THE
CONSTRUCTION
of
A Motion Picture
PLAY
By Robe. Du
808.2
G29
::
:

;
:
THE LIBRARY OF

THE
UNIVERSITY
VINCULUM
OMNIBUS. ARTIBUS
OF MINNESOTA.
CLASS 808.2
BOOK G29

THE


CONSTRUCTION
of
A Motion Picture

PLAY
UNIVERSITY OF
MINNESOTA
By Robert Blake stud
Copyrighted 1911 by Frederic George

ATOZGUMIM
YRARELI
808.2
G29
त
FOREWORD.
When one realizes that the motion picture producers.
of this country require over sixty plays a week to keep
up with the demand, and that they offer from ten to
one hundred dollars for acceptable manuscripts, he
can see the need of writers trained in this new profes-
sion.
Thousands of motion picture scenarios are submit-
ted by people wholly ignorant of the requirements of
a successful picture play, and they are returned
promptly for that very reason. Undoubtedly, many of
these manuscripts contain clever ideas that would be
worth a considerable sum of money, if the writers only
knew how to present them. This book aims to give
them that knowledge in as concise a form as possible.
One principal is explained and illustrated at a time,
and they all are finally combined in the complete
scenario.
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A valuable aid will be found in the analysis of scen-
arios, and the appended list of motion picture produc-
ers with a detailed statement, regarding the kind of
picture each refers..
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MAR 26 1913 35 McClur
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THE MOTION PICTURE PLAY
CHAPTER I.
Scenario.
It
A scenario is a plot or dramatic story in outline.
is the skeleton on which the completed play is built.
It is a framework of cause and effect, of human strife,
emotions and interests, built up bit by bit in logical
sequence as the steel frame of a "sky-scraper" is riv-
eted together one piece at a time until it stands com-
plete.
Scenarios offered for sale must be the property of
the one offering them. He must have either written
them himself, or have purchased them from the orig-
inal writer. Scenarios based upon folk-stories, histor-
ical events, or upon plays or novels not copyrighted
may be bought and sold; but Motion Picture concerns
do not usually buy scenarios covering such grounds,
preferring to stage their own versions of them.
Of course, the same scenario or idea cannot be sold
more than once, or offered to two manufacturers at
the same time. Such a proceeding is not only dishon-
orable, but it is also illegal. Never offer a scenario to
a second firm until.the first has refused t
The range of subjects suitable for: scenarios is prac-
tically unlimited. Comedy; tragedy and farte go equal-
ly well. Melodrama seems to be dying.out, excepting
in isolated instances to which we will refer later. Au-
diences are growing more critical, and long since drove
buffoonery and clowning with the aid of the slap-stick
off the screen. It is important to remember that the
National Board of Censors will not permit scenes of
crime or immorality to be exhibited-in fact, the pro-
ducing companies themselves are against them. Your
scenarios should not duplicate any motion pictures al-
2
1
ready produced. This is a frequent cause for rejec-
tion of manuscripts.
Motion picture stories are told entirely in panto-
mime. There can be no dialogue as in the ordinary
play, but the story must be told so clearly that the
audience understands it thoroughly. No scenario that
leaves the reader in doubt as to its meaning will be ac-
cepted by a producing firm.
The story should be divided into numbered scenes,
one for each change of locality in which the action
takes place. A sub-title is sometimes thrown on the
screen between scenes to give the audience a general
idea of the subject of each scene. The most artistic
plot, however, is the one which does not require sub-
titles, excepting to indicate lapse of time, "Three
Months Later," etc.
A scene in which the characters remain on the stage
at its close should not be followed by one in which the
same characters are "discovered" when the scene
opens. Where successive scenes require the appear-
ance of the same characters, they should walk out of
the previous and into the following scene without any
pause.
The limit of time in which a motion picture can be
run off is about eighteen minutes. This is the time re-
quired to operate one thousand feet of film, and the
reels on which the film is wound cannot accommodate
more. The longest scene should not run over three
minutes, and the number of scenes should not exceed
twenty-five.
Scenarios should be typewritten on one side only of
letter size paper (8½x11 inches). At the top of the
first page, in the lefthand corner, should appear the
name and address of the writer, and in every case a
self-addressed stamped envelope should be enclosed
to insure return of unavailable manuscripts.
3
→
Unavailable manuscripts are usually returned within
five or six days. A scenario which merits serious con-
sideration may be held as long as a month before final
action is taken on it, for it has to pass through many
hands and be read by five or six diflerent persons be-
fore a definite decision is reached.
Elaborate or minutely detailed scenarios are seldom
required. A mere hint of the object to be accomplished
by each scene is sufficient. The stage directors em-
ployed by producing firms are professional performers
of long experience and resent being instructed in the
rudiments of their profession by an amateur. Unless
for a particular purpose which bears on the plot it is
important that a character "Enter R." (Right), or
"Cross C." (Center), do not insert such directions.
Clearness and conciseness are paramount in your
writing. Everything must bear on the working out of
the plot, and you must not allow yourself to wander
from your subject. Your scenario must be preceded
by a short synopsis of the story-a scenario of the
scenario-in which a general statement of the idea to
be developed is made. The following is a part of a
scenario by Rex Beach entitled, "With Bridges
Burned."
Synopsis.
Mitchell is discharged because of poor business. He
offers to try for a big London contract for the firm on
his own responsibility. His former employers consent;
and Mitchell, leaving his girl wife in America sails for
London. There he falls a victim to the treachery of a
rival salesman, who makes it appear that Mitchell's
successful bid is submitted too late. Disheartened, he
returns to his starving wife in America and learns by
cable that his bid was successful, and that he has been
awarded the contract.
4
SCENE 1. A Business Office. Mitchell, a sales-
man, being discharged because of poor business.
SCENE 2. A Prettily Furnished. Parlor. Shows
Mitchell telling his girl wife of the discharge and her
finding of the newspaper which tells of a big London
contract to be awarded, also her suggestion that he can
get it.
SCENE 3. Office Again. Shows Mitchell offering
to go for the contract on his own money and receiving
authority from the firm to do so.
SCENE 4. A Bank. Mitchell and wife drawing
money. (Insert.) View of bank book showing all with-
drawn but a few cents. Scene continues with wife tak-
ing three bills and handing balance of money and bank
book to Mitchell.
SCENE 5. Office of the English Company. Scene
shows late arrival of clerks, etc.; also representatives
of other firms who are bidding on the contract going
into the director general's office while Mitchell is kept
outside. Mitchell meets one of these rival salesmen,
who becomes suspicious and has an understanding with
the head clerk that for a consideration the latter is to
put. obstacles in the American's way. Scene ends with
Mitchell bribing the office boy and getting past the
head clerk into the director-general's office.
CHAPTER II.
Theme.
A play is built upon a theme. You can probably re-
call writing "compositions" in school on different sub-
jects. A composition on "Spring," for instance, is sole-
ly about its subject. One would not write about "War”
if the subject of his composition was "Spring," would
he? So a theme, then, is the subject of a play, and to
write a successful play one must stick to his subject.
.
5
ما
Dramas are built upon such themes as: Love, Hate,
Ambition, Greed, Revenge, etc. That is to say, a drama
is built upon some strong element of human passion
that compels the characters to do certain things. How
many times have you left a theater after some perform-
ance and asked yourself "What was the play about?"
The reason for your question is not hard to find. The
author of the play either had no idea himself regarding
a theme, or else he was unable to convey his idea to
the audience. In other words, his play was lacking in
theme. The usual criticism of a musical comedy is,
"It has no plot." As a matter of fact, the defect in its
construction is found further back than that. The aver-
age musical comedy has no theme and consequently
has no problem and no plot.
The theme is the general subject, but it is specifically
applied to the working out of a definite problem; there-
iore we may say that problem is evolved from theme.
If one has no theme, he can have no problem. A prob-
lem in Algebra has a theme, and the theme is Algebra.
The problem of a play, then, is some question that
arises concerning a certain subject. It is easy to in-
vent a theme and a problem. Theme. Love: problem,
“A girl marries a young man who drinks to excess.
Will her love reform him, or will he drag her down
with him to a life of misery?" Now two opposing
forces love and appetite are arrayed against each
other. Which is the stronger? There we have the ele-
ments of a drama. The eternal struggle between con-
flicting interests. Which will win? It is for the pur-
pose of solving the answer to that question that we
work out the problem by means of a plot.
Those are the first three steps in the construction of
any successful drama; whether it is tragedy, comedy
or farce. Theme, problem, plot-the combinations are
unlimited. Each theme may be considered in only one
6
of its many phases. You may start building your play
mentally from one point of view, only to find before
you have finished it that new developments have arisen
to change the entire outline. It is best, for that reason,
to proceed slowly, testing every device used in order
to avoid the extra labor of tearing down a large part
of your construction because of faulty material used.
In order to guard against such action we shall intro-
duce you soon to the Working Scenario which differs
from the ordinary scenario in some important partic-
ulars.
