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Taylorology Issue 70
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* T A Y L O R O L O G Y *
* A Continuing Exploration of the Life and Death of William Desmond Taylor *
* *
* Issue 70 -- October 1998 Editor: Bruce Long bruce@asu.edu *
* TAYLOROLOGY may be freely distributed *
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CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE:
Review: "Mysteries & Scandals"
Jeanie Macpherson
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What is TAYLOROLOGY?
TAYLOROLOGY is a newsletter focusing on the life and death of William Desmond
Taylor, a top Paramount film director in early Hollywood who was shot to
death on February 1, 1922. His unsolved murder was one of Hollywood's major
scandals. This newsletter will deal with: (a) The facts of Taylor's life;
(b) The facts and rumors of Taylor's murder; (c) The impact of the Taylor
murder on Hollywood and the nation; (d) Taylor's associates and the Hollywood
silent film industry in which Taylor worked. Primary emphasis will be given
toward reprinting, referencing and analyzing source material, and sifting it
for accuracy.
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A nice selection of Taylor photos in JPG format can be seen on the web site
of the TAYLOROLOGY mirror run by David Pearson at:
http://www.uno.edu/~drcom/Taylorology/Photos/Taylor.html
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The July 1998 issue of BIOGRAPHY magazine (published by A&E Cable TV)
contains a brief, error-filled, one-page article on the Taylor case titled
"Shocking, Lurid and True: The Case of the Dead Director." The article
includes photos of Taylor, Minter, and Shelby.
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Review: "Mysteries & Scandals"
The episode of "Mysteries & Scandals" dealing with the William Desmond
Taylor murder was broadcast on the "E!" cable channel early in June 1998.
The best thing about the program was the 15 seconds from the 1913 film "The
Quakeress"--giving us a brief glimpse of William Desmond Taylor as an actor.
The program also displayed a very nice selection of photographs of Taylor.
But overall the episode was poorly done, filled with errors, and not
concerned with presenting an objective examination of the case, although two
of the six interview subjects (Betty Fussell and A. C. Lyles) did an
admirable job. The program presumed that Charlotte Shelby killed Taylor, and
did not even bother to mention prime suspect Edward Sands! But even as a
program devoted to the Shelby-as-killer theory, the program was poorly done
because it ignored the real case against Shelby (a bullet from Shelby's gun
was similar to the fatal bullet, Shelby had previously threatened to shoot
Taylor, Shelby had previously gone to Taylor's home carrying her gun, etc.),
and instead the program presented its case via rumors and speculation.
The following are some factual errors we noticed in the program:
1. The dramatization of Taylor's shooting is incorrect regarding the
distance of the gun from the body, the location of the fatal wound, and the
path of the bullet through the body. [See TAYLOROLOGY 22, "The Path of the
Fatal Bullet"] And Taylor actually had on his jacket and vest when he was
shot.
2. Taylor did not arrive in Hollywood "without a resume." He spent
three years on the stage with actress Fanny Davenport, and also acted with a
number of other prominent stage actors: Kathryn Kidder, Sol Smith Russell,
Victory Bateman, and Harry Corson Clarke. In 1912, any actor with similar
stage experience could have gotten a job in Hollywood.
3. Taylor was not the "Steven Spielberg of his generation." Taylor was
highly-regarded within the film industry, but not by the general public.
Also, Taylor made no big spectacular films (such as had been made by
Griffith, Brenon, Ince, De Mille), and Taylor never made his own independent
films (such as had been made by Neilan, Tourneur, Vidor). Taylor worked
within the studio system. A few months before his murder, MOTION PICTURE
MAGAZINE had a readers' poll for "best director." The only directors
receiving significant votes were (most to least): Griffith, C. B. De Mille,
Neilan, Ince, W. De Mille, Fitzmaurice, Forman, von Stroheim, Dwan, Ingram,
and Vidor.
4. It is stated that Taylor married at the age of 33 (incorrect) and
left his wife at the age of 36 (correct). Taylor married at the age of 29 in
1901 and left his wife seven years later (not three years later) in 1908.
5. At the time of his death, Taylor was not Paramount's "most popular
director"--that title would have belonged to Cecil B. De Mille, whose
pictures were the most successful. And Taylor was not the most popular among
Paramount employees--contemporary reports are mixed, including a report that
Taylor was nicknamed "Simon Legree" (the cruel slave owner from "Uncle Tom's
Cabin") because he was such a demanding director. [See TAYLOROLOGY 32,
dispatch of Wallace Smith]
6. At the time of Taylor's death, Mary Miles Minter was 19 years old,
not 17.
7. The last day of Taylor's life was not "a normal day shooting at the
studio." Taylor was between films and spent almost no time at the studio
that day. The brief time he spent at the studio did not involve any filming.
[See TAYLOROLOGY 21, "The Last Day of Taylor's Life"]
8. Mabel Normand never said that Taylor was "arguing very heatedly with
someone" on the telephone when she arrived. Taylor was having a normal
telephone conversation with Antonio Moreno when Mabel arrived.
9. The photo of "Taylor's dead body" is not Taylor--it is the photo of
a suicide victim in Connecticut, a young man in his 20's. [See TAYLOROLOGY
65, "175 Errors and Contradictions in 'A Cast of Killers'", item 102]
10. After the body was found, Peavey did not call the police. The
police were called by Taylor's neighbors. [See TAYLOROLOGY 56: "Mrs. Verne
Dumas, who heard his [Peavey's] cries, called the police."]
11. Studio executives were not burning papers in Taylor's fireplace--
there was no fireplace in Taylor's home.
12. It is stated that "there was no mention of homosexuality in the
press." False. [See TAYLOROLOGY 65, "175 Errors and Contradictions in
'A Cast of Killers'", item 43]
13. It is stated that soon after the murder, "everybody was talking
about Mary Miles Minter's underpants." At that time, the rumors were about a
supposedly-initialed nightgown, not about "underpants."
14. "Soon after Taylor's murder, Mary's bank account began to shrink."
That is not accurate. Prior to the Taylor murder, Mary essentially had no
bank account whatsoever--everything was in Shelby's accounts. Mary did not
begin to personally receive her own paychecks until months after the murder,
shortly before she moved out. [See TAYLOROLOGY 35.]
15. The "finger of suspicion" did not only point at Charlotte Shelby--
Edward Sands was also a major suspect and some investigators thought Sands
killed Taylor. [See TAYLOROLOGY 19, "The Case against Edward Sands"] No
serious documentary about the Taylor murder could fail to mention Sands.
16. The photo of "Faith MacLean" is actually Kathlyn Williams.
17. Faith MacLean did not "look out the window"--she looked out her
front door, which also had a screen door. [See the statement of Faith
MacLean in TAYLOROLOGY 62.]
18. Two of the photos of "Mary Miles Minter" are not Minter. One of the
photos is Marion Davies, from the film "Show People."
19. At that time, Wallace Reid was Paramount's biggest star, not
Arbuckle.
20. It is stated that at the time of the Taylor case, Arbuckle was "on
trial for rape and murder." False. He was only on trial for manslaughter.
21. Mary Miles Minter was not Charlotte Shelby's only alibi witness.
Actor Carl Stockdale stated that he was with Shelby at the time of the
murder.
22. It is stated that Mary wrote in her diary that her mother killed
Taylor. Prove it. During the 1937 grand jury investigation, Mary's diaries
were subpoenaed and found to be of "utterly no value" regarding the Taylor
case. [See TAYLOROLOGY 22, "The 1937 Grand Jury Investigation"]
23. It is stated that "just about everyone agrees that Charlotte Shelby
committed the murder." Not hardly. The authors of two of the three books
about Taylor (Giroux, Long) are not convinced that Shelby killed Taylor, nor
is the author of MABEL (Fussell). [Also see TAYLOROLOGY 58, "In Defense of
Charlotte Shelby"] And several investigators on the case thought Sands was
the killer.
24. Mabel Normand died in a sanitarium in Monrovia, not Pasadena.
In addition to the above factual errors, there were a number of rumors
which the program presented as facts. These should have been clearly labeled
as only rumors (and rather dubious rumors, at that):
1. That a cache of pornographic photos was found in Taylor's home.
2. That Minter's underwear was found in Taylor's home.
3. That an impressive collection of ladies' lingerie was found in
Taylor's home.
4. That Shelby was "deranged."
5. That on the day of Taylor's death, Charlotte Shelby had hit
Mary Miles Minter.
