out the body of the play, keeping in mind their dif- 
 ferent distinctive traits, which they must never for 
 one moment lose, whether facing death, or in the 
 midst of ridicule, or carried away by the emotions 
 of some strong situation. 
 
 The next matter that calls for our attention is 
 the grouping of incidents, in such a way that they 
 are marshalled for the most effective attack. Say 
 for example, you have a melodramatic situation 
 where a group of pioneer families are within a stock- 
 ade defending themselves against hostile Indians, 
 and you have by a proper group of incidents shown 
 that the last drop of water is gone, and men, women 
 and children are famishing from thirst. Death 
 
A Hand-Book §f Workmanship 53 
 
 threatens from without from the murderous Indians, 
 and a perhaps more horrible death threatens within 
 from the slow torture of thirst. Now a volunteer 
 comes forth, one who says he will attempt to break 
 through the line of savages and obtain water and 
 help from the outside. 
 
 With due caution, he starts out on his desperate 
 adventure. Now the grouping of incidents require 
 that we follow him rather than remain with those 
 inside the stockade. . There is where the interest lies. 
 We have already seen the action inside and outside 
 of the stockade in all its excitement and variety, but 
 this adventure presents a new promise of excite- 
 ment. We want to know what difficulties he meets 
 with, whether or not he is wounded, killed, or ar- 
 rives safely on the outside. When we have landed 
 him at his destination or seen him safely on his way, 
 we are ready to return to the stockade, but not be- 
 fore. 
 
 The proper grouping of incidents, and marshall- 
 ing of your forces, is of the utmost importance. 
 
 I give this broad example of a melodramatic 
 situation to illustrate my meaning, because in a 
 broad sweeping action of this sort the method is 
 obivious, one has but little choice. But in subtler 
 scenes and situations, the application of this prin- 
 cipal of construction is most difficult, and is ac- 
 quired only by long practice and mature thought. 
 
 Look out for useless and meaningless scenes, or 
 
54 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 incidents in scenes which do not properly belong 
 to the story. They only distract your attention and 
 waste precious time. 
 
 The great point of advantage which the picture- 
 play has over the legitimate or stage play is that it 
 can present almost perfect continuity of action. 
 Don't forget this precious privilege of our art. 
 Follow each principal character through all the 
 windings of his development, in the various scenes 
 of the play, so that the spectator can be reasonably 
 assured that he has practically not lost sight of the 
 hero or heroine during any of the important mo- 
 ments of the crises or other interesting events of 
 their lives which you are presenting, showing the 
 spectator into the privacy of their homes and even 
 their innermost thoughts. 
 
 At an early stage in the course of construction 
 of your play, you will be confronted by the ques- 
 tion of stage settings, furniture, and locations. You 
 want to know if you should draw up a scene and 
 property plot as is done in theatrical productions. 
 You naturally want to know just where certain bits 
 of action take place. 
 
 You wonder if Betty is standing at the well when 
 she says yes to Dan ; or if they are seated in the old 
 swing. You wonder again if she is seated on a 
 lounge, and he kneeling on the rug beside her when 
 he proposes. You wonder where Frances is when 
 James kisses her for the first time. 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship 55 
 
 Locations, stage settings, furniture, costuming, 
 and other accessories, play a very important part in 
 picture-play making of the day, and you should use 
 the most painstaking care in describing every re- 
 quirement of your scenes adequately, but not too 
 minutely, nor diffusively. 
 
 It is a good general system to avoid, as much as 
 possible, expressions which show that you have a 
 stage scene, or studio setting in mind, and not a 
 happening in real life, in its proper environment 
 and surroundings. 
 
 Do not be too elaborate, and do not lecture about 
 the desirable locations or settings for your scenes. 
 Simply state briefly and concisely what after care- 
 ful thought you deem most fitting for a certain bit 
 of action and in all probability your hints will be 
 taken in good part by the director. It is not so long 
 ago when scenery and furniture played a very small 
 part in moving pictures. We can all remember a 
 few years back when whole scenes were played 
 against a canvas drop with a stove, table and chair 
 painted on it, all of which swayed gracefully as the 
 actors knocked against it ; also settings with window 
 panes made of paper, which flapped lightly in the 
 breeze, as the story went on. Even yet there are 
 enough inaccuracies and absurdities in settings, cos- 
 tumes and furniture to make it worth one's while 
 to visit the picture theatres for the amusement de- 
 rived from this matter alone. 
 
56 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 Not only in describing your settings and stage 
 directions, but also in visualizing the action of your 
 scenes, the idea of a studio set, or prepared scene, 
 should be as far as possible from your mind. 
 
 You should see and describe, the hillside cabin 
 door, garden, seashore, office, kitchen, drawing 
 room, or wherever the action takes place, not as an 
 action rehearsed in a particular setting for a picture- 
 play, but as a happening in real life. Using this 
 method will greatly help you to acquire ease and a 
 refreshing naturalness. 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship 57 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 "Beginning, Middle, End" 
 
 ARISTOTLE, writing on the subject of play 
 construction over two thousand years ago, 
 laid down the simple rule that a play should 
 have a beginning, a middle and an end. Now though 
 he was writing about plays of a very different 
 nature, his old rule most obviously applies to our 
 modern picture-play, a marvel in mechanical inven- 
 tion of which he never dreamed. 
 
 So we say that the picture-play must have a fit- 
 ting and appropriate beginning, and proceed in 
 orderly fashion in the course of its development by 
 way of the middle to the end. 
 
 This is so self-evident a fact, it may occur to 
 you that we did not need a great philosopher like 
 Aristotle to think of it. It is, nevertheless, true that 
 we can see it violated every day in a great many of 
 our moving picture plays. 
 
 Though most of them have a middle, they are 
 frequently lacking in a beginning, and instead of 
 ending, they simply leave off. 
 
 Where, then, and how should a picture-play be- 
 
58 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 gin according to the requirements of art? It is true 
 that moving picture producers with very few ex- 
 ceptions do not judge their plays according to 
 artistic standards or requirements. They are passed 
 upon, for the most part, by individuals unhampered 
 by any such knowledge, and who make no pretense 
 to it whatsoever. 
 