You will note that we continually refer to your work
as "building." We do that to emphasize the fact that
plays are built one scene upon another. Stories are
"written", but no one "writes" a play. The actual
transcribing of your ideas to paper is the final touch
in the process.
A theme must be clearly defined. If you do not know
what your theme is, you may be sure your audience
will be equally at a loss. What is your play about?
How can you show anyone else what it is about? You
cannot stand up before the screen and tell them, can
you? You will say, "Of course not. The actors do the
telling by means of their actions." There you have the
solution. The theme, then, is shown by the Action.
However, the movements of the performers express-
ing fear, hate, love, suspicion, etc., only portray the
larger Action of the Plot as built up by yourself to
convey your meaning to the audience.
Have you never started to read a story that presently
wearied you? Why did it weary you? Because it was
full of conversation; because there was "nothing do-
ing." There was no rush of event on event that car-
ried you breathlessly along from page to page, eager
to learn which of the conflicting interests contained in
the story would triumph. In other words, the story that
7
fails to hold your attention lacks Action. A newspaper
man understands Action. Ask one of them what "uews"
is. What stories appear on the front page? Which
have the "Scare-heads?" Do you read first an account
of the "wireless" catching Dr. Crippen in mid-ocean,
or do you prefer to read about the annual meeting of .
the library trustees?
The small boy cannot be kept away from the crude
detective story, full of hair-breadth, impossible es-
capes; and when he grows up he demands much the
same thing, although in his mature years he laughs at
the mock heroics and asks for action which does not
insult his intelligence. Bear the fact in mind that the
audience of the moving picture theater has much the
same point of view as the small boy; but it is grow-
ing up. It is unconsciously educating itself and de-
manding better things. The first motion picture was
as crude as the small boy's detective story, and the
early audience liked it. Many of them had never at-
tended a theatrical performance of any kind; but the
low price of the "nickleodeon" attracted them. The
slap-stick has long since ceased to make them laugh,
and they are growing critical. The hastily thrown to-
gether, jumbled mass of action out of sequence has
been driven off the screen, and carefully built up plays
in which Unity of thought and action has its place ap-
pear instead.
Of what, then, is this action to consist? How may
we determine it and confine it to its proper limits?
In order to discover what Action is suitable to the
play in hand, we must consult our Material. There a
new term confronts us. What is "Material?"
When some friend tells you of a building he is erect-
ing, your first question is probably, "What material
are you using? Brick, stone, concrete, wood?" or,
"Where are you getting your material?”
#8
;
When you are building a play, then, you "use" ma-
terial or you "get" material-not brick, wood or stone,
but ideas, scenes, characters, situations, incidents, de-
velopments, climaxes, etc. Such things constitute your
"material" and must be put together with as much care
as the mason or carpenter or steelworker uses. No
skilled worker at any of those trades uses the wrong
material to perform a certain task, and as you desire
to become a skilled worker at this profession, you
must follow his example. In the first place, your
skilled man knows where to obtain his material.
You obtain your material, then, from a score of
places, and we take up that matter in the next chapter.
CHAPTER III.
Plot.
We promised to take up Material as the subject of
this chapter, but in order to do that we must first
speak more in detail of Plot. Material, Plot and Scen-
ario are closely related to each other. Without Mate-
rial, you can have neither of the others, and it is equal-
ly true that you cannot write a Scenario without a
Plot on which to base it. You will discover, as you
progress, that we speak of things in a general way at
first, but enter more and more closely into details until
we arrive at the fullest understanding of what elements
make up a well-built Scenario.
What, then, is Plot? It is the collection of circum-
stances and situations that works out the Problem of
the play. Go over any play you have seen and write
down your remembrance of it. Unless you have trained
yourself to observe things closely, your recollection of
the play will be very hazy; but if in writing it out
from memory you eliminate everything that did not.
bear on the problem, you will find a crude kind of Plot
which you have unconsciously absorbed. In advance
9
notices of new plays appearing in your own city, you
will frequently find a short story describing the play.
Cut out and preserve any that strike your fancy and
read them again and again. They are substantially
Plots-not exactly the kind of Plot you should formu-
Inte later, but plots for the reading public. It is worth.
while for you to see new motion pictures and write.
down from memory their plots in a blank book kept for .
that exclusive purpose, not forgetting the title or num-
ber of scenes. The first time you do this, you will do
little at it; but constant practice will enable you, in at
little while to record every important incident.
A Plot, then, is a collection of important incidents
arranged in proper sequence so that the play moves
steadily from beginning to end. Below you will find
the plot of a recent motion picture. You will observe.
that it contains only the essential elements of the ac-
tion. The theme, of course, is Love; but it is unre-
quitted love, and the play is doomed to be a tragedy
from the very beginning. This is a Plot and not a
Scenario, for there is no indication of the Action ex-
cepting in most general terms. If a more detailed ac-
count of the Action were written, it would no longer
be a real Plot. As it stands now, it may very properly
have been the first bare outline made by the author of
it-not the detailed outline from which he finally wrote,
which would be called a Working Scenario.
"The Sacrifice of Silver Cloud."
"Silver Cloud, an Indian girl, falls in love with hand-
some Lieutenant Parry, who, however, does not en-
courage her, gently telling her that he is engaged to
marry the Colonel's daughter. The Indians plan an
attack upon the fort and Silver Cloud warns the Lieu-
tenant. A thrilling battle occurs, Silver Cloud pick-
ing up the rifle of a fallen soldier and fighting with the
whites. In saving the white women, she is captured
10
and carried away by the vanquished red men, and
bravely meets the death to which she is condemned.
The pursuing soldiers find her lifeless form—a sacri-
fice to her unrequitted love."
•
How did the author work out this Plot? Let us
try to follow the process. He wanted to write an In-
dian play, knowing that there was a demand for them.
He chose Love as the theme. What kind of love should
he use? The love of an Indian brave for the daughter
of his Chief? No; that was too common. The love
of a white man for an Indian maiden? No; he was
trying to get away from that sort of a story. Why
not take the love of an Indian girl for a white man and
place that man so far above her own social station that,
had they been of one color, the alliance would not have
been likely. Make the male character, then, an officer
in command of troops stationed on the border. The
girl is the character around which the action revolves.
Make her position still more acute, then, by having the
Lieutenant engaged to his Colonel's daughter. Her
appearance in the play, confident of her position and
treated with deference by all will serve as an admir-
able foil to the humble Indian maiden, and add much
strength to the character by further enlisting the sym-
pathies of the audience on her side. Do you grasp the
idea? Its use is very frequent in Drama. What shall
become of this Indian girl? Her love is hopeless from
the first. What shall be the climax of the play? Shall
the author have her commit suicide? No; that weak-
ens the character and also the Board of Censors which
inspects the pictures before they are released for public
performance objects to such climaxes. How shall she
be properly disposed of? Let her die performing some
heroic act. What could be more heroic than giving
her life for the man she loved? It almost appears as
if that might have been the original intention; but sec-
ond thoughts, perhaps, prompted the author to have
11
her save the life of the Colonel's daughter at the ex-
pense of her own. How should that climax be brought
about? By inventing an attack on the soldiers by the
tribe of which she was a member.
We do not positively say that the author's train of
thought ran exactly as we have indicated, but it might
very properly have done so. There had to be a Cause
for every Effect, and frequently one must work back-
ward from the Climax in writing the Plot. For in-
stance: Why was the Indian girl condemned to death?
Because she turned against her tribe and saved the
white women from their clutches. Why did she save
the women? Because among them was the girl whom
the Lieutenant loved. Why should she sacrifice her-
self to save that girl? Because she loved the Lieuten-
ant with a love that had no thought of Self in it, etc.
You should practice this method of reasoning back-
ward until it becomes second nature to you, if you wish
to succeed as a writer of motion pictures. Its use aids
greatly in the work of building up the play and French
dramatists use it almost exclusively.
Theoretically, your knowledge of Plot may be per-
fect, but to acquire a practical, working knowledge of
it is another thing. You must practice writing plots
from plays you have seen or read and you must not
think that you know it all when you have so written
a dozen or more. The fact is, you will just be com-
mencing to find out how little practical knowledge you
really have. No two plays are written exactly alike,
and the process that fits one may not fit the next. It
is necessary to accommodate yourself to the circum-
stances surrounding each problem. These laws are
the basic laws that govern the dramatic construction of
all plays fit to be called such, but there are occasions.
that call for amplifications of them.
Now for Material. Where is it obtained? Gener-
ally speaking, everywhere. It is all around you! In
12
the papers, in books, in happenings on the street, in
the cars, in the shop, in your own home. You may
even get your original idea from a chance remark made
by some friend. Let us illustrate.
The last time the writer of this article was in the
Lambs' Club in New York-that famous organization
which numbers among its members the foremost act-
ors in this country-the conversation turned to a dis-
cussion of David Warfield's new play, "The Return of
Peter Grim," which is now creating a sensation.