6. That Minter wanted to "shack up" with Taylor.
7. That Peavey often procured sex partners for Taylor. [See
TAYLOROLOGY 65, "175 Errors and Contradictions in 'A Cast of
Killers'", item 146]
8. That studio executives had planted items in Taylor's home.
9. That Shelby had bribed "three generations" of District Attorneys.
10. That years later, Mary kept her mother locked in an upstairs
bedroom.
Of course, the batch of rumors spread recently do not deserve the same status
as those rumors which were circulating immediately after the Taylor murder.
The latter are part of the history of the Taylor case, the former are not.
The false contemporary rumors had an impact on the nation's reaction to the
Taylor murder, and an impact on Hollywood's reaction to people who were close
to the murder; but false recent rumors have no real justification for
repeating, even as rumors.
The program naturally had to conform to the series format for "Mysteries
& Scandals": fast-paced, tabloid television, with cynical wiseguy narration
and focusing on sensational material, in order to draw and hold an audience
who had never heard about the subject. But the program could have followed
that formula and still presented a highly-accurate show, instead of the error-
filled hodgepodge which was broadcast. Plus, there were many dramatic and
lurid contemporary rumors and incidents which could have been discussed and
dramatized, instead of recently-written nonsense.
A good documentary on the Taylor case still needs to be produced. On a
scale of 1 to 10, we would give a "3" rating to "Mysteries & Scandals." The
good things in the program: the photographs and film of Taylor, and the
interview segments with Betty Fussell and A. C. Lyles.
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Jeanie Macpherson
In 1920, William Desmond Taylor was one of the "Big Five" directors at
Paramount, along with Cecil B. De Mille, William De Mille, George
Fitzmaurice, and George Melford. The "Big Five" all received "the name above
the title" when their films were advertised. With the exception of George
Melford, each of these directors was primarily associated with one female
scenario writer, forming a collaborative creative team of writer and
director: William Desmond Taylor and Julia Crawford Ivers; Cecil B. De Mille
and Jeanie Macpherson, William De Mille and Clara Beranger, George
Fitzmaurice and Ouida Bergere. The most successful team was that of Cecil
B. De Mille and Jeanie Macpherson, and their collaboration continued
throughout the silent era. Indeed, Jeanie Macpherson was one of the very top
screenwriters of the silent film era, and she also directed and starred in a
number of early films.
In addition, Jeanie Macpherson was Mary Miles Minter's "best friend" for
several years [see TAYLOROLOGY 11 and 69].
The following is a selection of interviews with, and articles by, Jeanie
Macpherson, written between 1917 and 1924.
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July 21, 1917
Jeanie Macpherson
MOVING PICTURE WORLD
Development of Photodramatic Writing
Writing for the photodrama is becoming more and more difficult every
day. Every day new photo-dramatic symbols are being created to take the
place of involved action or explanatory subtitles. As the art progresses, so
does the public's understanding of the art, and the methods we used two years
ago to explain certain things are now archaic, as, for example, not so long
ago, when we wanted to show a man thinking of his sweetheart, we had him
sitting with his head in his hands, casually gazing into a fire, but faded in
a vision of his sweetheart on the scene over his head. Now we get the effect
by simply having him bring out her handkerchief, a glove or something which
shows the same thing. The audience understands it, and the obvious symbols
are no longer a necessity.
Illustrating sub-titles by means of moving pictures is also passed.
No longer do we have to describe a scene of a sub-title and then act out the
scene. Now a sub-title is being dropped wherever possible and everything
told in terms of action. If a woman is going down town to buy a new hat
because her old one is worn out, we no longer have to have our actors make a
lot of gestures and use two or three spoken titles. It is simply necessary
for them to show the worn, torn ribbon of the hat, with, of course, the
necessary expression to show what is to be conveyed. To show a telephone
conversation it is no longer necessary to show both parties hanging up the
'phone. If one hangs up the 'phone we know the conversation is discontinued.
We no longer have to show a letter inserted more than once or twice. When
the audience reads the letter they know that it is in the person's possession
and they can follow it. It isn't necessary to show it from time to time.
We have found out it isn't necessary for a photo-drama to have only one
dramatic scene, but each scene but be a drama in itself. The whole picture
must be made up of a series of small dramas. This makes the completed drama
a mosaic of little ones. Scenes that have no dramatic value in them, or say
nothing, must be eliminated. So the scenario writer must bear in mind at all
times not what he can put into a picture, but what he can leave out. If each
scene has a why and a wherefore and an excuse for being, then you get a
perfect continuity.
When I speak of eliminating scenes I do not mean that scenes must be cut
down to threadbare, straight plot. I find in a great many pictures that the
writers deviate from their main theme--that they have two or three themes
wandering through the story, which necessarily makes it complicated and hard
to follow. If the writer will take a simple single theme, then work up the
detail, decorate it with embroidery and lace, every little bit different from
the last, but have each bit of trimming pertain directly to the main theme,
he will have a much better story. Instead of that, writers branch off with a
counterplot or sub-plot which is upsetting and makes the story hard to
follow.
Within the next two years I expect to see a school of photodramatists as
well known and as distinguished as the dramatists of the speaking stage.
Already this school is being developed and established, and within that time
it will be set on a firm foundation and photodramatic writers will be given
their proper place and will be remembered for their contributions toward this
new art.
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December 1917
Peter Gridley Schmid
PHOTO-PLAY WORLD
Jeanie Macpherson, The Screen's Most Successful Author
The persons in two out of the three important branches of the motion
picture producing industry are known to the public. The third branch,
although as important as any, seldom receives its full share of credit in the
public eye.
We all know of Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks and William S. Hart.
The names of D. W. Griffith, Thomas H. Ince and Cecil B. De Mille are
familiar to practically every patron of the screen. The first group
represents the acting faction of the photoplay industry, the last three
symbolize the directing end of the movies. Little is known by the layman,
however, regarding the authors' branch of the business despite the fact that
some of the most talented writers in the world are now contributing their
genius to this new art.
In this last branch of the photoplay producing field, there are "stars"
just as there are in the acting and directing branches. Foremost among these
star writers is Jeanie Macpherson, a young woman, but one whose success is
entirely out of proportion with her age. What Mary Pickford stands for in
the acting branch, or D. W. Griffith represents in the directing end of the
game, Jeanie Macpherson typifies in the scenario field. Miss Macpherson's
record as a screen author is twenty-four big productions in less than three
years, including Geraldine Farrar's "Joan the Woman," Mary Pickford's "The
Little American," and Miss Farrar's new Aztec spectacle, "The Woman God
Forgot."
Miss Macpherson, who arrived in New York, recently, from the Artcraft
studio, in California, in speaking of her work brought out several important
tips to amateur scenario writers who often wonder why their material is not
accepted. "If writers would only study audiences and pictures, they would
soon find their material has a better chance to be produced," said Miss
Macpherson. "The trouble with most writers seems to be their utter disregard
for public taste, and the scripts that many send in are proof conclusive of
the fact that they know very little about motion pictures. What I mean to
say is that, strange as it may seem, many authors know less about what the
screen demands in the way of stories, than the lay public.
"One way of finding out what the public will like is to learn the kind
of material that it dislikes. If many writers would faithfully attend
picture theatres, and study the screen as well as the audience, they would
soon realize that they are writing directly in the face of motion picture
possibilities and public criticisms. If they would listen to the comments of
those seated about them, remember the dislikes of the spectators and avoid
writing similar material, they would soon get on the right track. It is true
that very often we find it 'hard to please the public,' but at the showing of
every picture there is a consensus of opinion on certain scenes, themes and
plots. Therefore, it is necessary to study the patron who pays to see a
photoplay, the person who seeks to be entertained, because, as a rule, when
that person is not entertained he or she will readily say so.
"Many stories make good reading and yet are impossible for the screen.
In writing a photoplay we must photograph it in our minds, or in other words,
picture it, rather than write it. A scenario is only the directions, so to
speak, of the photoplay. It is an index of a series of pictures, not a
literary masterpiece, although much of our best literature makes splendid
motion picture material. Each picture in this series must have individual
merit, the more merit in the way of action, thrills or charm that we can
inject into each picture, in continuity with the story, of course, the better
the photoplay.
"I have always endeavored to base my stories on subjects of big
interest, and have found that such 'big interest' is evident in productions
of either timely or historical appeal. I am not speaking of ordinary
photoplays that please. My efforts have always been toward themes of more
than ordinary interest. For instance, in 'Joan the Woman' we have a
historical figure known to the whole world. The very theme has immediate
interest. Joan of Arc is known from the cradle up and right there we have a
big start. My new story for Miss Farrar, 'The Woman God Forgot,' deals with
another page from history and has to do with the Aztecs, a wonderfully
interesting people, at the time of the Spanish invasion under Cortez.