 Having in mind then a character, who has lived 
 through a series of stirring events suitable to your 
 purpose you must decide with good discretion at 
 what particular moment of the crisis you are to 
 start off. In this regard, you are in much the same 
 position as the camera man studying his finder, to 
 see just how much of a given location he can "get 
 in," what he must sacrifice or cut off to give the 
 most striking effect. 
 
 There are some writers and producers who can 
 never decide where to begin. They keep going back, 
 and going back into the antecedents of a character 
 or of a story, till they almost begin with the fable 
 of Adam and Eve. To satisfy their sense of what 
 is justly due a subject, they often go back thirty or 
 forty years, and travel through many countries, ig- 
 noring entirely the requirements of unity of time 
 and of place. 
 
 In a play of stirring nature you can begin almost 
 in the middle of it, plunging right into the main crisis, 
 or series of crises leading up to it, even at the sacrifice 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship 59 
 
 of minor antecedent circumstances and detail. This 
 method it seems to me is well fitted to the picture- 
 play of ordinary length, because it gives time to 
 develop the important points of the play. It shows 
 the characters not in a long sequence of events, 
 which do not bring out their natures and essential 
 traits, but thrusts them at once into a series of 
 short, sharp crises, in which we soon find out what 
 they are made of. 
 
 If your play happens to be of a lighter nature, 
 and you want to entertain in a gentle and quiet man- 
 ner, it is well to begin with your characters all 
 serene and happy in their ordinary walk of life, then 
 suddenly plunge them into a crisis of some kind, 
 comedy, farcical, or mildly serious, or let the crisis 
 develop from some unexpected quarter, like the 
 cloud on the horizon, at first no bigger than a man's 
 hand, but presaging the storm. 
 
 Apart from historical subjects, which are some- 
 times profitably used, it is better to arrange your 
 story so that it comes easily within the frame or 
 scope of the picture, leaving nothing to be explained 
 by subtitles, or other annoying methods. 
 
 A picture play, unlike a play of the other sort, 
 should require no exposition. 
 
 Instead of long drawn out episodes lasting many 
 years, which make inconsiderate demands on the 
 imagination, furnishing the loose, go-as-you-please, 
 ragged-edged, out at elbow sort of drama, which 
 
eo On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 defy all notion of time or place, or unity of action, 
 and destroy all illusion of reality, set your specta- 
 tors, so to speak, at the finishing line of the race. 
 Save them the tedious delays, annoyances, and dis- 
 appointments of the starting post, and the first laps 
 or heats. Give them the brief sharp moments of 
 expectancy and doubt, when horses and men are 
 straining their utmost to win in face of odds and a 
 heavy field. Then show the winners crowned and the 
 losers taking their dust. 
 
 A few short preliminary scenes arousing inter- 
 est, and exciting curiosity are not out of place. But 
 even such scenes should contain if possible a sub- 
 ordinate crisis, contributory to the main crisis of 
 your play. This will give to each scene or group 
 of scenes an individual interest of their own. Al- 
 ways keeping in mind that every scene and every 
 incident in every scene must be part and parcel of 
 the main story and forshadow without forstalling 
 the main situation or climax. 
 
 If, when a picture has been run half way through, 
 the spectator's interest is not aroused and he doesn't 
 care a row of pins whether he stays for the rest of 
 the picture or returns to his home in Brooklyn, it is 
 because the construction is at fault. 
 
 To the middle of the picture-play, or the second 
 grouping of scenes belongs the working up or 
 heightening of the interest aroused in the earlier 
 scenes. 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship 6i 
 
 A great number of stories have been produced 
 and some of them not without merit which seem to 
 set aside this rule entirely. They form a sort of 
 running fire which might at anytime take a turn in 
 any possible direction, without falsifying its ante- 
 cedents or your expectations. No part of it is inti- 
 mately involved in any other part. If the material 
 were found too long for a one thousand foot release, 
 several scenes might be cut out, or it might be di- 
 vided into a couple of separate reels, or it might 
 even be run backwards as a matter of fact, starting 
 with the last scene and proceeding to the first with- 
 out necessitating any considerable re-adjustments. 
 
 The greatest fault with this sort of picture-play 
 is that it precludes all idea of tension or suspense; 
 i. e., the reaching out or stretching forward of the 
 spectator's mind to discover what is to follow. 
 
 Patrons of the show will stand a moderate 
 amount of preparation, placing of characters, and 
 introduction of theme or story, but to hold them, a 
 tension of suspense must soon set in, otherwise they 
 become restless and tired, gossip with each other or 
 tell stories, or comment on this very fault of the 
 picture-play. 
 
 One of the clearest examples of tension or sus- 
 pense is in the story which I recall translating from 
 the Latin as a school exercise when a boy, "The 
 Sword of Damocles." The man seated in the place 
 of honor at the banquet suddenly discovers that a 
 
62 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 heavy and sharp sword is hanging over his head 
 by a single hair. Naturally he, as well as the rest 
 of those present, are eagerly speculating as to how 
 soon the sword will fall, to the exclusion of all other 
 thoughts. This is the state of suspense or eager 
 expectancy which you must try to arouse in the 
 spectator's mind. 
 
 Now in building up this tension or state of sus- 
 pense, you often create certain finger posts which 
 point definitely in one direction, or raise a reason- 
 able demand for a certain logical sequence, or scene 
 to follow, which scene you must not neglect even at 
 a sacrifice of the pleasure it may sometimes give you, 
 to puzzle by some paradox or startle people out of 
 their shoes by some sudden, violent and unexpected 
 turn of events. 
 
 In this way you sometimes give the spectator a 
 glimpse of the end or point you are aiming at, but 
 you keep to yourself the means by which you are 
 going to get there. 
 
 This sort of obligatory scene may be demanded 
 as a logical effect or result of the cause you have 
 presented. 
 
 It may be demanded by art itself, as a point or 
 scene you should not neglect in the development of 
 your theme. 
 
 It may be demanded as a sufficient reason for 
 some marked change in an important character. 
 
 In the picture presentation of a bit of history or 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship 63 
 
 a well known story, it may be demanded by the 
 generally accepted facts, or the established fiction. 
 