Broadly speaking, the plot concerns the return from
the other world of a spirit for the purpose of saving the
child he loves from marrying a scoundrel. In reply to
the question, "Where did the author get his idea?" it
was learned that a friend, in speaking of death, said:
"I wonder what would happen if we could come back."
The author, who, of course, had no idea of a play in
his mind as yet, began to ask himself the same ques-
tion. What would happen? What could happen? If
a man was able to return from the other world, what
incentive would be strong enough to bring him? You
can see for yourself how the idea began to grow and
expand. The author was now seeing the possibilities.
of a wonderful drama in the careless remark of his
friend. It is beyond the purpose of this book to trace
the steps by which this remarkable play was built up,
or the research its buildings involved; but we wish
to point out the fact that in every step the author was
collecting Material for his play.
Even a motion picture play has to start with an idea
and the closer you can bring that idea into contact with
Material, of which you have intimate knowledge, the
better will be your play. Don't place the action of
your play in China, if you have never been there. Your
ignorance of local conditions would prevent the action
from being true to life. All the details that ought to
make the play interesting would be lacking. Write of
13
things that you personally know, about, if you want to
have your play true to life. If you have worked in a
department store, you may know an exciting story of
a shoplifter around which a play can be written. If
you have been in a foundry, perhaps some deed of he-
roic saving of life has come to your notice. A news-
paper man has experiences nearly every day that will
furnish him with ideas. If your idea cannot be local-
ized, then you must go to a library and read up on the
subject.
CHAPTER IV.
Unity.
Unity is the combination of all the elements of the
play into one harmonious whole. Your Theme is about
One thing. So is your Problem and your Plot. In
making your scenario, you cannot wander into side
paths. You are aiming at One target, and must not
lose sight of it before all of your ammunition is ex-
pended. A motion picture audience is easily confused
by lack of coherence, and if you go rambling off into
side issues your play will never be accepted. A motion
picture play must be full of absorbing detail that never
"lets down," and the action must constantly increase
in interest. If the story of the play lacks Unity, the
audiences-puzzled at first by the absence of some
quality in it for which they have no name—soon lose
interest. You have probably seen such plays yourself,
but it does not follow that you must imitate the mis-
takes of their writers. The art is constantly improv-
ing and he who thinks it advisable to follow the crude
methods of yesterday may as well never begin to write.
We lay so much emphasis on Unity for the reason
that lack of it is the amateur's specialty. If you were
working out a problem in mathematics, every step you
took would bring you closer to its answer. You would
14
not write down one figure that was not required to
complete the process of solving it. If you are working
out the Problem of a play, then, why not proceed in
the same sensible fashion and make systematic prog-
ress? You will say, "Of course, I know all that." and
perhaps you do when it is called to your attention, but
have you done it? You had to learn how to work out
problems in Arithmetic. Although you knew all the
figures used in the process, you had to learn how to
combine them to obtain the correct answer. A man
may have all the parts of several automobiles laid out
on the floor before him, but unless he knows which of
those parts belong to a certain automobile, and where
each part fits in, he can never construct the complete
machine. That is what we mean by a knowledge of
Unity. The ability to discover which Material belongs
to a certain play, and where each part belongs. During
the first public performance of any new play, the audi-
ence is watched very closely for the purpose of finding
out where interest in the performance seems to lag;
and such spots are eliminated at the next performance.
The trouble is caused, in the great majority of in-
stances, by lack of Unity. They do not vitally concern
the problem in hand and so must be removed from the
play. They may not show themselves in the hurried
rehearsals, but the actual performance before an audi-
ence uncovers them.
In writing a Scenario, you will have no chance to
"try it out" before an audience. The pictures are
taken long before any audience other than the stage
director sees them, so you must have your play as per-
fect as possible in all its proportions before you submit.
it for consideration to the producing firms. You must
take the place of the critical audience yourself and try
your best to discover any evidence of weakness in your
play. Imagine that it is the work of a total stranger
and you are reading it over for the first time. Does
15
this play interest you? Is there any part that seems
superfluous? Does event follow event with constantly
increasing power? Is the conflict of two or more dif-
ferent human wills set forth so clearly that you are
sure what their motives are? Does the action center
around One thing and keep to One road, or does it
lose itself occasionally and have to be found and set
right again?
One play submitted a short time ago had an incident
in the first scene of a servant breaking a cup accident-
ally and hiding the pieces. The whole incident was
entirely apart from the plot and had absolutely no
bearing on it. The servant was a minor character and
only appeared twice in the whole play, and the cup-
breaking was never referred to in any way after it had
happened. There was utter lack of Unity. On the
other hand, supposing that the rich old aunt of the
young man in the play had sent him this cup, which
she prized very highly, and had happened to suggest
that she would like to drink tea from it when she came
to visit him. The fact that he thought so little of her
present to him that he had left it to the tender mercies
of a servant who had broken it-particularly as the
aunt would be allowed to discover the pieces—would
have caused her to alter the will she had made in his
favor. In that case, the breaking of the cup would
have had a distinct bearing on the plot, and the play
would not have lacked Unity.
There is a Unity of Character as well as a Unity of
Plot to be considered. Your heroine, riding across the
plains to save the man she loves goes straight to her
task. She does not stop as she passes through some
village to look at the bargains in Spring millinery.
You will say that it's the height of absurdity, but I
have seen Unity shattered as completely a score of
times. In your own writing, see that each scene pre-
serves a Unity of its own, and that all scenes preserve
16
the larger Unity of the whole play.
CHAPTER V.
Sequence.
Sequence is the orderly arrangement of the Action
so that all parts of the play stand in their proper rela-
tive positions. Facts must be made clear before they
can be properly developed and only one fact should ap-
pear at a time. Remember that at the beginning of
your play the audience is an utter stranger to it. You
make them absorb the atmosphere of the play by means.
of the scenery and costumes to begin with. The char-
acters must be as true to life and locality as possible.
Each character must enter in his proper order and each
scene must logically follow the action of the preceding
one. You are trying to tell the audience a story in pan-
tomime wherein all the conditions surrounding it must
be clearly presented to the eye. Had you better begin
at the beginning, or in the middle? That question is
not as simple as it sounds. What events lead up to
the Climax of your play, and which of these events
constitutes the real beginning of your Action? Many
plays have superfluous beginnings, which convey no
meaning whatever, so far as the problem of the play is
concerned.
It may be easy for you to determine the Sequence
of important incidents. The hero does not marry the
heroine before he has made love to her and won her
consent, nor is the thief imprisoned before he has
stolen. That much is plain, but do not imagine that
your play is structurally perfect if a few facts are prop-
erly placed. Of course, your leading characters should
be introduced to the audience in the first scene, if pos-
sible, but you must disregard that rule if the Action
does not require their presence.
The proper way to determine the Sequence of a play.
17
is by means of the Working Scenario. That is not the
Scenario you submit to a producing firm, but your
own scenario by means of which you build the play.
In it each event is numbered, and these numbered
events soon show you whether or not you have ar-
arnged the Action of the play in the proper Sequence.
Let us build up a Working Scenario, as follows:
Take as the Idea the reforming of a criminal. What
should make him reform? There must be a Cause, re-
member, for every Effect. It is necessary, as a crim-
inal is to be our central character, to "get the audience"
for him to gain their sympathy-which cannot be
done if he is seen doing some ignoble act. The Climax
of the play, then, shows his reformation. It appears.
that we are starting at the wrong end of the play. How-
ever we will jot down that Climax in our note book;
"Climax shows reformation of leading Character."
Why does he reform? Because he fears the police?
No; that weakens the character. Because he is about
to die? No; we want a happy ending. What force
stronger or better than Love? All right, but it is used
so much! Let us hunt up a different situation that is
not worn out, if we can. Love for a little child. No;
not his own. We feel that this man has no relatives.
This child must be in the care of criminals like him-
self and to get the audience for her, she must be treated
badly. Then, of course, her own mother will not have.
charge of her. She shall have a step-mother. Wait a
bit! Better yet, a grandmother whose son is her
father, and who is also a criminal. That gives us a
typical old hag of the slums as a character. This is all
going down in our note book, for it is Material to be
used later.
Now we have a hero-the criminal around whom the
story is built; a villain-the father of the child, who
allows his mother to abuse her; and a character part
18
-the old grandmother who abuses the child.
The hero reforms because he loves the child. Why
does he love the child? He sees that she is neglected
and pities her at first, but the child's confidence in him
and her lack of proper guardians makes him wish to
protect her, so it is an unselfish, protecting love that
grows up in his bosom. The helplessness of the little
girl appeals to his strength. That helps his character
with the audience again. Where does he first see this.
child? She has been left alone by her father and
grandmother. Why? They are hiding from the police.