"Mary Pickford's photoplay, written by myself, 'The Little American,'
was created when Uncle Sam began his plea for patriotism. It was a story up
to the minute and still is a timely production. It places before the eyes of
the public things it has been reading about. At present I am on my way to
Washington to consult several government officials on another story dealing
with a subject uppermost in the public mind at this minute. Immediately,
when its title is known it will arouse interest.
"Very frequently, timely interest will ensure bigger success for a film
than historic associations. Photoplays which are merely timely, however, are
likely to have a shorter life than those which center about such universal
figures as Joan of Arc and Cortez, to use some of my subjects as
illustrations.
"Too much emphasis, however, cannot be placed upon treatment. As I have
said before, writing a scenario is an entirely different process from writing
a short story or a play. The action must be visualized in all three
processes, but in the case of the short story and the play, visualization is
necessary only to obtain vividness of description and effective staging;
while in the photoplay one must actually tell the story by means of pictures.
"Novelty of theme is another important aim of the scenario writer. This
does not mean that one should resort in every film to trick effects. One
should aim, like the playwright and short story writer, to interpret a new
phase of life."
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July 1920
Doris Delvigne
MOTION PICTURE
Mind the Little Things
"You must build up your hero so that every young man in the audience
pictures himself as that hero. You must build up your heroine so that every
young girl will feel herself the heroine, wish herself the heroine--or
understand the heroine's feelings. Unless you can do this," and Jeanie
Macpherson smiled whimsically, "you are not in sympathy with your public."
There's nothing masculine about this little French-Scotch girl who has
interested the dramatic world with her craftsmanship. She's not a blue-
stocking with emancipated ideas, nor has her contract with the biggest men in
the motion picture world given her that swaggering independence which is
supposed to adhere to begoggled authors. She is the most utterly feminine
thing you ever beheld. She loves pretty clothes--her taste is fastidious.
"So many people don't succeed in writing because their motive is all
wrong," she continued. "Theirs is a desire to gather in some of the huge
sums purported to be paid for screen dramas. No one can hope to become a
great writer who begins with that false motive. All of us have to work--work
again and then again.
"And the biggest mistake of all is to wait for the great idea! Stories
are not evolved in that way. And if there's one point I'd like to drive home
more than anything else, it is MIND THE LITTLE THINGS. It is not a question
of evolving a new plot. We are using the same plots and dramatic situations
over and over again. It is the way the little things are worked out.
A motion picture script used to read, 'John and Mary love each other. They
stand by a table and he declares his love.' Today I would show John looking
furtively, then extracting a rose from his pocket--the rose she had worn and
loved, and in his very expression and the fondling of the rose the audience
knows that John loves Mary. In everything one must find the symbol. That is
the great secret of the picture art--finding the symbol for a thought."
We were sitting in Jeanie Macpherson's den and it was very pleasant.
Most things about Jeanie Macpherson would be pleasant--she would see to it
that they were. Yellow china blinks sunnily upon still more yellow roses in
a tall vase; the brass tea-kettle catches gleams of old gold from the
skylight, with its shirred yellow curtains; the fat chair, made of old
hogsheads and covered with yellow and black plaid cushions, invites one to a
prolonged visit; and her desk is half the width of the room, made of rough
timber and covered with interesting-looking memoranda. Above all else there
are books and books. Mary Roberts Rinehart's "Dangerous Days" noses "The
Holy Land," while "Browning's Poems" whisper to a beautiful copy of "Jeanne
D'Arc."
And Jeanie herself was clad in a faultlessly tailored pale blue linen
frock, with the daintiest of net undersleeves and neck-ruffle. She had
tossed the big white picture hat of organdy on the already crowded desk when
she came in. She is ultra-feminine, even down to the immaculate little white
slippers. Her hair parts on one side and falls into soft waves which are
absolutely natural--the sort of curly hair one saw years ago--like molasses
candy--always shiny--brilliant with life and marcelled by Mme. Nature.
I had asked her if she'd rather originate than adapt a novel to the
screen--one felt this girl was something of an authority.
"Frankly," she replied. "I would rather originate. Authors naturally
find it difficult to realize that we do not slice into their stories in order
to find what we can take out--that is a misunderstanding, but one always
cherishes one's brain-child. I do and you do. But in trying to preserve
that which is good in their work we must tell in picture symbols what is
taking place. We have to put over some motive or idea--we must utilize an
entirely different set of tools. In order to save the main situation we are
sometimes obliged to work out a new play.
"When I did 'The Trail of the Lonesome Pine,' John Fox said, 'Good Lord,
there's nothing left in it but the pine!' And witty Eugene Walter retorted,
'You're wrong, it's a REDWOOD!' If authors attempted to put their own books
into continuity they would discover just what difficulties we encounter."
"Just how do you work out the theme?"
"Always I get some idea," she answered, "perhaps just a small idea.
Then I let the situation tell me about the characters. Characters will come
and talk to you. If you want them to do a certain thing they will sit right
up there on your desk and yelp at you and say, 'Entirely illogical. You know
I'd never do that!' Day by day they take on new freshness, and finally at
the end they are actually human beings. I can't tell them what to do--they
tell me what THEY ARE GOING TO DO.
"I write a very detailed continuity," she told me. "That's why
Mr. De Mille can work so fast. Nobody has to stand around waiting. I have
written in every gesture, every emotion. Of course, some directors won't
have that--they want the barest suggestions in their script and that is why
many stories are haphazard--the director just can't remember the continuity
of the story and the characterizations at the same time.
"And one can't drive the brain, either," she continued; "one must take
time for recreation, but not too much time."
"Your recreation?" I asked.
"Flying," she told me. "I would say generally, learn to fly! The
analogy between flying and flights of fancy is obvious. You may give people
rules about flying, let them collect a library on the subject, but ultimately-
-to fly well, you have to discard teachers, books and theories and just fly."
She was talking in riddles, and yet when you learn that she does
actually fly, you understand--on De Mille Field her ship soars about,
exciting Hollywood citizens. She has her license now, polishes up her
machine, tightens it, loves it--with it she is just like a little girl with
her doll.
And it is not a far-fetched comparison, that of Jeanie Macpherson to a
little girl.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
July 1921
Barbara Beach
MOTION PICTURE
The Literary Dynamo
Mary Pickford once said to me: "People are very like electric dynamos--
the more they work the more energy they story up for future use. The higher
rate of speed they demand from themselves, the more mileage they can make."
Jeanie Macpherson is one of those frail appearing, tiny, feminine
persons of high voltage power. From her brain has sprung the Big Ideas for
all the Cecil B. De Mille features: from her hand has come the completed
scenarios replete with original business for the picture dramas that have
stood, each one of them, as milestones in the photoplay's progress.
For five years now she has worked in an office in the main building of
the Lasky studio. Her typewriter has been the last to cease its daily
chatter, her light alone has been seen burning until one and two in the
morning, through the leafy pepper trees that screen her office windows.
She has had no time for play, very little for recreation--she has sacrificed
all the little personal touches of home life that mean so much to most women.
She has practically no time to spare for the dressmaker, the milliner or
shopping.
She is a prodigious author who uses the screen as her medium.
When one crosses the threshold of her office one enters what appears to
be the interior of a log cabin. Rough hewn logs form the walls, the huge
desk, the table, chairs and benches. There is an open fireplace of rough
stone with charred embers on the hearth. There are books and books, Merrick
and James Cabell, Navajo rugs and the skins of wind animals soften heavy
footsteps.
Sitting in one of Jeanie Macpherson's primitive but comfortable rockers,
I asked her why she did it--why she worked twice as hard as the average
person. She came from behind the huge desk that practically hid her tiny
feminine form and sat down nearer me on a stiff, yellow-covered bench. She
crossed her dainty feet in a business-like manner, while the afternoon sun
filtering through the windows formed an aureole about her silky fair hair.
"When I was very, very young," she told me, looking at that precise
moment like a twenty-two-year-old except for her air of assurance, "when I
was VERY young, I made up my mind that I wanted to be successful while I was
still young and could enjoy it. I wanted to reach the goal I had set for
myself before I was thirty--I wanted fame and money.
"I figured that to accomplish this I must work twice as many hours and
twice as hard as the average person. I have. While other authors gave
themselves long vacations to woo inspiration, I sat and worked at my desk.