 Now the end of your picture-play will often cause 
 you considerable trouble. You can consider your- 
 self very happy if the logical outcome of your theme 
 does not force you into the necessity of a tame last 
 scene, nor one in which you must kill off some of 
 your principal characters in order to get rid of them. 
 If your story sustains and increases the tension up 
 to the final scene, you are mose fortunate. Probably 
 the most successful way of doing this, will be to save 
 your climax or big situation to the final scene or 
 group of scenes, where it seems properly to belong. 
 
 This does not mean that you must always close 
 your story with some stirring, and emphatic crises. 
 It may often happen that it is desirable to indicate 
 by a few brief incidents what afterwards become of 
 your principle characters, or what was the final out- 
 come of your group of situations. In this way, you 
 can often and quite artistically give a quiet, idyllic 
 ending to a very stirring picture-play. It may even 
 form an anti-climax, but if it is reasonably demand- 
 ed for the rounding of the theme, it should by all 
 means be made use of. 
 
 As a general rule, in this matter, I would say, 
 never start a story which you can't properly and 
 successfully finish. Don't undertake to write your 
 picture-play at all, unless the end is plainly in sight. 
 In this way, you will avoid the sickening make- 
 
64 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 shift endings where some character or incident is 
 dragged in by the hair of the head at the last mo- 
 ment, to help out a badly constructed story. 
 
 Keep away from blind alley themes, that lead 
 nowhere. Unless a problem is capable of being 
 reasonably and satisfactorily solved, it is not fit 
 material for a picture-play. Whether it be tragedy, 
 comedy, or farce, if the end does not satisfy that 
 certain something in the mind, the feeling of what 
 is just, the sense of truth, humor, beauty, sublimity, 
 or simply of the fitness of things, then it is better 
 not to attempt it at all. 
 
 Trying toi write a picture-play which neither 
 satisfies the higher nor the lower instincts of the 
 mind, that leaves one's desires unsatisfied, no matter 
 what other attractive point it may possess, is a 
 blunder and waste of time. 
 
 It will help you in this regard if you avoid sordid 
 subjects, founded on a study of vice, ugliness and 
 disease. 
 
 As a final word, don't let the ending of your 
 picture-play take the spectators entirely by surprise. 
 By this I don't mean that you should close your 
 play in the conventional tableau with the hero pos- 
 ing with the heroine in his arms, but that you should 
 make the spectator feel that the moment of closing 
 your story was well chosen, and satisfactory to him, 
 though he may not be able to tell the reason why. 
 
A Hand-Book if Workmanship 65 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 The Finished Product 
 
 AS a further effort, to be useful in this matter, 
 I am including a picture-play, the different 
 points of which I will comment upon briefly. 
 
 I thought that a study of a play completely 
 written, which has been sold and successfully pro- 
 duced, and has given satisfaction to producers, ex- 
 hibitors, critics and spectators, would help you on 
 toward a fuller and more practical knowledge of the 
 subject 
 
 If you are a regular attendant of the picture 
 theatres, you may have seen this play presented 
 under another name. I have changed the name to 
 keep away from any suggestion of advertising. It 
 seems to me that the one given below is appro- 
 priate and bears close relationship to the theme or 
 story. 
 
 This picture play, barring a few added comments 
 which I hope will be of benefit, is given just as it 
 was submitted to the firm which bought it. 
 
 "A MAN'S A MAN" 
 
 The theme of this picture-play is: "A man is 
 always a man, and has still the essential virtues of 
 
66 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 manhood, no matter how low he has descended in 
 the social scale." 
 
 You see I have chosen a play with a theme in 
 the stricter sense, as well as a story, to give a fuller 
 and better example of craftsmanship. 
 
 "Synopsis of the Story" 
 
 This is the story of "Jane," a young society girl 
 who is engaged to "Jim," a young business man of 
 her own set. 
 
 At a garden party given by Mrs. Orr, a leader in 
 their set, Jane becomes jealous of Jim's apparent 
 show of preference for their hostess, and quarrels 
 with him. In the moment of pique and anger, she 
 allows Mr. Dean, an old roue, to help her with her 
 wraps and show her to her automobile. 
 
 Mrs. Orr, taking advantage of this sudden breach 
 between the two young lovers, lavishes attention on 
 Jim, but he is too much concerned about his sweet- 
 heart to respond to her advances, and leaves the 
 party in a very depressed mood. 
 
 Now Jane returning to her home, dismisses her 
 maid and sits down despondently contemplating 
 suicide. She gathers in a little heap all the jewelry 
 and other presents which she has received from her 
 sweetheart, writes a farewell note to him, then takes 
 a revolver and prepares to die. 
 
A Hand- Book if Workmanship & 
 
 In the meantime, Pete, a burglar prowling around 
 happens to decide on Jane's house for his nightly 
 raid, crawls through the window, and tip-toes in 
 without being noticed by Jane. He is startled at 
 sight of the revolver in her hand, is about to make 
 a hasty retreat, but seeing that she is all alone, over- 
 powers her, gets possession of the revolver, smothers 
 her screams with the dainty wrap she is wearing, 
 ties her securely in the chair where she is sitting, 
 and proceeds to burglarize. He is greatly surprised 
 to find the little heap of jewelry and other valuables. 
 On taking immediate advantage of the windfall, he 
 finds Jane's farewell note to her sweetheart. This 
 is too much for him. The heartbroken tone of the 
 note, the pressence of the pretty girl, arouses the 
 spark of manhood in him, and the sense of shielding 
 the woman in distress, which every man possesses. 
 His mind, rendered alert and resourceful by the 
 needs of his craft, is quick to act. He forces Jane 
 to call her sweetheart on the telephone, then has 
 them send for a clergyman, and at the point of the 
 revolver, sees that they are married. Having ac- 
 complished this good deed, while the lovers are 
 happily engrossed in each other, oblivious of their 
 surroundings, Pete quietly walks away with the 
 swag he had previously gathered. 
 