Why are they hiding? The father has committed some
crime say he has picked a pocket. That gives us
another link in the chain of circumstances. Supposing
he stole a pocketbook, extracted the money and threw
the crime on the hero by slipping the empty book into.
his pocket. The hero, known to the police as a crook
with a bad reputation, would be arrested for the crime
and his previous record would nullify his efforts to
prove himself innocent. Let us set this down now in
proper sequence. Other ideas will aid us as we write.
1. Villain steals pocketbood and throws crime on
hero.
2. Hero accused. Pocketbook discovered in his
pocket. He knows his record is against him and runs
away.
3. Hero finds child abandoned by relatives. She
faints from lack of food.
4. Hero, in order to get food for child, gives himself
up to police so that child may be taken care of.
(Strengthens character.)
5. Hero is released, when real thief is captured.
6. Desire to protect child leads hero to reform and
earn honest living.
That is our first Working Scenario, which embodies
19
all the important Action of the play. Those are the
"high places," so to speak, and you will note that they
are arranged in Sequence. The child, for instance,
should not appear in the first scene. There is nothing
for her to accomplish by her presence. What are the
conditions under which the villain steals the pocket-
book? It seems that we need a scene to show those
conditions to the audience, and we also must introduce
the hero, and show that he is regarded with suspicion
by the police. A new scene had better be inserted be-
fore our "Scene 1," then. We will try writing a Scen-
ario from our Working Scenario, to see how it looks.
SCENE I.
A Street. Hero slouches into picture and enters sa-
loon in background, closely observed by Policeman
and Detective whose actions show that he is under
suspicion.
SCENE II.
Interior of Saloon. Hero enters door, sits at table
and calls for beer, which waiter brings. Man at next
table counts money he has collected and puts in pocket-
book, which he places in hip pocket. Villain observes
money and steals pocketbook, which he rifles of con-
tents and places in hero's pocket. Man discovers loss.
and calls for police. Police run in and find pocketbook
in hero's pocket. Real thief escapes and is followed by
detective. Hero protests innocence to no avail. Breaks
away from police and runs from saloon.
SCENE III.
1
A Tenement Attic. Grandmother discovered. Child
enters and tries to get food from table. Grandmother
pushes her away and eats food herself. Child cries.
Villain enters and exhibits money he stole. A noise
outside. The police are coming up stairs. Villain.
braces chair against door, shoves Child into closet and
Į
20
he and Grandmother escape through a window to roof
of tenement. (Change to Stairway, showing police.
coming up and breaking in door of Attic.) Scene con-
tinues with Police entering through broken door and
searching room, finding window and going through it
in pursuit of Villain.
SCENE IV.
A Street. Shows Hero running from police and en-
tering door of same tenement in which Villain lives.
Police follow him to doorway and wait outside, while
others follow through door. (Scene changes to Attic
room as in Scene 3.) Hero enters, looking for place
to hide. Police follow. Hero hides behind door. Po-
lice enter and depart without finding him after brief
search. Hero looks out of window and sees (Insert).
Police guarding rear of Tenement. (Attic scene again.)
Hero hears noise in closet. Door of closet opens and
Child staggers weakly out. Child begs Hero for food.
He looks around room but fails to find any. Child
faints from hunger and exhaustion. Hero picks her up
and after failing to restore her to consciousness leaves
room.
SCENE V.
Same Street as Scene IV. Two Policemen guarding
door of tenement. Hero enters from door with Child
in arms unconscious. Shows her to Police and gives
himself up to them. They escort him out of picture.
(Change to interior of another saloon.) Villain and
Grandmother seated at table. Villain orders drink. De-
tective who had followed Villain from Scene 1 looks
through glass door in background and sees Villain.
Waiter returns with drink.
from pocket to pay Waiter.
and grasps roll of bills from
card still attached to it. Puts "nippers" on Villain and
takes him out.
Villain takes roll of bills
Detective enters quickly
his hand with collector's
21
SCENE VI.
Police Court Interior. Hero enters with Child lying
in his arms. Policeman who accompanies him tells
Captain at desk the story and Captain sends for Ma-
tron, to whom Hero turns over unconscious child. Hero
is about to be locked up when Detective enters with
Villain, and exhibits roll of bills to Captain, explaining
that Hero really is innocent. Hero allowed to go, but
stops and kisses Child. Villain repulses Matron when
she turns to him with Child in her arms, shows his dis-
like for Child, and is led to cells.
SCENE VII.
Interior Matron's Parlor at Police Headquarters.
Child well dressed and happy playing around room.
Police Captain enters and while he is there attendant
announces visitor. Hero enters, well dressed and no
longer slouching in walk. Child runs to him. He ca-
resses her. Tells Captain his desire to adopt and care
for her always. Captain congratulates him on his
changed methods of living and bids him bring the
Child into the next room, where the final papers are
ready for his signature as foster-father. Child's cape
and hat put on by a Matron. Child jumps into Hero's
arms and they exeunt, followed by Captain.
The above Scenario is sufficient for the producing
firm's stage director to work from. At the heading,
there should be the Cast of Characters and a short
Synopsis of the play. To show you how different a
Scenario is from a story of a play, we append the
"story" of this Scenario. The play was written by
Richard Harding Davis and' produced by The Edison
Company of New York. It is their property and can
not be sold to another concern. The following review
of it is taken from The Moving Picture World:
"The Disreputable Mr. Raegen.-The first scene.
22
shows his entrance into a saloon and that the police of-
ficials know the man and his unenviable reputation.
Inside the saloon a young collector carelessly displays
a roll of bills in his wallet, and in paying his bill for
drinks, slips the wallet into the back pocket of his
trousers. Another habitue of the saloon, a man by the
name of Smith, feigning to drop his hat, deftly picks
the pocket of the young collector and slips the empty
wallet, after removing the bills, into Raegan's pocket.
Of course the alarm is spread and in a tremendously
exciting scene, in which Smith puts out the lights, the
place is raided by the police. Smith has escaped.
We see Smith return to his flat in a tumbledown ten-
ement and display the money which he has brought to
his old mother and to the little child of the story. The
child is hungry and cries for food. Suddenly they hear
a noise outside; it is the police! Stopping the child's
cries, they put her into a closet and closing the door,
make their escape by way of the fire escape. The po-
lice break in the door, make a hurried search and find-
ing no one there, disappear.
Shortly afterwards we see Raegan darting around
the corner, hotly pursued by other police and entering
this same building. Climbing upstairs rapidly, he finds
the door open and slips into Smith's apartment, closing
the door after him. Hearing a noise in the closet, he
raises a chair to defend himself, when the door opens
and the tiny little waif appears.
She is quite unconscious of any danger in the sup-
posed bad man and makes friends with him at once,
asking him to give her food. Raegan makes a search.
of the premises, but fails to find anything to give her.
He decides to forage outside, but on looking out of the
window on the front, finds police on guard on the side-
walk below watching the building. The same state of
affairs holds true at the back of the tenement. And
23
•
then the little child suddenly collapses in a dead faint
upon the floor from hunger.
This is too much for the heart of Raegan and pick-
ing her up in his arms he goes downstairs, presents.
himself to the police and invites them to take him to
the station, where something can be had for the child
to eat. Of course in the meantime, Smith has been ar-
rested with the money on his person and Raegan's in-
nocence is proven, and having turned over a new leaf,
we see him in the last scene become the foster father
of the little waif, who had been abandoned by her
grandmother when she fell into the hand of the law."
CHAPTER VI.
Action.
Action is the development and working out of the
Problem of the play.
The stage
Do not confound this with Business.
director will indicate the Business which consists of
directions for accomplishing the Action. "Crosses R.,"
"Picks up handkerchief," "Smiles scornfully," etc.-
those are bits of "Business;" but Action is far deeper
than that. The conflict of opposing wills, the rush of
events towards the Climax of the play, the battle of
Right against Wrong, of Love against Duty, consti-
tutes Action. The motives which compel the charac-
ters to do certain things are of all sorts, and every hu-
man emotion goes into their making. The father drives
his wayward son from his roof, the brother kills his
sister's betrayer, the forger is apprehended and im-
prisoned, the miser is stripped of his hoarded treasure.
The whole gamut of humanity is played upon by Ac-
tion. Human souls are bared to your gaze, with all
their hopes, fears and ambitions. The inmost secrets
of human hearts should be revealed to the audience.
and the more plainly you can so reveal them, the better
will be the Action of your play. Action must grow in
24
intensity as you approach the Climax, for it is mirrored
in the emotions of your audience and your audience
can only throw back the impression of emotion you
give to it through your Action. The weaker your Ac-
tion, the weaker will be the emotion aroused in the peo-
ple witnessing your play. They come to have those
emotions played upon, and your play must be capabie
of giving them the sensation they desire. If you do
not sway their emotions, there is something wrong
with your Action. Keep them interested; keep them
guessing as to the final outcome of the events you are
picturing. When they know how the Problem is
solved it is time to end your play, and when the very
first Scene does not interest them it is time to substi-
tute one that will do so. As long as they wonder what
is going to happen, you can continue, for you have.
aroused their curiosity.