I have found that if a director and a picture company are waiting for you to
write a story for them, and you know that each day you delay means a wasting
of their time and money, you're very apt to produce the goods. Wooing
inspiration is a long and thankless pastime. For the more one woos her the
farther away she flies. So I sit at my desk and work. Perhaps it is the
persistent Scotch in me that keeps me at it--who knows?"
While the Scotch blood of her father has endowed Jeanie Macpherson with
persistency and caution, the French ancestry of her mother has given her
enthusiasm, volubility, color and imagination. Jeanie was born in Boston,
but received her education in Paris at the school of Mademoiselle De Jacques,
where Mark Twain's daughter was educated. While it was perfectly natural
that she should become a writer--her ancestors on her mother's side all
having been writers and publishers--Jeanie did not turn to the world of
literature to win her pristine fame.
She went on the stage. Her first appearance was with Forbes Robertson.
Then she went with Edgar Selwyn's tour of "Strongheart." Later she played
the Spanish role of "Tita" with James T. Powers in "Havana," which ran a year
on Broadway.
At that time pictures were just beginning to gain the attention of the
public, and from the first time Miss Macpherson heard of them she became
interested in their possibilities and had faith in their future as the coming
art. She grew very anxious to get into pictures, but knew no one connected
with them, nor anyone who could even tell her how to try to get in. So she
sought out the Biograph company by looking up the address in the telephone
directory. The now-famous D. W. Griffith gave her a trial and engaged her.
She worked from "bits" to "leads," for in those days everyone served a long,
hard apprenticeship with the camera before they were given the best parts.
Miss Macpherson stayed with Griffith two years and played the leads in
"Spanish Gypsy, "Madame Rex" and "Out of the Shadows."
Next she joined the Edison company and worked under the direction of
Oscar Apfel. From there she went to Universal. Coming out on the train from
New York, she thought up an original story. At Universal her director found
himself without an adequate story. Miss Macpherson told him about hers with
the result that she was asked to put it in scenario form and act in it. But
the director failed to get all there was out of the plot, and some time later
Universal-Jewel let her do her story all over again. This time she not only
starred in the picture, but directed it as well. In appreciation of her
successful work with this production, Universal gave her her own company, and
Jeanie Macpherson wrote her own scenarios, starred in her pictures and
directed them.
At the end of six months' time she went with the manager of the Powers
Brand to the Criterion Features, and again directed and was featured with
Wilfred Lucas. There, too, she wrote all her own stories.
Miss Macpherson told me this story of her life in a quick, staccato
manner. Truth to tell, she had a million details awaiting her attention.
One of these details was Cecil B. De Mille, who was waiting for her to
accompany him downtown to look over some new stage settings. Wishing to hear
all there was to tell--for, being a born story-writer, Jeanie's conversation
is always interesting--I hurried along by her side as she slipped into a huge
squirrel coat and trotted through the studio to her car. She does not walk
slowly and sedately as one imagines great writers should, but indulges in a
cross between a fast walk and a run.
"I am very thankful for all my acting experiences in pictures," she told
me, in her quick, accurate way, as we hurried out, "for it taught me exactly
what could and what could not be screened, an intimate knowledge which is
absolutely essential to becoming a successful scenarist.
"I faced death several times. Especially memorable was my experience
while playing the leading feminine role in Jack London's 'Sea Wolf,' produced
by Balboa. Henry King and I had a scene where we were lowered in a lifeboat
from the stern of a schooner. The rope broke, tossing us into the middle of
the Pacific. The schooner was sailing at full speed. Mr. King could swim a
little and I not at all. Our small lifeboat had lost its oars and was
drifting bottom-side up, farther from us every second. The schooner was
leaving us rapidly. I had hit the water 'flat,' as the saying is, and had so
completely lost my wind that I wasn't able to think very clearly, but I did
sense one thing--the thing that every well-trained 'movie' remembers on all
occasions--the camera. To those on the schooner's stern I indicated 'turn
the crank,' and while the captain was busy trying to reach us with a rope,
our alert little cameraman caught it. It was just the sort of scene we
needed, and I can vouch for its realism! We were finally hauled to safety,
but very, very wet."
Jeanie's last screen appearances were under the direction of Cecil
B. De Mille, with Geraldine Farrar in "Carmen" and with Mabel Van Buren in
"The Girl of the Golden West." From her pen have come "The Dream Girl," "The
Golden Chance," "The Heart of Nora Flynn," "The Love Mask," "Joan the Woman,"
"A Romance of the Redwoods," and "The Little American" for Mary Pickford,
"Male and Female," "The Whispering Chorus," "Old Wives for New," "Don't
Change Your Husband," "For Better, for Worse," "Something to Think About,"
"Forbidden Fruit" and "The Affairs of Anatol."
It was because she decided--especially with the advent of multiple
reeled films--it was better to specialize, she chose the scenario end of the
business.
"I shall always be grateful for Mr. De Mille's assistance," Jeanie
Macpherson told me. "He is a hard taskmaster and he demands that a thing
shall be perfect. He used to scold me and show me where my scenarios were
wrong, and we would work them out together. It was hard, but it taught me
that anything worth doing at all was worth doing perfectly."
Now Miss Macpherson writes all her own business into the scenario,
knowing that Mr. De Mille will never change it--that he has perfect
confidence in her.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
August 1921
Marion Lee King
PICTURE-PLAY
What About the Foreign Films?
If you are an American and a motion-picture fan you hold the answer to
the endless discussion of the pros and cons of showing foreign-made films in
America. You have probably seen "Passion," "Deception," or "Gypsy Blood"--
perhaps all of them. Many thousands of Americans have. But you have not
seen the average German picture. You won't. The cost of keeping theaters
open in America is too great to encourage audiences to stay away from them.
And that is what the showing of most foreign-made films would result in,
providing the censor allowed them to be shown--which he wouldn't.
Jeanie Macpherson, who prepares the stories for all of the big Cecil De
Mille pictures, recently spent several weeks in Europe, conferring with the
chief motion-picture makers there. And she returned with the sincere
conviction that European films are not a menace to the American industry.
"WE are democratic," Jeanie Macpherson told me from the midst of a
bewildering array of treasures from Paris modistes that made everything else
seem relatively unimportant. "And foreign artists are not. That is why
American films are going to hold first place in the hearts of American
people, no matter how good the foreign pictures are. We believe in our whole-
hearted countrymen, and they don't. We believe that boy-and-girl love
stories--dramas of our own people--are important. And they"--she broke into
a delicious ripple of laughter at the thought of it--"they think they are
positively childish. As Ernest Lubitsch said to me, 'Your domestic picture
is quite beyond our ken.' And this is not true of Germany only.
"The picture producers of France and Italy, too, think that American
forms of entertainment are childish. And Americans would find THEIR stories
disgusting. We are working from an entirely different point of view, and
until they can understand Americans better, they can't compete with American
picture makers to any extent. After that--well, we'll have to watch out.
"Of course, people must realize that 'Passion,' 'Deception,' and 'Gypsy
Blood' are not typical of their pictures. They are the best of them.
"Those productions have shown Lubitsch to be a master in staging
spectacles. But in little, intimate scenes they can't touch the work of
American directors. We have not been making spectacles here because the
exhibitors insisted that the public did not want them. The success of
'Passion' and 'Deception' has disproved that, and now we can show what we can
do along that line. Mr. De Mille's and my 'Joan the Woman,' made six years
ago, is indicative of our ability to make spectacles. Abroad that is a great
success and is admittedly just as good as their big productions."
When discussion of the invasion by foreign films was just beginning
Herbert Howe said in "A Trip Through Europe's Filmland," in PICTURE-PLAY,
"It is a reflection upon our initiative if we, who have had the benefit of
uninterrupted prosperity, are defeated in art by a nation which has been
defeated in war, crushed with debt, and burdened with world hatred."
Miss Macpherson found that the motion-picture industry had been
protected and fostered in Germany throughout the war. We need not look on
their productions as having been made under any difficulties. They were a
privileged industry.
Incidentally, while many people in this country are reluctant to enjoy
the works of German artists, the Germans are eagerly taking up American
songs. Miss Macpherson found "A Japanese Sandman" a popular song in Germany,
as is "Avalon." But they are performed as serious dramatic works, which
suggests the kind of treatment that whimsical themes in motion pictures, so
dear to the hearts of the American public, would get there. "The Merchant of
Venice" is also being performed in Germany, but in such a manner that even
Shakespeare might not recognize it. And, most striking of all, German words
have been written to "Over There," and the tune is heard wherever one goes.