 Here you have a brief synopsis of the story. I've 
 used a very simple and direct style, keeping in mind 
 the fact that it was intended for the bjase and 
 
68 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 sophisticated mind of the scenario editor and pro- 
 ducer. In this matter you find yourself at a great 
 disadvantage. Instead of addressing yourself di- 
 rectly to the normally impressionable mind of the 
 public as story writers of the other sort do, you are 
 addressing yourself to an expert in his line, to whom 
 practically nothing is new, whose mind is surfeited 
 with stories of all kinds and calloused to the mere 
 beauties of style. 
 
 With regard to the length of the synopsis, opin- 
 ions vary. I simply say let it be adequate to its 
 purpose. As the Irishman when asked how long a 
 man's leg should be, answered naively, "Long 
 enought to reach from his body to the ground." 
 
 "A MAN'S A MAN" 
 CAST AND DESCRIPTION OF CHARACTERS 
 
 Jane A young society girl, 
 
 Jim A successful business man, her fiance. 
 
 Mrs. Orr. . .A young widow, leader in her social set. 
 
 Pete A burglar. 
 
 A hard looking character of the ex-convict type, 
 should be about fifty years old in appearance. 
 
 Mr. Dean An overdressed old roue. 
 
 A middle aged clergyman, a maid, guests at the 
 garden party and others as indicated in the story. 
 Period — Present. 
 Location — U. S. A. 
 Season — Summer. 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship 69 
 
 The object of the above information is self evi- 
 dent. It is for the types of characters, costuming, 
 manners, national customs, style of architecture, etc. 
 
 A play supposed to take place in Egypt in the 
 second dynasty of the Pharaohs, or in China in the 
 time of Confucius, would of course be radically dif- 
 ferent in all such details. 
 
 Scene i. 
 
 In the beautiful garden of Mrs. Orr's mansion. 
 There are numerous Chinese lanterns, festoons, 
 garlands, tables laid with refreshments. On a porch 
 in the background is an orchestra, and all other ar- 
 rangements appropriate for a garden party. 
 
 Most of the guests are putting on their wraps, 
 preparing to go home. Jane, a young society girl, 
 is in the foreground engrossed in earnest conversa- 
 tion with Jim, her fiance, a young business man. 
 Mrs. Orr, the hostess, a dashing widow, passes by 
 them, stops, smiles at Jim, drops a small bouquet 
 which she is wearing. Jim picks it up and hands it 
 to her. She thanks him very graciously, and en- 
 gages him in conversation, then pins a little flower 
 from her bouquet in the lapel of his coat. Jane be- 
 comes jealous, quarrels with Jim. He tries to ex- 
 plain. She won't listen to him. The widow looks 
 on with an amused smile. Jane takes off her engage- 
 ment ring and returns it to Jim, then calls for her 
 wraps. A maid hands them to her. Jim offers to 
 
70 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 help her with them but Jane refuses, permitting Mr. 
 Dean, an old roue, who comes up opportunely to do 
 her this service. Jane, in the moment of pique and 
 anger, turns away from Jim, takes the old roue's 
 arm, and they leave the garden. Jim stands sadly 
 thinking for a moment, when Mrs. Orr tries to con- 
 sole him. She says, "Ah, I see you two have quar- 
 reled, I congratulate you both! You certainly are 
 the most mismated couple I know, etc." He keeps 
 looking in the direction where Jane went out. Then 
 excusing himself, thanking his hostess and bidding 
 her goodnight, he leaves her and follows his sweet- 
 heart. Mrs. Orr turns her attention to the other 
 guests. 
 
 Scene 2 
 
 Outside the gates of the mansion in which 
 
 the party has taken place. 
 
 Several guests are getting into their automobiles, 
 carriages and various conveyances. Mr. Dean assists 
 Jane into her automobile. Just then Jim comes out 
 and tries to speak to her, also starts to get into her 
 automobile, but she slams the door in his face, tells 
 the chauffeur to drive on, leaving both Jim and the 
 old roue standing there bewildered. Mrs. Orr comes 
 out in time to witness Jim's discomfiture. After a 
 moment, Jim turns and goes slowly on his way 
 home. Mr. Dean turns his attention to Mrs. Orr. 
 
 By the locations, orchestra, tables with refresh- 
 
A Hand-Book if Workmanship 7i 
 
 merits, guests, etc., it can be seen at a glance that a 
 garden party is represented. Jane and Jim in the 
 foreground, engrossed in conversation, are easily 
 recognizable as a young couple engaged to be mar- 
 ried. The hostess introduces herself by her attitude 
 toward her guests. 
 
 Mr. Dean, with his ever-ready attentions to all 
 females, is a type we all know. So having intro- 
 duced our characters happy and serene, we start a 
 couple of them quarreling, which is the first link in 
 the chain of incidents of our picture-play. 
 
 The quarrel is carried into the second scene so 
 as to emphasize it. Also by the action of the scene 
 we further establish the relation of the characters 
 to each other and to their surroundings. 
 
 I merely indicate the nature of the dialogue with- 
 out writing it out in detail, because the present 
 school of producers and actors are accustomed to 
 this form of play, and would find more details rather 
 cumbersome. So I make this compromise. Tho'ugh 
 as I've said before, I have no doubt that the play of 
 the future will be complete in every way. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Outside of Jane's home. A handsome suburban 
 residence. Moonlight effect. 
 
 The automobile drives up. Jane gets out, dis- 
 misses the chauffeur and goes into her house. 
 
72 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 Scene 4. 
 Sitting room in Jane's home, adjoining her bed- 
 room which has portieres half drawn. Obscure 
 light. Everything is delicately feminine and in 
 good taste. 
 
 Jane comes in, turns on the switch. Effect of* 
 change of light. The maid who has been waiting 
 up for her, is sitting sleepily in a chair. She gets up 
 quickly ready to help her mistress. Jane dismisses 
 her for the night. The maid realizing something 
 has gone wrong, goes quietly out. 
 
 In these two scenes we follow Jane. Firstly, be- 
 cause the interest centres principally around her. 
 Secondly, it fits conveniently into the scheme of 
 things to follow her to her destination in her swift 
 automobile, afterwards into the privacy of her home, 
 because this gives time for Jim, who left the scene 
 after her, to proceed on foot to his home. His going 
 on foot moreover accentuates his disappointment in 
 not having accompanied his sweetheart home in her 
 car. 
 