Action, then, is "something doing." It is the over-
coming of obstacles, the correcting of mistakes, the
righting of wrongs, the expiation of a crime, the for-
giving of a fault, the clearing up of a mystery; it is
only Action when it affects the working out of the
Problem in hand. Action, without an object accom-
plished, is no Action at all. Of course, you will under-
stand that we do not refer to Action as embodied in a
"Comic" film. Such films rely on each scene to produce
laughter by any means. There is, properly speaking,
no real Action as we use the term in a "Comic" film
and therein it differs from a "Comedy" picture, which
should have the Action developed logically.
To show you the characteristics of "Comic" and
"Comedy" films, we give below a sample of each, taken
from The Moving Picture World. The "Comic" pic-
ture is as follows:
"Charles is greatly pleased at the sight of a little girl
rolling a hoop, and promptly decides to go in for the
"sport." With that fixed purpose, he proceeds to take
25
the pin out of a carriage wheel, that he may use the
latter for a hoop, but alas! cabby secures a fare, the
wheel comes off, the carriage falls on one side, and
Charles is roughly handled. His next attempt is with
a cycle wheel, which he "borrows" from a shop. Glee-
fully, he sends it spinning down the road, but unfor-
tunately it gets between a coalman's legs, and Charles
comes in for a bag full of coal dust. Nothing daunted,
he has another try with a milliner's hat-box, upsets a
cyclist, and, in turn is also upset. Then he tries the
cover of a sewer which dashes off on its own accord.
Charles pursues it and in turn he is also pursued and
finally seeks refuge in the sewer. He is at length res-
cued and the last straw comes when, after all his trou-
bles, he comes upon a shop in which hoops are prom-
inently displayed. He makes a rush for them, smashes
them up and then has to settle with a particularly irate
proprietor."
This film does not contain Action, in the larger in-
terpretation of the term. Is anything accomplished by
the hoop-rolling? Can you find Theme, Problem, Plot,
etc., in it? Nothing of the sort is there. It is a col-
lection of very loosely connected, improbable episodes.
It lacks logic and is not true to life as a Comedy film
must be.
Now look at this Comedy film; the property of the
Vitagraph Company:
"The widow visits her cousin Ned at Sprigtown, her
hair is golden, she calls it auburn, 'tis false. She is
bald. The girls plan to show the young beaus of Sprig-
town how they have been fooled by the charming
widow.
When she retires they take her wig and throw it
out of the window, make a fire in a can outside her
chamber door, cry fire, call up the Fire Department,
of which all the boys in town are members, hoping that
when they come to rescue the widow, they will see her
26
baldness. She has an admirer, lame, fat and fifty; he
finds her wig beneath her window, restores it and saves
her from ignominy of detection. The firemen arrive,
conduct her to safety, and she rewards each with a
golden curl, when she leaves town next morning with
her elderly admirer."
There is a consistent Comedy film, with Revenge as
the Theme. Let us examine the Action.
Scene 1 introduces the audience to the Widow and
her Admirer. Scene 2 shows Ned's home at Sprigtown.
Half a dozen of the village girls have been invited with
an equal number of young men, to meet the fascinating
Widow. She is introduced and soon has all the young
men devoted to her to such an extent that the village
girls are ignored by their male escorts. The object of
the Action is disclosed at the end of the Scene, when
the girls swear to be revenged on the Widow for tak-
ing their men friends away from them. Scene 3 shows
the interior of a large bedroom in the same house,
where the girls have been invited to remain over night.
They are taking down and combing their own hair.
The Widow enters for a moment, but refuses to take
down her own hair, although invited to do so. The
Action has for its object the purpose of showing that
the girls are aware she wears a wig. Scene 4 shows the
Widow in her own room preparing for bed. She takes
off her wig, for the Action of that Scene is intended
to show the audience visibly that she is nearly bald.
The scene closes with one of the girls entering after
the Widow is asleep, and stealing her wig. Scene 5
shows the girls throwing the wig out of their window
and lighting a smudge in a large can which they place
outside the Widow's door. The object of that Action
is shown in the last half of Scene 5, which shows the
Widow roused from her sleep by the smoke and trying
to locate the wig she had left on her dresser. Various
Scenes follow, embodying Action suitable to the Plot,
27
such as the Volunteer Fire Department (consisting of
the same young men who had escorted the girls to the
house) leaving their quarters and on the way to the
supposed fire. The master of the house enters the
smoke-filled hall, and discovers the pail full of smoul-
dering rubbish which he throws out, etc. Then fol-
lows important Action contained in a Scene showing
the entrance of the Widow's lame Admirer beneath her
window. He finds the wig, hears her cries for help and,
procuring a ladder, climbs to her window, restores her
wig and assists her to the ground before the Firemen
arrive. The following Scene shows the discomfiture
of the girls when the Firemen arrive and the Widow
is found wearing her wig as though it had never been
lost. The final Scene shows the young men bidding
the Widow farewell, as she leaves town with her el-
derly Admirer. The Action, you will note, is vital to
the Plot and carries the story logically through from
start to finish with ever increasing interest. What
keeps the audience interested? The same qualities that
you found interesting in reading the play through.
What was going to happen? Well, one thing happened
at a time, in the first place. Too many ideas at once
create confusion in the minds of the audience. We saw
that the Widow had an Admirer in the shape of an el-
derly, lame old gentleman, with marked Comedy char-
acteristics. The first thought on seeing him make love
to her was, "Will she accept him?" The answer to our
unspoken question was not given at once. Our inter-
est was held because our curiosity on that point was
not satisfied by the author. Next we beheld the arrival
of the village belles and their beaux at Ned's home to
meet the Widow. How would she impress them? We
were anxious to know, and our curiosity on that point
was satisfied. The young men all fell victims to her
attractive personality, and the girls swore vengeance.
Now what would happen? How would these girls "get
:
28
even" with the Widow? We did not know the Wid-
ow's hair was false any more than the young men did.
We saw the girls whispering together and knew they
were concocting some scheme the outcome of which
would not be favorable to the Widow. It was clear
that she had no inkling of the plot against her any
more than we had. We waited impatiently for the
next Scene. Even then we did not really know what
was going to happen. We suspected that the Widow
had some false hair, when she refused to take down
her hair at the girls' invitation in their bedroom, but
what of that? The girls were surely bent upon some
mischief and the object of their planning was the Wid-
ow—at least it concerned her in some way. Our curi-
osity was partly satisfied when, in the next Scene, she
took off her wig and our suspicions about her false.
hair were found to have been short of the truth. Then
we saw the girl enter and steal her wig. Ah! What
plan was afoot for her discomfiture? We thought we
knew, when we saw the girls light the smudge and
place it outside her door. She would probably think
the house afire and have hysterics when she discovered
that her wig had vanished. But no; she went to the
window, when she convinced herself that the wig was.
gone, and called for help. Then we were surprised to
find out that the Volunteer Firemen in the next Scene
were the very same fellows who had been so attentive
to the Widow earlier in the evening and the full mean-
ing of the girls' plot dawned on us at once. The young
men would arrive at the house and discover that the
beautiful and fascinating Widow was as bald as an
egg! We were all prepared for that ending when our
interest was further aroused by the sight of the elderly
Admirer finding the wig outside the Widow's window
where the girls had thrown it. He sees her at the win-
dow above crying for help. The sight of her bald head
does not daunt him! He lays aside his coat and hat
29
and manfully struggles up the shaky ladder to restore
his fair one's crowning glory and assist her to the
earth. The girls find that they have been out-witted
we knew that before they did. The last Scene was
still to come. The Elderly Admirer had saved his
charmer from ridicule. She was in need of urgent as-
sistance when he went to her rescue. She had laughed
at his devotion in the first Scene, would she reward
him now for saving her from humiliation? She did,
in the last Scene, and the play ended right there.
Can you see how Action keeps the interest alive up
to the very end of the picture? Can you see how im-
agination is stimulated by the unexpected turns in the
Action? Did you notice that, when every question
unconsciously asked by the audience had been an-
swered, the play stopped? In other words, the Action
had accomplished its purpose. There was no further
need for Action, so there was no more Action.
CHAPTER VII.
The Visible.
The visible qualities of a motion picture are those.
which are apparent to the eye.
Amateur playwrights seem to think that their pros-
pective audiences will be endowed with clairvoyant
sight which reveals all things hidden to the ordinary
mortal. One important fact after another is ignored
or slurred over in their scenarios, and immaterial Ac-
tion is carefully inserted. The audience of a motion
picture play is only going to have its emotions aroused
by what it sees. It is in the position of the small boy
outside of the fence at a ball game, for its vision is re-
stricted to a knot-hole view of what is happening. The
boy can only see what occurs within his range of vision
can your audience see more than that? Of course
not. They can deduce, from the Action they see, what
is likely to happen; but they must see for themselves
30
whether their deductions were correct. The small boy
outside the fence can deduce, from the wild cheering,
that someone has knocked a "three-bagger"; but he
still glues his eye to the knot-hole to learn if the. runner
reached third base safely.