A print of "Forbidden Fruit," made by Mr. De Mille from a story by
Jeanie Macpherson, arrived while Miss Macpherson was in Germany, and she saw
it in company with Ernest Lubitsch. He marveled at the dream scenes, but he
quite frankly admitted that he could not understand the boy-and-girl love
affair. It was too wholesome!
He spoke of the superiority of American films in plot construction.
He said--and this information was elicited not from modest Miss Macpherson,
but from her rightfully proud mother--that he had never seen so smoothly
running a plot in a motion picture as in "Forbidden Fruit." That was his
introduction to the mysteries of continuity writing. Foreign directors work
without the aid of the carefully worked out scripts that American directors
have. And that they are not unwilling to learn from us is suggested by the
fact that Miss Macpherson is to return abroad next January. This information
was also advanced by Miss Macpherson's mother.
Perhaps you have wondered if foreign stars will supplant our Pickford,
our Ray, our Gishes, and our Talmadges.
Miss Macpherson's answer to the question was a gesture of mock horror.
"You should see them!" she exclaimed. "They are indescribable. The splendid
artists we have seen in the films already imported are not typical. Usually
even their ingenues are huge, according to our standards, and they wear bulky
clothes and cotton stockings. I got to thinking of Mr. Ziegfeld as I watched
some of them, and I burst out laughing."
Miss Macpherson welcomes the invasion of foreign films as a whiplash to
stir American producers to their best work. Her attitude toward them shows,
above all else, good sportsmanship. Her stand is "If any one can take
anything away from the American producer they deserve to have it taken away."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
October 15, 1921
Jeanie Macpherson
MOVIE WEEKLY
Hints to Scenario Writers
Henry C. De Mille, father of Cecil B. and William De Mille and himself a
playwright and associate of David Belasco, used to say to ambitious young
writers for the stage, "Plays are not written, but rewritten!"
That applies to scenarios also.
It is not an unusual thing for an author to spend a whole year or more
writing a novel. Writers for the stage take months to evolve a play, and
more months to whip it into proper form for the footlights. But somehow
amateurs who attempt writing for the screen think they can dash off their
thoughts in a few hours, without stopping to revise them or polish them, and
call it a photoplay and have it accepted by a producer.
I don't think any scenario written in that way has ever been bought.
I know that if I were to work in that style, I would soon be looking for a
job.
Paramount receives thousands of photoplays annually from unknown
writers. We have a large staff of readers to inspect this horde of
manuscripts and decide whether there is anything in them that can be placed
upon the screen. It is safe to say that not fifty per cent of them would
ever have been sent in by their writers, had the writers placed the stories
in their desk drawers for six months and then drawn them out and reread them.
The main thing in a good scenario is story. The beginner flounders
about with background and psychology and symbolism and cutbacks into ancient
history and quite forgets that what the audience wants is--story. Everything
should be subordinated to the story.
In revising your scenario, this should be kept in mind. Try the
practice, the next time you go to the movies, of writing down some of the
subtitles. See how you might condense them further and still keep the meat
of them. It will teach you word-values.
Work over your scenario and revise it until there is not an incident in
it that does not do its bit toward developing the plot; so that there is not
a superfluous word.
I remember writing titles for "The Affairs of Anatol" and revising them
until I thought there was not a word there that did not serve its purpose.
I took the titles to Mr. De Mille, and he said, "Cut them each down fifty
feet." Fifty feet are fifty words! That meant more hours of labor to find
substitute words that would carry the meaning more succinctly.
I have rewritten my scenarios as many as six complete times before I got
them in the shape where they were acceptable, even to myself. Rewriting a
title fifty times is a common occurrence with me.
If you revise your scenarios often, you'll write fewer scenarios, but
you'll have a much better chance of selling them...
There are two kinds of directors. In the studios they call them
directors who "shoot close to the script" and directors who "shoot wild."
The first kind sticks closely to the story as the scenario writer has laid it
out; the second takes all kinds of liberty with the scenario.
Sometimes it is necessary to make changes in the scenario. Unexpected
difficulties or unforeseen chances to better the picture are usually taken as
warranting changes.
Usually the scenario writer is consulted when changes are contemplated.
Frequently the author of the story is taken along with the company when the
story is being filmed, and his or her advice sought. My typewriter and I are
usually at Mr. De Mille's service during the shooting of one of his pictures,
whether in the studio or a hundred miles from there.
Sir Gilbert Parker saw every foot of his story, "A Wise Fool" filmed and
made many wise suggestions. So did Elinor Glyn in the case of "The Great
Moment."
Filming a picture means taking a story out of the world of words and
putting it into the world of motion--two different mediums. Naturally some
revisions are necessary.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
October 22, 1921
Jeanie Macpherson
MOVIE WEEKLY
Hints to Scenario Writers
Over the desk of every writer connected with Cecil B. De Mille's
scenario staff is a small card bearing the slogan: "Say it with props."
The existence of these cards is not an accident. They were printed and
distributed by direct order of the producer and they carry to the writers one
of the greatest problems of continuity writing and, in fact, of all screen
writing.
For the benefit of the uninitiated let me explain that a "prop" is
anything that may be used by the character. A cigar, a letter, a picture, or
a grand piano may all be props. "Say it with props" therefore means: Put
over your idea whenever possible with screen business revolving around some
concrete article.
All too often the scenario writer leans heavily upon the subtitle as a
means of conveying some complicated thought to the audience. Of course,
there are instances where no other means will achieve the end. But those
instances are rare. In the majority of cases, that same idea or emotion may
be transferred to the spectator through the agency of a prop.
All this is of primary importance to the continuity writer. But it
applies just the same to the writer of original screen stories. One of the
major faults of the amateur screen writer is his reliance on clever (?)
subtitles.
If that same writer continually visualized his or her story as it is
written; if the author succeeded in assuming the role of continuity writer
without actually writing the continuity, the story would improve accordingly.
If, every time you have some bit of business, some thought or some
emotion in mind in writing your story, you keep in mind Cecil B. De Mille's
motto of "Say it with props," your story is certain to profit by it.
Although subtitles are an essential part of the photoplay, they
nevertheless impede the smooth flow of the story. The fewer subtitles
required, the nearer the approach to photoplay perfection.
Subtitles can be avoided by only one means that I know of--screen
"business." In other words, the thought may be conveyed by having the
character do something or refer to something that makes the situation clear
to the spectator.
Almost all dramatic "business" requires the assistance of a prop or two.
Hence, if the writer continually keeps in mind the slogan of "Say it with
props," the need for subtitles is continually diminished.
Almost anything may be a prop. I have written scenes wherein a girl
watching a fly climb a wall conveyed more to the audience than several
hundred words of subtitle might have done. There the fly became a prop.
Again, a prop may be a limousine or a prayerbook; a wine bottle or a
baby's rattle. It is the writer's task to single out the particular article
that, in the hands of the player or within the vision of the actor, may best
serve to convey the particular thought.
There are no rules whereby the amateur writer may be instructed in the
use of props in developing a story. The best advice on this score is the
same advice that goes for all phases of scenario writing: Study motion
pictures. See for yourself what the professional, experienced scenario
writers are doing along the line.
It will be found, I think, that the majority of successful photoplays
show the maximum use of props. The trained writer automatically casts about
for a means of this kind to put over the particular idea of the moment.
That tendency is the result of training. The beginner requires the aid
of just such reminders as the cards that Cecil B. De Mille caused to be
printed and distributed to the new writers who are studying under his
supervision at the Lasky Studio.
"Say it with props" if you would write screen stories that will meet the
approval of the producers...
I have gone to great extremes in order to learn how people actually act
under certain conditions, so that I might use my experiences in my scenario
work.
Once I operated an airplane for the late Lieutenant Locklear in one of
his screen thrillers.
And I shall never forget the famous fight with Geraldine Farrar in
"Carmen," when I nearly had my hair torn out by the roots.
When I offered to fight Miss Farrar "for the experience," they laughed
at me. "Why, Jeanie, you're not an actress any more," they told me. "Why
risk getting yourself all scarred and battered?"
But a writer has to have something authentic to write about. I wanted
to know how a woman felt under such great stress; I might want to describe
her psychology in a scenario. I felt that a woman under the emotional strain
of a fist fight was something I knew nothing about and would be wise to
learn.
Mr. De Mille finally allowed me in the fight. We certainly fought.
We pulled hair and clothes, and in the heat of the combat we forgot director,
camera, and studio. We were two primitive beings in the grip of a tremendous
anger. I learned just how the mind functions under such a condition, and I
have used my knowledge many times since.