 A suburban residence is suggested because it 
 seems more probable that the happenings of the play 
 might transpire without interruption or interference 
 in a secluded thinly populated suburb, than in a 
 crowded district of the city. 
 
 In scene three, I mention that the effect of moon- 
 light is desired, because it will serve to indicate the 
 lateness of the hour, also adds a touch of romance to 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship 73 
 
 the scene. The effect of moonlight is suggested in 
 pictures by tinting the film a bluish shade. The 
 film may also be tinted to show the ruddy glow of 
 lamp light, and no end of other effects suitable to 
 various conditions. Delightful results are gotten 
 also by blending a tint and a tone, but as I said be- 
 fore, these thing all belong to a different branch of 
 the art. All you need to do in writing your play is 
 to describe clearly and concisely just what effect you 
 want, without any attempt at technical detail, and 
 the producer will accomplish it in his own way. 
 
 Scene 5. 
 Outside of a bachelor apartment house, 
 where Jim lives. Moonlight effect. 
 He arrives, stands in the doorway, sadly ponder- 
 ing over the quarrel he has just had with his sweet- 
 heart, hesitating whether to go at once and try to 
 see her and square matters, or to wait till some more 
 favorable time. Finally decides to let the matter 
 rest, so goes into the house. 
 
 Scene 6. 
 
 In Jim's den or sitting room. Everything is mannish 
 
 and clubby. The light is obscure, except for 
 
 moonlight which shines through the window. 
 
 Jim comes in, turns on the switch. He is very 
 
 moody and morose, crosses over to his table, picks 
 
 up Jane's picture, looks at it fondly, sits down in a 
 
 desperate despondent sort of way. 
 
74 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 Having seen Jane safely home in the two pre- 
 ceding scenes, we now naturally turn to Jim, be- 
 cause we expect that there is at least a mild curiosity 
 as to his whereabouts. As he is unmarried, it suits 
 our purpose to place him in a bachelor apartment. 
 Besides, having placed Jane in a private residence, 
 it lends variety to the play to give him a different 
 sort of domicile. The action of the two scenes is 
 self explanatory. 
 
 Scene 7. 
 In Jane's sitting room as before. 
 
 Jane is still very desperate and sad. She takes 
 up Jim's picture, which is in a dainty frame on her 
 table before her, looks at it fondly, kisses it, then 
 going to a drawer in her desk, takes out a bunch of 
 his letters, also some jewelry, trinkets, and other 
 presents which he had given her, puts them on the 
 table, takes pen and paper and writes a note to him. 
 She tries to hold back her tears, stops once or twice 
 to wipe her eyes, kiss his picture and accuse him of 
 faithlessness. Having finished the note, she reads 
 it over sadly, seals it, addresses it, puts it with the 
 package of letters and presents, takes a last look 
 around the room, kisses Jim's picture once more, 
 says good-bye to her little home, draws the portieres 
 between the bedroom and sitting room, then taking 
 a small revolver from her desk, she prepares to kill 
 herself. 
 
 Here by a natural and logical sequence of inci- 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship 75 
 
 dents, we have lead up to a crisis. So we have writ- 
 ten the beginning or first part of our play. You will 
 note in the course of its construction the minor or 
 auxiliary characters were properly disposed of, and 
 how we have concentrated all attention on the two 
 principal or leading characters. 
 
 Scene 8. 
 Outside of Jane's house as before. 
 Pete, a hard, coarse looking character, about 
 forty-five or fifty years old, of the ex-convict type, 
 with a serous melancholy expression, comes prowl- 
 ing along, looking about cautiously to see that he 
 is not observed. He quietly goes up to Jane's house, 
 contemplating how he can break in. After sizing 
 the house up for a moment carefully, he passes 
 around the side. 
 
 Scene 9. 
 Window outside of Jane's bedroom. 
 Pete comes on cautiously as before. After some 
 little difficulty, opens the window and crawls in. 
 
 Scene 10. 
 In Jane's bedroom. 
 Pete comes in, still in a melancholy mood, looks 
 about, sees articles of value on the bureau, then indi- 
 cates that he hears a slight noise in the next room, 
 tip-toes over to the portieres and peeks through. 
 By introducing Pete at this particular time of the 
 
76 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 action we serve two purposes; first, we emphasize 
 his importance by the unexpected moment chosen 
 for his arrival, secondly, we create and intensify 
 tension or suspense in the action of our play, by 
 having left Jane almost in the act of shooting herself. 
 But this suspense must not be dragged out to an 
 unreasonable length, so we return to her in the next 
 scene. 
 
 Scene n. 
 
 Inside Jane's sitting room, as before. 
 
 She is sitting desperately with the revolver in her 
 hand, just about to kill herself, when her attention 
 is arrested by a noise. She does not look toward 
 her bedroom, but stands looking in the opposite di- 
 rection, and listens to locate the noise. Just then 
 Pete tip-toes in behind her. Seeing her with a 
 revolver in her hand, he starts to make a hasty 
 retreat, but noting that she is alone, cautiously 
 sneaks up behind her and grabs her revolver hand, 
 holds his other hand over her mouth, so she will 
 not scream, quickly takes the revolver away from 
 her, takes the scarf which she wears over her shoul- 
 ders, binds it around her mouth, then takes a rope 
 from his pocket, and ties her hand and foot in the 
 chair. Having done this, he quietly goes about with 
 the same melancholy expression, searching the room 
 for valuables. 
 
 So we have saved Jane from one crisis by the 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship 
 
 77 
 
 timely arrival of the burglar, but have not destroyed 
 our tension or suspense of interest, because we have 
 immediately plunged her into another greater and 
 more interesting crisis. 
 
 Scene 12. 
 In Jim's room, as before. 
 
 He is sitting, in the same desperate mood, con- 
 templating Jane's picture. He takes the telephone 
 from his desk, is about to remove the receiver and 
 call Jane up. He hesitates a moment, shakes his 
 head sadly, puts the telephone down, and sits in 
 the same mood as before. 
 