When a motion picture company is performing in an
outdoor picture, lines are stretched on the ground at
each side of the camera in the fórm of a capital letter
"V", with the camera stationed where the lines meet.
Every bit of Action taking place between those lines is
photographed, but outside of them nothing is recorded.
It is not essential to the Plot that the stage director,
megaphone in hand, should be shown dancing up and
down and bawling ou instructions to the actors in a
frenzy of fear lest the Action should "let down" during
the Scene. The stage director is the hardest worked
man in the outfit, and without him the whole thing
would go to pieces, but he is not in the picture. He is
outside the lines. Profit by his example. If you dis-
cover that some of your Action belongs outside of the
lines, do not have it photographed.
In other words, non-essential Action must be elimi-
nated. No company is taking photographs for the fun
of wasting expensive materials; and no one has yet
discovered a good reason for exposing nine hundred
feet of film in taking a picture than can be told as
effectively on a roll four hundred feet long. So, if you
can grasp the idea that you are showing a story instead
of telling it, you have taken a long step in the right
direction.
Everything the audience sees should add to their
knowledge of your play. If one is to judge by some of
the titles chosen for motion pictures, he must believe
that some authors are running a puzzle department.
We defy anyone who has not seen the films to tell us
the subjects of the following plays lately released:
"Five Hours"; "When the Red Turned Gray"; "If It
31
Were Ever Thus!" The title should be short and to
the point, and should give the audience a clew to the
Plot. If possible, name your play after the central
Character, as:" THE MISER”;; "THE GLUTTON";
"THE CONVICT," etc., or use a general title which
vividly pictures the strongest situation in it like: "A
WOMAN'S HONOR";; "THE FIGHT FOR A
SOUL"; "HONOR AMONG THIEVES," etc.
་
If you can assume the mental attitude of an audience
which is seeing your play for the first time, and read
your play over as though it was utterly new to you, you
will usually see the weak spots in its construction with-
out much trouble. Continually ask yourself, "Why?"
and if you do not know the answer you may rest as-
sured that your audience will be no wiser. You must
decide what is to be shown, and how it is to be shown.
In the first place, your title gives an idea of the Plot.
The audience sees, in the opening Scene, the country
in which the Action takes place, America, France.
Spain, etc., and the locality, city, town, or county. The
costumes of the actors give the approximate date, An-
cient, Mediaeval or Modern. The audience must be
shown whether the time is Spring, Summer, Autumn
or Winter, and whether it is Night or Day. They are
learning some new fact every minute as the details of
the Action are being presented. Go into some motion
picture theatre and watch the faces of the audience.
See how they gradually light up with understanding
and interest as the well-constructed play unrolls its
Action before their eyes, or note the puzzled expression
when they are trying to grasp the details of an obscure
Plot.
When you have an important bit of Action, how fu-
tile it would be to have one of your characters describe
it in pantomime! Let the audience see it. Can mere
description do justice to a heroic deed? Not in this
business. Your audience wants to be thrilled!
It en-
32
joys the suspense which quickens its pulses. Why
deny it what it craves? Rest assured that he who can
supply its demand will have no trouble in disposing of
his wares.
There is one important fact that should always be
kept in mind. An audience, considered as a unit, pre-
fers Action which embraces the elemental passions
rather than the finer distinctions of poetical drama.
A
collection of people, whatever their individual tenden-
cies when apart, exhibits a curious tendency to lose a
well-balanced sense of proportion, and lets iself be
swayed by the most primitive emotions. It is these
emotions which you are trying to reach through the
eye, and in proportion to your understanding of them.
will you succeed or fail.
Which emotion is the strongest? Undoubtedly, the
love of a fight, for the spirit of a crowd is the spirit of
a Savage. Man had to fight for his very existence in
the earlier part of human history, and the lust of fight-
ing still lives beneath the veneer of civilization. Does
not the spirit of a mob tend towards acts of violence?
Does a public lecture on Hydrostatics draw as big a
crowd as a football game between rival colleges?
One cannot always have a physical fight in a motion
picture, but he can get much the same effect on the
audience by showing an intense struggle of two oppos-
ing wills. Both cannot triumph in the end, so it is
your duty to so strengthen the winning character as to
make his winning acceptable to the crowd. Remember
that the under dog usually has the sympathy of your
audiences. They want the poor to win against the
rich, the high-born to be abased before the lowly, the
proud to be humbled, the weak to triumph over the
strong, the oppressed to be revenged on the oppressor.
They insist on having the "happy ending" and you
must furnish it.
'
33
"Actions speak louder than words" because they are
seen, and your audiences will blindly accept anything
within reason as the truth; but the Scenario Editor
who reads your submitted play requires at least the
semblance of truth in your work, so you must supply
that quality. Your Action should be true to life in im-
portant details, if you expect to preserve the illusion of
the play until the end.
CHAPTER VIII.
Preparation.
Preparation consists in showing the audience certain
conditions which affect the future development of the
Plot.
No Action vital to the Plot should be introduced
without warning the audience in advance. If someone
is to be shot, the revolver must be in evidence before
the deed is committed. In other words, the people
witnessing your play must not be startled into losing
the thread of the story by having to question any part
of the past Action. In a recent motion picture play,
the hero wagers that he can enter and rob a house
without being caught. That is Preparation for his
later appearance in the guise of a burglar. The next
scene shows the interior of the house he is to rob. A
girl, before retiring, hides a string of pearls in her
slipper and conceals it in a closet. The scene would
have been useless had the hero not been allowed to
enter that identical house as he did later. The audience
was not told that this was the house he would rob, nor
that he would discover the pearls in the slipper; but it
was Prepared to see just those very things happen. On
the other hand, the spectators were not surprised to see
this well-dressed gentleman enter to rob, for they had
previously seen him bet his friends at the Club that he
could do it. They knew he was no common burglar
and their sympathies were with him. They hoped he
34
would win the bet, because they had been prepared or
warned of his intentions in the first Scene. They had
seen the girl place a revolver under her pillow, so they
were not surprised to see her sitting up in bed with her
revolver pointed at the young man, when the lights
were turned up.
As soon as the girl discovered the supposed bur-
glar, the spectators were introduced to the principle of
Suspense. Would she turn him over to the police? If
that happened, he would lose his bet. He pleaded with
her to release him. Had she done so at once, the Sus-
pense would have been quickly over; but the Action
proceeded for several minutes before she made up her
mind that he should be allowed to go, and during that
time they were uncertain of the outcome.
That principle of Suspense is exceedingly valuable in
keeping an audience interested. It is the old trick of
leaving off a story at an exciting point, "To be contin-
ued"; but the trick in this case consists in prolonging
the Suspense by allowing the Action to waver in the
balance for a time before bringing it to the Climax. The
same trick is worked at a circus before the big "Fea-
ture" act is performed. The band stops playing; the
nets are tightened; the performer is drawn slowly
aloft; crowds of employees suspend work and gather
around the spot where the "thriller" is to take place.
At such a time one can feel the nervous tension of the
crowd tighten until it becomes painful, and of course
that effect is artificially produced by prolonging the
situation.
The two principles of Preparation and Suspense are
exemplified in the motion picture entitled, "The Widow
Visits Springtown," produced by the Vitagraph Com-
pany. The first Scene "discovers" the Widow. Pres-
ently her elderly admirer enters and presents her with
a bouquet of roses. He then drops upon his knees and
proposes to her. She laughingly refuses him, and he
35
exits. The object of the Scene has been accomplished.
The audience had be to be introduced to the Widow so
that she might be immediately recognized when she
entered the next Scene; and it also was prepared to
know her Admirer when he entered again much later in
the play to save her from humiliation by finding and
restoring her wig to her. How did the spectators know
the old gentleman loved the Widow? Simply because,
in the first Scene, he had brought her flowers and had
proposed to her. If the Admirer had not been intro-
duced in previous Action, the spectators would have
known nothing about him when he entered to restore
the wig. They would have been so occupied in trying
to place him in their minds that they would have lost
the thread of the story. The principle of Suspense was
used in delaying the vital Action. The girls stole the
Widow's wig and threw it out of the window, placing
a smudge outside of her door to simulate a fire. What
was going to happen? The spectators could only guess.
that the Widow's secret would become known; but
they were allowed to remain in Suspense. The next
Scene showed the Widow roused by the smoke and
unable to find her wig. Then she tried to escape from
her room, but was forced back from the door by the
clouds of smoke which rolled in when she opened it.