Yes, first hand information is valuable in writing photoplays. Too many
beginners get their data out of the encyclopedia. And so very many write of
people and lands they known nothing about. We get stories of India by people
who have never been east of Pittsburgh, and we get thrilling "westerns" from
confirmed inhabitants of New York City.
Look around you. Perhaps there is a thrilling motion picture story in
the family next door. Certainly within a block of you there is a plot for a
picture that some body will buy.
The best background for a scenario writer is, of course, to have a wide
general knowledge of life rather than a specialized knowledge of any of any
particular phase or locality.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
November 12, 1921
Jeanie Macpherson
MOVIE WEEKLY
Hints to Scenario Writers
This week I shall talk not so much to the amateur scenario writer who is
content merely to turn out a story for the screen once in a while and regards
his film writing as pastime, but to the writer who would like to take up
motion picture editorial work as a regular career and whose ambition is to
join the scenario staff of some film company.
What would such a career be like?
Perhaps if I described a typical day in the life of a scenario writer,
drawing from my own experience, you could answer that question.
In one sense, a scenario writer never has "a typical day." Every day is
different. Every day brings a new set of problems. Some may be solved in
five minutes; others require five hours or five days.
Because of the unusual demands of the work "office hours" in the usual
sense of the words are an unknown quantity. My day's work may start when I
arise in the morning and end when I fall asleep at night. That doesn't
necessarily mean that I am writing continuously from dawn to dark. But it
does mean that I am studying and thinking over situations; that I am planning
the action of a story or threshing out in my own mind some knotty problem of
scenario construction.
My hours at the Lasky Studio are regular only in the sense that I try to
arrive there between nine and ten o'clock in the morning. Whenever possible,
I devote my first hour there to necessary business appointments and routine
details which must be attended to daily. There are letters to write and semi-
business and personal matters pertaining to the work which must not be
allowed to accumulate from day to day.
My office is really not an office at all. Rather is it a work shop, a
den and a library rolled into one. And of these the term work shop is the
most truly descriptive, for after that first hour it becomes the scene of a
full day's work.
While a scenario is in the process of construction there are numberless
consultations with Mr. De Mille. First comes the idea--and a thorough
discussion of it with Mr. De Mille. Scenarios are not things of the minute.
Often the idea which serves us as the motive has lain in the back of one's
head for months or years.
If Mr. De Mille is interested--if he considers the idea practical--
I proceed to rough out the story. I wish to "put over" such-and-such a
theme. What kind of action will best accomplish this end? Lengthy thought,
occasional reference to past experience and thorough discussion of the
subject with Mr. De Mille are the means which I use to come to a solution of
this first problem.
In almost every story there are purely technical angles which must be
carefully studied if the story is to ring true. How did people conduct
themselves in such-and-such a period? How did they regard certain matters?
And so through dozens of similar questions which must be answered before the
story can be put on paper.
Having secured the necessary information and having the general outline
of the story well in mind, I proceed to write it, scene by scene. I do all
of my writing in longhand and turn over my manuscript to my stenographer for
copying. Many scenario writers, I believe, either use a typewriter
themselves or dictate their continuity--the scene-by-scene working plot of
the story--to a stenographer. I prefer to write mine with pencil and paper,
although it is undoubtedly slower and more tiring.
And so through the day I labor at my scenario. Often the evenings will
be devoted to consultations with Mr. De Mille or some other interested
person. Sometimes the story becomes so absorbingly interesting that I work
on into the night without thought of time.
Not infrequently the work of filming the story gets under way before the
final scenes are written. This means that I must keep well in advance of the
production work with my writing if I am to avoid halting this highly
expensive process.
But through all of this there is no such thing as "an average day's
work." Every day is a day unto itself. It may start at noon and end at
three in the morning of the following day, or it may start at nine and end
when the work is finished.
Sometimes I think that the grind of it will prove too much for me. But
it never does. The work, for all of its disadvantages, possesses an appeal
which I can never refuse. It is often hard, generally irregular as to hours
and frequently trying to the patience. But it still continues to claim my
time and my best efforts and so I suppose it will continue to do so.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
December 3, 1921
Jeanie Macpherson
MOVIE WEEKLY
Hints to Scenario Writers
"How can I learn to write scenarios?"
That question, variously worded, is the burden of scores of letters that
reach my desk. Attempting to answer it is much like telling an ambitious
music-lover how to play the violin.
Fortunately for the ambitious musician there are many capable teachers
but unfortunately for the would-be screen writer there is a woeful lack of
competent instruction on the subject of scenario writing. The whole art of
the photodrama is still too new, too young to have developed this important
but secondary department. Those who know how are too busy to tell others.
The answer I make to this question is invariably the same: Study
pictures!
In lieu of actual personal instruction from a master of screen writing
technique, there is no better method of learning both the form and general
content of scenario writing. Go to see pictures and more pictures and still
more pictures! See for yourself how dramatic situations are constructed; how
dramatic suspense is created; how thought is photographed.
Merely sitting through a picture or two will not accomplish the desire
results, just as two or three casually taken violin lessons will not teach
you how to play the violin. It takes years to master this instrument--years
of hard work and patient study. Scenario writing, despite popular opinion,
is vastly harder than playing the violin and it cannot be learned in a week
or even a month.
If you are seriously attempting to learn the technique of screen writing
try this experiment: Go to see three or more of the best pictures every week
for a period of six months. Do not attempt to write a finished manuscript in
that period. Devote it entirely to study and, if you like, practice writing.
In studying the pictures that you see, strive to analyze and segregate
the elements that all pictures have in common: Their dramatic form and
structure; their emotional or psychological appeal.
Make a list of the subject matter--the themes--of all of these pictures.
It will teach you what type of story is in demand by the American public
which in turn controls the producer who is your potential employer.
Watch and listen to the people around you in the theatre. See how they
react to the story as it unrolls on the screen. Their comments will often be
valuable guide posts in your subsequent work.
If, at the end of your six months probation and study period, you still
feel that you are capable of writing for the screen, select your idea and
develop it on the composite model that you should have in mind by this time.
If your story depends upon plot primarily, the chances are that you are
wasting your time. The day of the purely action picture has gone; the
picture of today and tomorrow must have a theme--a vital, real idea. It must
depend upon thought rather than action; psychology rather than plot.
Many of the inquiries that reach my desk seek information on the best
form in which to submit a scenario idea to the producer. Although there is
no rule in this matter, most scenario editors prefer the
story in synopsis
form. This does not mean that a short story style need be developed. All
that is necessary is a clear outline of the story told as briefly as possible
without the omission of any of the detail that may aid in conveying the idea
to both the editor and the public.
Insofar as I know, no producer today requires that a submitted story
shall be developed into a continuity to be salable. Continuity writing is a
distinct and highly specialized branch of screen writing and producers prefer
to leave this work to the specialists. No amateur writer can hope to produce
a continuity that will meet the requirements of the producer. Even if the
continuity were dramatically passable--which it is not likely to be--it would
be almost certain to require complete re-writing to fit the individual
producer and star...
Scenario writing cannot be mastered overnight nor can the ambitious
writer expect to set the world afire with his or her first venture in a new
field. Success is never won without a fight. If your story is rejected you
may be sure that the fault is yours and not the studio reader's. It is your
task to locate that fault and correct it and by your ability to do this will
be reckoned your success or failure.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
December 24, 1921
Jeanie Macpherson
MOVIE WEEKLY
Hints to Scenario Writers
Don't write screen stories that require explanatory subtitles in
profusion!
Although it is doubtful if the American photoplay ever succeeds in
eliminating the subtitle altogether--and it is an open question whether such
elimination is to be desired--it is nevertheless true that the ideal
photoplay is the photoplay with the minimum number of subtitles.
The purpose of the subtitle is to explain or emphasize a point. Used
sparingly for these purposes it has a definite place in the scenario of
today. The American public is not yet ready--and perhaps never will be ready-
-to accept Continental pantomime with its complete absence of the spoken or
written word.
So-called "spoken titles" and the use of dialogue are not infrequently
of tremendous value in the construction of the scenario and the finished
photoplay. But all of these must be used very, very sparingly.
A properly constructed photoplay should capture the spectators'
attention and the outset and hold it without interruption to the finish.
There should be no let-down--no waning of interest at any point. The
audience should be able to lose itself completely in this story.
To achieve this result two things are necessary: Dramatic suspense and
smooth continuity. It is with the latter quality that the subtitle has to
do.
Every time the action of a story is halted for printed words to be
thrown on the screen there is a tiny break in the interest of the spectator.