 Without abusing our right of intensifying our 
 story, we left Jane in a still more dangerous and 
 critical position than before, but it was necessary to 
 satisfy curiosity regarding Jim, so the situation is 
 entirely natural. 
 
 Scene 13. 
 In Jane's room, as before. 
 
 Pete, having made a thorough search, now finds 
 the jewelry and other presents piled upon the table 
 with the love letters. He looks them over with in- 
 terest, finally comes across the note which Jane 
 wrote to Jim, reads it over, looks at her, then reads 
 it again, looks at Jane interestedly once more. Then 
 making up his mind to straighten up affairs, he looks 
 at the envelope and reads the address. After this 
 he removes the scarf from around Jane's mouth, 
 
78 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 takes off the telephone receiver, holds it to her ear 
 and the transmitter to her mouth, and tells her to 
 call Jim up and ask him to come there at once. She 
 at first refuses, but he threatens her and so she re- 
 luctantly obeys. 
 
 Scene 14. 
 In Jim's room as before. 
 
 Jim hears the telephone ring, quickly takes down 
 the receiver and listens, first in great surprise, then 
 realizing what is wanted, he says "Yes, yes," hangs 
 up the receiver, gets his hat and rushes out of the 
 house. 
 
 Scene 15. 
 Outside of Jim's house as before. 
 
 Jim comes out, looks about for a moment, hails 
 a passing cab, gets in and rides off toward Jane's 
 house. 
 
 Scene 16. 
 In Jane's sitting room as before. 
 
 Pete now in a business-like manner, puts the 
 scarf once more over Jane's mouth, a necessary pre- 
 caution, then looking at her with the same melan- 
 choly expression he has worn throughout the whole 
 story, tells her that he will go to the door and wait 
 for Jim. He puts the revolver in his pocket, feels 
 her bonds to see that she is carefully tied, then quiet- 
 ly passes out. 
 
A Hand-Book §f Workmanship 79 
 
 Scene 17. 
 In front hallway of Jane's home, lighted only by 
 moonlight shining through the glass of 
 the door and transom. 
 Pete tip-toes in, cautiously opens the door, and 
 peers out, then indicates he sees the one he is look- 
 ing for, and prepares to receive him. 
 
 Scene 18. 
 Outside of Jane's house as before. 
 Jim drives up in a cab, gets out, dismisses the 
 cabman and rushes in. 
 
 Scene 19. 
 In the hallway as before. 
 Pete opens the door. Jim comes in, and seeing 
 the obscure figure in the dim light, thinks it is Jane 
 and reaches out for an embrace, when he is con- 
 fronted by Pete's revolver and commanded to march 
 in quietly. Jim is dumbfounded, but is forced to 
 obey. Pete follows him in. 
 
 Scene 20. 
 In Jane's sitting room as before. 
 Pete and Jim come in, Pete with his revolver still 
 pointed at Jim. The latter immediately wants to 
 release Jane. Pete orders him to step away from 
 her, shows him Jane's pitiful note, Jim reads it.' 
 Then Pete orders him to get down on his knees and 
 
so On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 ask her pardon. He does so. Pete releases Jane's 
 bonds and tells her to throw her arms around Jim's 
 neck and kiss him. She is demure, and bashfully 
 refuses, but Pete points the revolver at her and 
 orders her to do so, then she, very much frightened, 
 hugs Jim with all her might. He then orders Jim to 
 go to the telephone and call up a clergyman. Jim 
 hesitates a moment. Pete encourages him by theat- 
 ening to shoot him if he does not do so at once, so 
 he goes to the 'phone and calls up a clergyman. 
 
 The preceding group of scenes are so intimately 
 related that they form one single action, that of 
 bringing the young lovers together, so it has not 
 been necessary to comment upon them separately. 
 In all the scenes in which Jane's note to Jim has been 
 used, it has not been necessary to flash it on the 
 screen, because its text is rendered so obvious by 
 the action leading up to it that it can have but one 
 meaning, that of a heart breaking farewell to her 
 sweetheart, just before leaving this world forever 
 as she intended. So it would be superfluous to 
 show it, besides it would rather be an insult to the 
 intelligence of the average spectator. Whereas, 
 to leave it to his imagination is a neat bit of flattery 
 to his intuition and shrewdness. 
 
 By an easy and natural transition, in about the 
 middle of scene twenty, we pass from the middle 
 or second part of our play to the third part or end. 
 
A Hand-Book if Workmanship 8i 
 
 Scene 21. 
 In a well-to-do clergyman's study. 
 The clergyman has been sitting up late, writing 
 the scenario of his next Sunday's sermon. He is 
 very intent on his work, but suddenly hearing the 
 telephone bell ring, answers it, saying he will be 
 there at once, and taking his hat and coat, he goes 
 out. 
 
 Scene 22. 
 Inside Jane's sitting room as before. 
 Jim having finished telephoning, now stands be- 
 wildered, wondering what he must do next. Pete 
 orders him to return to his position on his knees be- 
 fore Jane, and orders her to hug him once more. 
 Jane does so, this time very heartily. Pete now 
 directs him to go to the front door and admit the 
 clergyman. Jim hesitates about leaving Pete alone 
 with Jane, but Pete forces him, at the point of the 
 revolver, to do as he is directed. Then Pete goes 
 into Jane's bedroom once more but turns and 
 watches her through the partly drawn portieres. 
 
 Scene 23. 
 Outside of Jane's house as before. 
 The clergyman comes up hastily, goes to the 
 door and is met by Jim who leads him in. 
 
 Scene 24. 
 In Jane's sitting room as before. 
 Jim and the clergyman come in. Pete conceals 
 
82 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 himself behind the portieres so that he is not seen 
 by the new arrival. Jim is rather embarrassed over 
 the situation. The clergyman stands waiting for 
 instructions. Pete shoves his revolver between the 
 portieres. Jim sees this and quickly explains to the 
 clergyman that he and Jane wish to be married at 
 once. The clergyman consents, takes his book, they 
 stand up ready for the marriage ceremony. The 
 clergyman says at least one witness is necessary. 
 Jim hesitates, looks around, then indicating to Jane 
 that they will call Pete, goes into her bedroom. 
 