She went to the window and called for help. The fol-
lowing Scene might have shown her Admirer entering
and finding her wig beneath her window, but the play-
wright knew his business better than to do that. In-
stead, he showed the village fire department. The
alarm sounded, and the young men hauled their ap-
paratus out and started for the supposed fire. The
next two Scenes showed different village streets with
the volunteer firemen on their way to the fire. Then
followed a Scene showing the master of the house find-
ing the can of smoking rubbish in the hall and carrying
it out. The Scene showing the Admirer finding the
36
wig and restoring it to its owner followed; but you will
note that it was held back until just before the firemen
reached the house. That is the method of producing
Suspense. You must at times delay telling what your
audience wants to know until its curiosity has been
keyed to a high pitch. Tantalize it by withholding the
Climax for a time; but do not fail to satisfy it at the
end.
There is a third principle involved in this partcular
play, the use of which heightens the effect materially.
The spectators expected the Widow to be discovered
by the firemen without her wig. The Action took a
sudden turn in her favor, when her Admirer returned
the stolen wig, and she was enabled to face the fire-
men, when they arrived, without being humiliated.
That was Unexpected.
This quality of the Unexpected is so necessary in a
play that one might almost say there could be no
Drama without it. It a way, everything about a play
is Unexpected. It must be apparent to any observer
that Action ceases to interest if spectators absolutely
know what is going to happen. The interest lies in the
uncertainty, and as soon as that uncertainty is cleared
up the play must end. It is, therefore, part of wisdom
to continue that uncertainty which keeps the emotions
aroused until the Climax, and in no way can that con-
dition be maintained to better advantage than by use
of the Unexpected.
It is the Unexpected that produces what are called
"Situations." Recently a motion picture had, as a
Climax, the effort of two tramps to rob the ticket office
of a lonely station on a Western railroad. The girl in
charge kept them at bay by pointing what appeared to
be a revolver at them, and it was not until the tramps
were captured by men who came to her rescue that the
audience got a closer view of her weapon and discov-
ered that it was a nickel-plated monkey wrench! That
37
}
was a fine situation, for the surprise was so great that
the audience did what motion picture audiences seldom
do-broke into laughter and applause.
In the present formative period of the motion picture
drama, you will find many pictures in which the ele-
ment of the Unexpected is lacking; but witness some
of them for yourself, and decide which kind of picture
interests you the most. You will invariably prefer the
play that keeps you on edge by reason of its Unex-
pected situations.
Try to introduce this principle into your own work.
You may not see the latent possibilities of your Work-
ing Scenario at once, but frequent working over it will
disclose opportunities of injecting Unexpected Action
which will greatly aid a Plot.
CHAPTER IX.
Scenes.
The division into Scenes marks the different steps in
the Action.
Various things have to be accomplished; obstacles
have to be overcome, differences of opinion reconciled,
the crooked path made straight, rough places made
smooth; and all matters concerning which the audience
is in doubt adjusted to its satisfaction. As your play
has an Object to be accomplished, so each Scene must
likewise accomplish some definite thing and advance
the Action one step nearer the Climax. Scenes, then,
are the successive steps by which the Object of the
play is accomplished.
Every important action in real life progresses by
steps. Nothing is accomplished in an instant. If you
decide to build a house, you must own or lease the
ground on which to build it. Before you can do' that,
you must enter into negotiations with its present
owner, learn the price at which he values it, have the
38
property surveyed, see that the title is clear and record
the deed transferring ownership to yourself after you
have purchased it. Then an architect must be con-
sulted, plans and specifications drawn, contracts made
with masons, carpenters, plasterers, electricians,
plumbers, etc. It is plain that each of your actions is
bringing you a step nearer the Climax, which is the
completion of the dwelling. Therefore we may divide.
those actions into Scenes.
Scene 1.-You decide to build a house.
Scene 2.-You choose the ground on which tọ build.
Scene 3-You arrange a satisfactory price for it.
Scene 4.-You establish its boundaries by a survey.
Scene 5.-You clear the title.
Scene 6.-You buy the property.
Scene 7-You engage an architect.
Do you not see how each Scene accomplishes some-
thing, and progresses towards the desired end? Every-
thing set down above has to do with the house you are
building. That is Unity. Obstacles may arise that
you have discounted before you began. It is to be ex-
pected that the owner of the land will ask a higher
price at first than he expects to get. You combat that
at the start by offering less than you expect to ulti-
mately pay, and the prices gradually approach each
other as he lowers and you raise. That is Action.
Your workmen may go out on a strike without warn-
ing. That is the Unexpected. Your Theme is Labor.
Your Problem is: Can I build a house? Your Plot
would be a detailed story of the Action embodied in the
Scenes. Your Scenario would detail the necessary
Action to achieve the Object of each Scene. Your
Synopsis would precede the Scenario with a brief
statement of the Plot; and a list of the prominent
Characters would head the Synopsis.
You could not sell a motion picture play written on
39
such a subject because building a house does not inter-
est strangers to any extent, yet the principles involved.
are identical with those of any successful play. Your
play, then, must be divided into Scenes; and each
Scene must accomplish the Object you had in view
when you started it. As soon as that Object has been
so accomplished, the Scene must end.
Let us take the division into Scenes of the Vita-
graph Company's play entitled, "The Widow Visits
Sprigtown." The Object of each Scene is as follows:
Scene 1.-The Widow has an elderly Admirer.
The subordinate Object of this Scene is to introduce
the Widow to the audience, but the principle Object is
as stated.
Scene 2.—The village girls are jealous of the Widow.
This is shown by their actions when their men
friends, at the reception in the Widow's honor, neglect
them to pay court to her.
Scene 3-The girls plan to be revenged on the
Widow.
The Object of this Scene is not the accomplishing of
their revenge, but merely to show that they plan such
action. The subordinate Object is to show that the
Widow wears a wig.
Scene 4. The plan is put into execution.
The wig is stolen by the girls, and thrown out of the
window. At the same time, they place a smudge out-
side of her door and raise a cry of "fire!"
Scene 5.-The Widow is in danger of being humil-
iated when discovered without her wig.
By having the Action remain stationary at this
point, the interest of the audience is intensified.
Scene 6.-The elderly Admirer rescues the Widow
from her predicament. The girls are foiled in their at-
tempt to humiliate her.
40
This is the Climax of the play. The return of the
wig is Unexpected, which adds greatly to the effective-
ness.
Scene 7.-The Widow leaves Sprigtown, presumably
to reward her elderly Admirer by marrying him.
There are subordinate bits of Action introduced
showing the volunteer firemen approaching the house.
from which the alarm of fire has come. They are
added for the purpose of delaying the Climax and
creating Suspense, as we have indicated in another
Chapter; but the main division into Scenes as above.
carries the Action of the play to a logical conclusion.
The principles underlying any successful play are so
related to each other that one could easily destroy its
effectiveness by disregarding a single principle. Sup-
posing, in the above play, that Preparation was lack-
ing, by reason of the fact that the Admirer of the
Widow had not been introduced to the audience until
he entered to restore the wig. Lack of Preparation, in
that case, would also destroy Unity in the minds of the
spectators; for they would question the reason of in-
troducing a man who was an utter stranger to them,
and presumably to the Widow, into the Action. If
her wig was to be restored, they would argue that the
restoration should be made by some character with
whom they were already acquainted. If the Widow
had not proved sufficiently fascinating to take the
girls' male escorts away from them, the girls would
have had no Cause for the jealousy which prompted
revenge. If the Action then proceeded with the girls
carrying out their plan of revenge, there would appar-
ently be no Cause for it; and the Effect without the
Cause would fall flat. The Action would degenerate
into horse-play without any reason for it. Audiences.
like to know "the reason why" for everything that is
shown them.
、
41
CHAPTER X.
The Scenario.
A Scenario is a brief statement of the essential Ac-
tion, logically arranged in Sequence, which is neces-
sary to a satisfactory working out of the Plot.
One cannot deliberately sit down to compose a
Scenario unless he has an Idea. Motion picture pro-
ducers are glad to receive original Scenarios so well
developed that no re-writing is necessary. Good Com-
edy is greatly in demand, for it is the hardest to obtain,
and consequently brings the highest prices. Let us,
therefore, write a comedy-if we can.
(Please note that, in order to give the exact process.
of the mind, the following thoughts will be set down
exactly as they occur, and with no idea of literary ex-
cellence. The result will be crude, and will have to be
1evised before it is submitted-if it proves worth sub-
mitting. We wish to make plain the groping for an
Idea, and the working out of the Scenario with that
Idea as the basis. That this is no cut-and-dried plan
will be proved by lack of that polish which only comes
from revision.)
The Idea must first be secured.
*
*
* **
*
*
Shall we build a play around Mother-in-law? That
might do, if nothing better offers, and if we can give
an entirely new turn to it. The Comic Supplement.
idea of the character will not do. She always sides
with her daughter, and nags her daughter's husband
until she drives him to the nearest saloon for consola-
tion. Probably five hundred Scenarios written in that
vein have been submitted and refused. We don't want
a Comic-we want to write a Comedy. There is a big
difference between the two.
It isn't always the Mother-in-law who is at fault.
The trouble is often caused by young people who rush
into marriage regardless of the fact that the stern re-
42
alities of life do not allow much time for rosy dreams.