This is inevitable. But in many instances the results justify the means.
Sometimes a subtitle will serve to whip the spectator's interest to an even
higher pitch.
One of the commonest faults of the amateur writer when faced with a
knotty situation in his or her story is to inject a subtitle to clarify the
atmosphere. To the amateur almost every problem is a knotty one with the
result that the story is one long succession of potential subtitles.
In a previous article I emphasized the importance of re-writing every
story several times. This is of value in a multitude of ways and it is
exceedingly useful in eliminating opportunities for subtitles. Frequently I
have found that subtitles that seemed absolutely essential in the first rough
draft of the story became superfluous as the story is worked over and over
again. With each re-writing I succeeded in weeding out many such potential
subtitles.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
December 31, 1921
Jeanie Macpherson
MOVIE WEEKLY
Hints to Scenario Writers
...I have never written a screen story that has not required more time
for the acquisition of data than it did to write. In some instances twice or
three times as much time was devoted to mastering the facts before I set pen
to paper.
An instance of this is to be found in "Joan the Woman." We--
Mr. De Mille and I--have been criticized many times for the alleged liberty
with fact which we are supposed to have taken. These charges are untrue.
There is not a single incident in the story of "Joan the Woman" that isn't
backed up by historical fact. I know because I spent months reading every
line that has been printed regarding the famous Maid of Orleans.
Critics pointed out that Joan never had a love affair; that no man ever
loved her. If these same critics had taken the same trouble to learn the
facts they would not have made that criticism. As a matter of fact, Joan had
a boyhood lover whom she considered marrying before she was called to her
greater mission.
Nor is the necessity for a complete knowledge of the facts restricted to
the historical drama. The need is just as great or greater in dealing with
matters of everyday occurrence. Nine out of ten people may not be in a
position to question the facts regarding the life of Joan d'Arc, but a full
ten out of every ten people will be able to criticize modern problems and
facts because all the world is familiar with these facts.
Therefore, it behooves the writer to have these facts correct and beyond
criticism. To be a really successful scenario writer it is almost necessary
to be a jack of all trades and a walking encyclopedia of information. But it
will suffice if the writer makes it his or her business to really known what
is being written at that particular moment.
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August 19, 1922
Jeanie Macpherson
MOVIE WEEKLY
"I Have Been In Hell"-- or In Search of Prison Knowledge
I have been in hell!
I have plumbed the utmost depths of human degradation.
I have seen women's souls stripped stark naked.
I have been face to face with humanity at its worst.
And I have met the most perfect kindness and sympathy it has ever been
my lot to experience.
I have been in jail.
I did not visit the jail as a privileged guest. I went as a criminal,
serving a sentence. I was arrested, charged with simple larceny, tried,
convicted and sentenced to ten days in prison. I served three days and three
nights of that sentence--three depressing days and three horrible nights.
I wore the prison garb and ate--or tried to eat--the prison fare. And I
know, from personal experience, just what "prison hysteria" is.
I am a scenario writer. Complete knowledge of my subject is a requisite
of my work. It was in search of this knowledge that I went to prison.
I found it.
In the photoplay that I am writing for Cecil B. De Mille's production,
in the near future, the chief feminine character is sentenced to prison for
manslaughter. "Manslaughter" is the title of the story. The girl goes to
prison a selfish egotist. She emerges completely changed. In order that I
might understand the influences at work on this character during her prison
stay, I, too, went to jail.
When I decided to make this experiment, I selected the Detroit House of
Correction as the institution that would best serve my purpose. The name is
a misnomer. It is not a reform school. Instead, it is a penitentiary--
a penitentiary that has the unique distinction of housing Michigan's Federal
feminine offenders of every type of crime--State prisoners, County prisoners
and the City of Detroit's municipal prisoners and doing all this in a fashion
that compares favorably with the Middle Ages.
There were several reasons for this choice. One was the sinister
reputation of the institution. The second was that this is the only jail in
the country where petty criminals are confined with those serving sentence
for manslaughter. Another was that my family numbers among its friends--
a man formerly prominent in the administration of the Detroit prison. This
individual was the only person whom I took into my confidence. I wished to
have his aid in securing my release, should the experience become unbearable.
With the exception of this man, no one connected with the experiment
knew that I was not in fact "Angel Brown." It was under this name that I
"operated" when I stole a fur neck piece of nominal value from a woman of my
family's acquaintance who was living at the Hotel Statler. She reported her
loss to the house detective and I was arrested before I had left the
building.
Hailed into court, I gave my name as "Angel Brown" from San Francisco,
and was charged with simple larceny. I pleaded guilty to the charge and was
sentenced to a fine of ten dollars or the alternative of ten days in the
Detroit House of Correction. On my statement that I did not have the money
to pay the fine, I was turned over to a police officer with instructions to
commit me to jail.
Just at this point, all my plans were threatened by a big fatherly Irish
policeman who was detailed to conduct me to the prison. On our way down to
the alley where the patrolwagon was to meet us, he said:
"This is your first time up, isn't it, little girl?"
I assured him that it was.
"Isn't there anyone you know who will put up the money and keep you out
of jail?"
There was no one, I declared.
"I hate to see you go to that place. You wait right here"--and he
pushed me through a door into a bare waiting room on the level with the jail
alley--"I think I know a man who will lend us the money."
My heart sank. After all my trouble to get into jail, my plans were
about to be frustrated by the kind heart of a well-meaning policeman!
My good-natured policeman soon returned with failure written all over
his kindly features. His friend was unable to help. There was nothing else
to do but load me into the "Black Maria" and send me on my way. He had no
suspicion that I was thanking Providence for his failure.
I arrived at the jail late in the afternoon. My guardian turned me over
to the chief matron, who knew me only as a thief, and the iron bars
figuratively and literally closed behind me.
There followed the formality of booking me. My name and sentence were
the outstanding facts noted by the matron's secretary, a trusty serving a
long term. After this I was stripped to the skin and searched for narcotics.
They even took down my hair and made a painstaking examination of it.
When it came to selecting my prison garb, I was allowed to choose
between long and short-sleeved underwear. I chose the long, for it was
December and cold. With it went the faded gingham coverall, prison-made and
drab. Despite the coldness of the weather, this garment had short sleeves.
I selected my footwear from a great pile of shoes that occupied one corner of
the matron's office. My choice fell upon a pair of dirty misshapen things
that fitted approximately and had been splashed with paint and whitewash at
one time in the recent past.
From the office, I was conducted by the trusty to the cell assigned to
me. It was on the second tier of the cell-block which consisted of four
tiers of twenty cells each--accommodations for eighty prisoners. And at the
time of my incarceration, the jail contained one hundred and forty women
prisoners. Beds in the corridors supplied sleeping accommodations for those
not assigned to cells. White and black, petty criminals and murderesses
sleep, eat and work, side by side.
The cell into which I was ushered was without a window and measured
approximately six feet in length, six feet in height, and not over five feet
in width. Most of this room was occupied by my bunk bearing a straw
mattress, blankets and prison-made linen, but no pillow. This and a broken-
down chair, tin wash basin and pitcher and pail were the sole furnishings.
I made my prison debut in the midst of the so-called recreation hour.
This is the period in late afternoon when the girls, having finished a day's
work in the shops, are permitted to wander about the corridor-like space that
surrounds the cell-block itself. This space is called the recreation room,
although there is no semblance of recreation facilities, and was very cold.
Two hard benches and a few straight kitchen chairs and one small table
constituted the furnishings, and I saw no evidence of any books or
literature.
On the particular day that I arrived, the girls were in the chapel of
prison viewing a motion picture. The picture was a cheap industrial film,
showing the making of a newspaper and Panama Canal, badly made and badly
photographed. I think a strapping negro girl voiced the opinion of the
majority when at the conclusion of the picture, she said: "My Gawd, why don't
they give us a love story once-in-a-while!"
I had heard that clever crooks never talked or made intimates and that
the common criminals respected the mental superiority of those who could
resist the temptation to gossip about anything and everything. I was relying
on this fact to carry me safely through the shoals of cross-examination on
the part of my cell mates.
It was fortunate that I adopted this attitude. I had hardly returned to
my cell before a delegation of curious visitors dropped in to find out all
about me and to get the latest news from the outside. Everyone wanted to
know, first of all, where I came from. Every single one of them tremendously
anxious to hear the news from their own home town. Since I claimed San
Francisco as my home, I disappointed them all. And it did disappoint them.
One girl, speaking for herself spoke for them all when she demanded: "Hell, I
thought you was from Flint."