 Scene 25. 
 Inside Jane's bedroom as before. 
 Jim comes in, explains to Pete that he must be 
 bestman. Pete indicates that he isn't dressed for 
 the occasion. Jim says it doesn't matter. Pete tells 
 him alright, that he will be with him in a moment; 
 then crossing to Jane's bureau, combs his hair, 
 powders his nose, etc., with Jane's things, then he 
 and Jim go out together. 
 
 Scene 26. 
 Sitting room as before. 
 Pete and Jim come in. Pete is introduced to 
 the clergyman. The clergyman starts to perform 
 the ceremony. He gets up to the part where Jim 
 is to place the ring on the bride's finger. Jim indi- 
 cates that he has no ring. Pete comes to the rescue, 
 tells them wait one moment, steps aside in the fore- 
 
A Hand-Book if Workmanship 
 
 83 
 
 ground so that they won't see what he is doing, 
 takes out an ample leather pouch from his pocket, 
 spills out a handful of rings and other jewelry, after 
 carefully going over the lot, picks out a neat 
 wedding ring, puts the other jewelry back in the 
 pouch which he puts away, then hands the clergy- 
 man the wedding ring. The ceremony proceeds. 
 After the ceremony is over, Jim feels in his pocket 
 to give the clergyman money, is embarrassed to 
 find that he has none. Pete comes to the resue once 
 more, draws out a bill, and hands it to the clergy- 
 man, who thanks him. The clergyman giving his 
 blessing once more. Pete leads him to the door. 
 
 Scene 27. 
 Outside the front door of Jane's home. 
 Pete says good-bye to the clergyman, who goes 
 on his way, while Pete returns into the house. 
 
 Scene 28. 
 Jane's sitting room as before. 
 Pete comes in. Jane and Jim stand there bash- 
 fully. Jim shakes Pete's hand, thanks him. Jane 
 holds out her hand and thanks him too. Pete now 
 showing the first sign of humor, since he has been 
 in the story, wipes off his mouth in preparation to 
 kiss the bride. Jane is at first horrified but then 
 thinking he really deserves a kiss, comes up to him 
 prepared to give him his reward. Pete becomes 
 serious once more and respectfully taking her hand, 
 
84 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 kisses it, heaves a sigh, and turns away sadly. Jane 
 and Jim look at him with pity. Then Jim tells her how 
 happy he is and how thankful he will always be to 
 the unexpected friend. While they are all absorbed 
 in each other and planning what they will do for 
 Pete, he standing there with head bowed sorrow- 
 fully, sees the jewelry and other valuables which he 
 had packed up, so with a last look of farewell to 
 the happy lovers, gathers the swag and passes silent- 
 ly out into the night. 
 
 So without having to resort to subtitles, letters 
 or telegrams, we have brought the play to a satis- 
 factory ending. Though the ending is rather by 
 way of being a surprise, still from certain little 
 hints and finger posts, we cannot say that it was 
 entirely unexpected. The denomination of the 
 clergyman was purposely omitted to save any 
 chance of religious feeling. If the producer should 
 have any choice, he can readily adjust the matter 
 to his own liking. 
 
 The little touch at the end where the burglar 
 arouses himself from his near-reform and makes off 
 with the swag, though not strictly moral, is so thor- 
 oughly human and germane to the character, that I 
 could not omit it. It is moreover reasonable to 
 believe that the happy young couple will not greatly 
 miss what he took, and readily forgive him. 
 
A Hand-Book if Workmanship 85 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Random Hints 
 
 IN producing a picture-play, whether in the studio 
 or outside the garden wall, seashore or moun- 
 tain, aboard ship or wherever else, a certain 
 wedge shaped space is laid out and marked with 
 lines of some convenient sort to form the actual 
 boundaries within which the artists taking part in 
 the scene must confine their movements. 
 
 The narrow end of this space, about five to eight 
 feet wide, starts about eight or ten feet in front of 
 the camera, and spreads out indefinitely, though the 
 important action is kept within a comparatively 
 small space close to the camera. This space varies 
 a little according to the breadth and depth of defini- 
 tion of the lense used. 
 
 You see at a glance that this is just contrary to 
 an ordinary stage setting where the widest end of 
 a more or less wedge shaped space is toward the 
 audience and is usually painted in perspective. 
 
 The reason for this is that the stage setting is 
 planned for the human eye, whereas the moving 
 
86 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 picture setting is planned for the eye of the camera. 
 
 Moving picture scenery is not painted in perspec- 
 tive, unless some special effect is desired, because 
 the camera forms its own perspective. 
 
 The actual space in which the principal action 
 of the ordinary picture-play takes place is about 
 five or six feet wide and less than ten feet in length. 
 Frequently not even this much space is used, as 
 when the principal characters are brought very 
 close to the camera, and are cut off at the knees or 
 waist. This latter method is called the American 
 Foreground, as the American producers were first 
 to see the advantage of concentrating the spectators' 
 attention on the face of the actor. In this way the 
 subtler points of the picture-play are conveyed by 
 facial expression and by actually speaking the dia- 
 logue written or suggested by the author. 
 
 Our American method has occasionally been 
 criticised as inartistic, though it really has the pre- 
 cedent of the greatest sculptors and painters for its 
 defense, as you may see in our Metropolitan Muse- 
 um, or wherever art treasures are exhibited. No 
 doubt this method was taken in the first place from 
 the great masters. 
 
 An improved method of rehearsal would be to 
 give out a copy of the manuscript to each of the 
 principal artists who is to take part in the picture- 
 play, some days before the actual time of rehearsal, 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship 87 
 
 so as to give time for a thorough study of the dif- 
 ferent parts. 
 
 The rehearsals must be done according to the 
 convenience of the locations chosen, though there 
 is an obvious advantage in giving a first general 
 rehearsal in the studio or some other fitting place 
 before starting on the actual production of a picture. 
 
 Why the time wasted in endless delays prepar- 
 ing scenery and properties has not been taken ad- 
 vantage of for rehearsals is beyond me. 
 