How many people marry and divorce in a few years?
The Honeymoon lasts such a short time! They say
that "Two can live as cheaply as one;" but they neg-
lect to add that each one will have less to live on.
*
* *
*
*
*
If a couple could see what the future held in store
for them-hold on! Why couldn't they see? Why
couldn't they go through one day such as they might
have after they had been married four or five years?
Have a trial at married life as it might be later on,
when matters had settled down to a routine. There we
have a Plot which might bring in Mother-in-law in a
new role. We have not worked out the Idea fully; but
here is the title:
A TRIAL MARRIAGE.
Any audience, seeing that title, will edge forward in
its seats with an expectant grin on its face. Everyone
has read discussions of this subject and will expect
funny situations.
Their parents discover
We have now advanced far enough to formulate a
Problem. Two young people, deeply in love, are re-
strained from marrying by their parents, for the reason
that they are too young to realize the cares and re-
sponsibilities of married life. They refuse to be sepa-
rated, and prepare to elope.
their plan, and thwart it. The girl's mother suggests
that the youngsters be permitted to live under the same
roof for twenty-four hours in order to show them what
life together would be like. Will twenty-four hours
cure them of their notions, or strengthen their deter-
mination to marry at once?
We are not prepared to give the answer to this Prob-
lem at once, but fancy that it will work out in such a
way as to cure the youngsters of their fancy for each
43
other. We must now arrange our principals in the
Cast, who must be introduced in the first Scene.
A Trial Marriage.
James Arden-A city clerk living with his parents.
About nineteen. Good looking.
Dorothy Love-His sweetheart. About seventeen.
Pretty and dainty.
Mrs. Love-Dorothy's mother. Rather small, and
quick in her actions.
Mr. Love-Dorothy's father. Fat and jolly.
Mr. and Mrs. Arden-Parents of James.
Time: June. Place:
York City.
Suburban town near New
Other characters may be needed, and will be added if
the Plot seems to call for them; but we shall try to get
along with a few characters in order not to confuse the
spectators or steal their attention away from the prin-
cipals. Now we must try a Working Scenario.
1. Introduce the young lovers and Mrs. Love to
audience.
2. Show that youngsters are engaged.
3. They wish to marry at once.
4. But parents refuse consent because of their
youth.
5. They determine to elope.
6. But their plans are thwarted by parents.
7. Mrs. Love suggests that youngsters be given a
taste of married life stripped of its romance.
8. Her idea is put into effect.
9. With the result that the youngsters are cured of
their desire for matrimony until they have reached
years of discretion.
That is the first rough draft of the Working Senario,
put down on paper exactly as it was thought out. It
seems to have Unity and Sequence and possibilities of
44
1
good Comedy in it; but it is still subject to revision.
As we think more and more over the Action, new
phases may be developed that will require other Char-
acters or still other Scenes. The numbering resorted
to in the Working Scenario is only to establish Se-
quence, and does not signify the division into Scenes.
which will come later. Now we must go over our
work again.
1. Introduce the three principals to the audience.
This cannot be done by having them walk on and
bow. They must have reasons for appearing in the
Scene. Let us see if we can make a picture of the
first Scene.
Scene 1-A Garden of Roses.-Dorothy enters and
gathers roses-looks up-waves hand in direction of
house next door—(Slowly turn camera towards house
next door, to show that lovers live in adjoining houses,
until it takes in) James standing on porch of house next
door-waves hand in reply-runs down steps (Follow
with camera)-greets Dorothy at hedge between
houses-comes through hedge to her side-Kisses her
-takes engagement ring from pocket and slips on her
finger-Mrs. Love in door of house in background calls
Dorothy-gets no reply-comes down-joins lovers-
Dorothy tries to hide engagement ring-Mrs. Love
sees it-questions them-learns they are engaged-re-
fuses permission-they plead with her to no avail-
bids James come to house and talk matter over with
Mr. Love-takes Dorothy into house with her-James
follows them in.
We seem to have accomplished the Object of this
Scene, having introduced the three principals to the
audience which has also learned that James and Doro-
thy are engaged against Mrs. Love's wishes.
It is beyond the scope of this book to complete the
above Scenario. The methods followed should, from
45
this example of practical work, be plain enough for any-
one to understand them. We have shown the central
Idea from its conception down to its actual develop-
ment. Of course, the carrying on of the same process
in the other Scenes must produce Action that will in-
crease in interest and move with greater rapidity as it
approaches the Climax.
TO THE STUDENT.
We append a list of motion picture producers who
are willing to read Scenarios submitted to them. They
are all in the market for good Comedy on original lines
and for Drama that possesses "heart interest." "Blood
and thunder" melodrama has been practically killed-
as it should be.
Manuscripts will receive better attention if they are
typewritten. If that is impossible in your case, write
very legibly in ink, on one side of sheets 8½ by 11
inches. A hasty scrawl in pencil is not even read. Fas-
ten sheets together in upper lefthand corner with a pin
or clip. Write name and address in same corner. Pur-
chase legal size envelope of two sizes. The smaller of
the two should be large enough to receive your script
with two folds in it-that is, it should be more than 11
inches long. On that smaller sized envelope write your
own name and address and affix enough stamps to pay
for return postage in case your script is unavailable.
Enclose the self-addressed envelope, together with your
script, in the larger envelope on which you place the
name and address of the firm to which you are submit-
ting it, and be sure there are enough stamps on the
butside envelope to cover mailing. Seript's unavailable
are usually returned within a week, and you can send
your script to the next firm on your list, if it comes
back, using the same methods for return again, and you
may be pleasantly disappointed. If you don't land a
success the first time, don't give up. Stick to it like a
46
bulldog and you will make good if you have the ideas.
Your work will improve with practice until it has the
professional touch.
It is not necessary to copyright your Scenarios. The
list of firms in this book is reliable and they will not
appropriate your ideas without paying you for them.
Omitting any firm from this list does not imply that
such firms are questionable in their dealings with play-
wrights, but merely that sufficient data regarding their
acceptance of scripts cannot be procured at present.
Always keep one copy of your Scenario in case the
original should be lost in the mail; but do not send a
duplicate until you have received word that the original
did not reach its destination. Follow the custom and
leave the price of acceptable Scenarios to the Editor
until you possess the experience to correctly value your
own work.
In this profession, as in any other, "practice makes
perfect." You have, we trust, learned the theory of
Scenario writing from this book.
Practice what you have learned with diligence and
you will rapidly become proficient. Hard Work and
Success live next door to each other and are intimate
friends.
47
PRODUCING FIRMS.
The Biograph Co., 11 East 14th St., New York City.
(Will begin reading scripts the middle of May. Ex-
press no preference.)
Carlton Motion Picture Co., 1 Union Square, New
York City.
(No preference.)
Champion Film Co., 12 East 15th St., New York City.
(Desires Western and Military Dramas based on
historical facts.)
Eclair Film Co., 31 East 27th St., New York City.
(Not yet in the market for Scenarios.)
The Edison Co., Manuscript Dept., Bedford Park, N. Y
(No preference.)
The Essanay Co., Chicago, Ill.
(No preference.)
David Horsley, 147-57 Fourth Ave., New York City.
(No preference.)
Independent Motion Picture Co., 102 West 101st St.,
New York City.
(No preference.)
The Kalem Co., 235 West 23rd St., New York City.
(Have their own writers.)
Lubin Mnfg. Co., Philadelphia, Pa.
(Desires novel Comedy with few characters; also
Cowboy and Indian Dramas full of heart inter-
est.)
Melles Mnfg. Co., 204 East 38th St., New York City.
(Desires Western Plots with no military or spec-
tacular features. Likes Plot laid in Texas and
can use up to 15 horsemen; but no children.)
48
Pathe Freres, Scenario Dept., 5 Congress St., Jersey
City Heights, N. J.
(Prefers American Plots.)
The Powers Co., 241st St., & Richardson Ave., New
York City.
(Desires short Comedy or Comedy Dramas.)
R. Prieyr, 10 East 15th St., New York City.
(Has no American producing department; but
will read scripts sent to "Societe des Phono-
graphes & Cinematographes, "Lux," 32 Rue
Louis le Grand, Paris, France." Foreign post-
age and scripts in French would probably re-
ceive first attention.)
Rex Motion Picture Mnfg. Co., 573-9 11th Ave., New
York City.
(Desires Plots with small cast.)
Selig Polyscope Co., 20 East Randolph St., Chicago, Ill.
(Desires Military and Historical Dramas.)
The Solax Co., 147 Fourth Ave., New York City.
(Desires good Comedy and Military Plots. Eigh-
teen to twenty Scenes.)
The Vitagraph Co., Manuscript Dept., 15th St. & Lo-
cust Ave., Brooklyn, N. Y.
(No preference; but they always stage good Com-
edy.)


wils
808.2 G29
UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA
George, Frederic.
The construction of a motion picture pla
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