 Before actually photographing the different 
 scenes, which it is very seldom convenient to take 
 in rotation, more thorough and detailed rehearsal 
 should be gone through, till each artist is as near 
 perfect in their part, and as entirely at their ease 
 as possible. Then let the action of the scene be 
 photographed, without the necessity of the director 
 distracting the artists' attention by shouting and 
 prompting, which shows up quite as badly on the 
 screen as prompting and directing of a bad first night 
 performance shows up on the ordinary stage. 
 
 A book of considerable length might profitably 
 be written on this subject of rehearsals alone. 
 
 The reason I have not dealt specifically with the 
 matter of multiple reel picture-plays, which are now 
 coming into so much prominence, is because that in 
 taking the two, three or more reels as a whole, or 
 complete picture-play, the method of construction is 
 the same as in a single reel subject. 
 
88 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 It is so clearly a neglect of a very particular 
 vantage point of picture-play production, to have a 
 character pass from the interior of one house or 
 room, directly into the interior of another, that I 
 have not thought it necessary to dwell on it in the 
 body of this book. The reason for avoidance of this 
 anomaly is obvious. In doing it you defeat your 
 own purpose by destroying the illusion of two dis- 
 tinct houses maybe some considerable distance 
 apart, and you destroy the continuity of your story 
 by neglecting to keep up with your characters in 
 their movements. However, after you have clearly 
 established the relative positions of your houses, 
 if the action of your characters demands rapidity, 
 keeping in mind the fact that the development of 
 your characters in action, is more important than the 
 technique by which you present the characters, you 
 may take whatever liberties you see fit in the matter. 
 
 In fact as I said before there is no hide-bound 
 rule in picture-play making. The great end and 
 object of the art is to express characters in action, 
 and all rules and technique have been created for 
 this purpose. 
 
 A point frequently neglected is having characters 
 go off, say to the right of the scene, and immediately 
 enter on the right of the following scene. This must 
 inevitably suggest to the spectator that the char- 
 acter in question has gone all the way around the 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship 89 
 
 earth, or taken some other circuitous method of 
 reaching his destination. 
 
 Now I come to another point of construction 
 which I will notice for just a moment or so. I 
 mean the "Subtitle" and its use. We have noted 
 that dramatic action is made up chiefly of contrast 
 and conflict. There is nothing so dramatic and 
 nothing so effective on the screen, as a conflict of 
 some kind between two people. A conflict of wit, 
 a conflict of swords or fists, a conflict of passions. 
 There is nothing more dramatic and intensely inter- 
 esting than conflict between two or more people, ex- 
 cept another sort of conflict which is frequently far 
 more dramatic, namely the conflict which takes place 
 in the solitary human mind. Now the Sub-title, which 
 is purely a convention of picture-play making, is 
 what we must frequently fall back on to help out 
 this important sort of conflict. It should be used 
 very sparingly, and never when the same knowledge 
 can be given to the spectator and the same effect 
 created by action or facial expression, or even by 
 the use of a letter, telegram or diary. But keeping 
 in mind our leading rule that the highest aim of the 
 picture-play is to show the greatest quantity and 
 highest quality of human life and character, it is 
 very often necessary to use the subtitle. 
 
 In some of my recent picture-plays, I've been 
 praised for managing to convey my meaning with- 
 out any subtitles, letters, telegrams or other "writ- 
 
90 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 ing on the wall." And it is always a pleasure to 
 set aside or overcome such conventions. 
 
 In many picture-plays one may manage to ex- 
 press characters quite clearly and satisfactorily 
 without any subtitles. But if it is desirable to show 
 some subtle point which can't be conveyed by mere 
 action, then we must fall back on this really childish 
 means. 
 
 You may contend that there are all sorts of ab- 
 struse things revolving in the mind of the spectator, 
 but this cannot be depended upon. The bald and 
 frequent use of subtitles to cover up great gaps in 
 continuity is of course to be condemned, also the 
 bromidic forms such as, "A week later," "Next day," 
 and other expressions which have lost their meaning 
 by too frequent use, and really convey about as 
 much idea to the eye accustomed to seeing them, 
 as the ticking of a clock does to the ear inured to 
 its sound. 
 
 Technique was made for the picture-play. The 
 picture-play was not made for technique. So you 
 must often sacrifice niceties of construction for the 
 sake of clearer and fuller expression of character 
 and human life. 
 
 One is usually expected to furnish a brief synop- 
 sis or short story of their picture-play with the man- 
 uscript submitted, however, information regarding 
 this matter, also the particular shape, size and form of 
 manuscript desired by the various producers, their 
 
A Hand-Book gf Workmanship 91 
 
 scale of prices and methods of dealing with the 
 writer, can be readily obtained by applying to them 
 personally or by letter. Most of them have brief 
 pamphlets printed for the purpose. 
 
 There are upwards of ten thousand picture-plays 
 produced every year in the various studios through- 
 out the world, and a fair average of these are shown 
 to about twenty millions of spectators of all classes 
 and nations before they are finally put on the shelf. 
 This certainly should be sufficient stimulus and 
 inspiration to the ambitous writer. 
 
 With regard to trick pictures or photographing 
 illusions, they belong to another branch of the tech- 
 nique, which would hardly pay you to study as they 
 are going more and more out of vogue every day. 
 Artistically the vision, the double exposure and other 
 illusions created by the camera, have about the same 
 standing as the subtitle. They should be avoided 
 when more legitimate methods answer the purpose. 
 
 Now what the general picture-play producer 
 knowns, is not of great importance, as it principally 
 concerns the picture-play of the past. What really 
 counts is what he doesn't know, and what you by 
 persistent labor and patience may hope to teach him, 
 for it concerns the picture-play of the future. 
 
 I repeat here what I said before, that no great art 
 can be founded on the study of sordidness, vice and 
 ugliness. 
 
92 On Picture-Play Writing 
 
 It is the mission of the picture-play to teach by 
 showing the light and not the darkness, the beauti- 
 ful and not the repulsive, the sublime and not the 
 abyss. Let this be your motto from a high moral 
 principal and sense of responsibility to the millions 
 of men, women and children throughout the world 
 who will profit by your art. 
 
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