My refusal to talk won me immediate respect. And when it was nosed
around that I had been caught "working" the Hotel Statler, single-handed, I
became a near-heroine. The Statler detective system is known and feared by
all criminals, I learned. My supposed consummate nerve won their respect.
But if I kept silent, no one else did. Apparently everybody talked all
the time, calling loudly back and forth from cell to cell. It is part of the
hysteria of the place. Speech relieves the tension that they are all under,
consciously or unconsciously.
Supper interrupted the cross-examination. We filed into the long dining
room and I faced my first prison meal.
Long wooden tables and benches were the chief articles of furniture in
this room. Some one with a sense of humor had posted a large sign at one and
of the room commanding silence, but the babble of voices and the clatter or
granite-ware dishes continued at fever heat throughout every meal.
Supper consisted of a greasy soup that had soured; two pieces of white
bread without butter; a mug of some mysterious black liquid erroneously named
coffee.
I believe that I can eat any kind of food that is fit for human
consumption, but there are limits; and this meal and its successors went
beyond that limit.
Supper over, we arose on signal from the presiding matron and filed back
to our cells. As I entered mine, the door banged shut behind me and locked.
Then I began my first night in jail.
For a time the hysterical racket that had gone on steadily since my
advent continued. When it subsided a little I threw myself on the bunk and
amused myself by analyzing my emotions of the day. Eventually I dropped into
a fitful sleep.
How long I slept I have no means of knowing, but it could not have been
more than a few hours. I was awakened by a peculiar crawling sensation that
meant but one thing--vermin!
There was no more sleep for me that night. Wide-eyed, I sat on the edge
of my bunk and prayed for daylight.
I have heard and read much of the terrible feeling of being shut in,
buried alive and suffocated that prisoners undergo during their first night
in prison, but until the time of my own experience, I believe it to be
largely imaginative. It is not. It is the most real thing in the world.
I felt that the walls of my tiny, windowless cell were slowly closing in on
me--I could not breathe. The close cell, cleaned with a sickening
disinfectant seemed, to strangle me. There are no words to picture the
suffocating horror that envelops one at this time. Hysteria succeeds
reason--I wanted to scream and beat my head against the stone walls of the
cell--anything to push them away. Only one tiny portion of my brain remained
rational. It was this tiny control center that kept me from going stark,
staring mad for the time, at least.
In spite of this semi-control, by four o'clock in the morning I was on
the verge of panic. Partly in an effort to relieve the tension and partly in
search of information regarding prison routine, I feigned sickness and
shouted for assistance.
I succeeded in attracting the attention of a trusty who was detailed to
nurse service. She made a sympathetic effort to diagnose my trouble, but she
was unable to render any real assistance. At my insistence, she summoned the
night matron and I told my troubles to her. She explained that the jail
hospital was closed for the night; that the chief matron was the only one who
could open my cell door, even for sickness; and that this lady could never be
disturbed until she reached her office at nine o'clock in the morning. That
meant that if I was in danger of death I could go ahead and die without
medical aid before nine A. M.! The night matron even refused me a piece of
paper to fan myself with.
Throughout my feigned illness, the neighboring prisoners kept up a
perfect bombardment of encouragement and sympathy. The nurse-trusty was
infinitely sympathetic, but she was powerless to aid.
This excitement served to combat the evil atmosphere of the night, but
daylight seemed to be ages away. And it was not until we were released about
eight for breakfast that I succeeded in ridding myself of the hysterical
feeling.
Some time between eight and eight-thirty--at the discretion of the
matron--we were freed from our cells. En route to breakfast we made our
toilettes--such as they were. Inasmuch as toothbrushes, toothpaste, combs
and soap were absolutely forbidden, this was an exceedingly sketchy affair.
There were woman in that prison who had not had a comb in their hair for
months. They kept it in place with string, bits of hairpin, or anything else
that could be adopted to the purpose. A trough into which all the prison
filth is emptied by the prisoners--also en route to breakfast--does not add
to one's grooming.
From this service, we marched to the meal itself. Like its predecessor,
it was inedible as far as I was concerned, at least. The same two pieces of
bread, the same nameless black liquid, or the alternative of bluish white
milk, and a watery fluid in which a few grains of some cereal were floating
made up the menu. I counted the cereal grains--I think they were rice--and
found six in my dish.
Breakfast over, we marched to the shops. We were set to work making
cane and reed chair seats. In other departments of this same shop, brushes
are made and the prison tailoring shop turns out the prison clothes and
linen. This work is done by the long-termers during work hours, although
most of them eat and live together with the short-termers.
At noon we were marched back across the courtyard between the prison
proper and the shop building for luncheon. White bread to the number of two
slices, two slim "wenies," sloppy cabbage and the unbelievably bad coffee
made up this repast. The "wenies" were a luxury. Usually mealy looking
baked beans formed the main course of lunch. Meat was allowed once about
every two days, I learned.
The shops claimed our attention throughout the afternoon, although the
total amount of work done was negligible. Any petty criminal who works
earnestly in the shop is promptly reprimanded by her sisters. It sets a bad
example and makes the prison authorities expect more of the other prisoners.
Late in the afternoon we were herded from the shop back to the cell
block and the so-called recreation hour. And once again I was subjected to a
severe grilling by my cell mates.
Except that it had lost some of its terror, the second night was a
repetition of the first. Sleep was impossible. Through the night I heard
the multitudinous sounds of many women confined in a tiny space, quarreling
back and forth or forming discordant screening quarters in an effort to ward
off as long as possible the spectre of the long dreary night. I was told on
good authority that the old-timers long ago had learned to pick the locks of
their individual cells and many of them surreptitiously visited friends in
other cells for purposes better guessed at than said.
Two tiny windows on the wall opposite the cell-block furnished the
ventilation for this entire structure. Imagine one hundred and forty women
living in a space ventilated by these two windows and overheated by badly
placed steam pipes and you will be able to conjure up a picture that
resembles the steam room of a Turkish bath, peopled with all the stenches of
human existence made nauseating by the persistent odor of disinfectant.
During a lull in the noises, I heard one woman, a cell or two away,
instructing a neighbor in the art of crocheting. They could not see each
other, but one had evidently secured crochet needles and material, and the
other was explaining how many stitches it would take her per day to finish
the collar for her baby back home, by Christmas!
By dawn I was more than satiated with my jail experience. It seemed to
me that another twenty-four hours of this would be impossible. Confident of
my ability to reach my friend, the prison official, I survived the night.
After breakfast I sought a means of reaching this influential gentleman.
I learned that he had quarreled with his superiors the previous day, and
forgetting about me, resigned! Furthermore, I would have been unable to
reach him even if he had remained in his position!
To serve the full ten days without sleep or food was beyond my powers of
endurance. I began to plan frantically to achieve my release. I bethought
myself of my mother, Mrs. O'Neill, who was living with my uncle. I took
council with the nurse who had been so sympathetic during my supposed illness
without, however, telling her that my crime had been faked. She advised me
to go to the matron and explain that I knew of a woman who might pay my fine.
Perhaps the matron would notify her.
I took an additional twenty-four hours to bring this about. The matron
was skeptical, but I insisted that this "kind lady" had frequently befriended
me in the past and might be prevailed upon to do so again! Needless to say,
my mother had been disturbed by my continued absence. She knew that I was in
jail, but she had expected me to return at the end of the first day. By the
third day she was nearly frantic. When the matron phoned to say that there
was a girl in the House of Correction who said she knew Mrs. O'Neill and
wanted her to pay the fine, my mother never even waited to find out the name
of the criminal. She assured the matron that she would take care of the
matter and hastened to the judge. We have often wondered what the matron
thought of the pair of us.
My release came at the close of the third day--almost seventy-two hours
after my entrance. In that time I lost twelve pounds and I was sick with
hunger and loss of sleep. As I left, a group of fellow prisoners gathered at
the door to wish me good luck. I shall never forget the picture they made.
I call them my "gray ghosts." Unkempt and drab, they waved me good-bye with
a sincere wish that I might "stay out" and prosper.
No one who has not had a similar experience can appreciate the outlook
of the criminal serving sentence. To them the world is reversed. Out of
prison we eulogize people in direct ratio to their lack of criminal ability;
the criminal idealizes the master crook. The bigger the crime, the higher
the social position of the criminal! That is the code of the underworld and
nowhere is the effect of this code more strikingly emphasized than in prison.
One loses his perspective on crime. Even with my slender experience, I found
myself adopting their viewpoint. If the atmosphere can do that to me in
three days, think what it can do in months or years to the confirmed
criminal.
Of one thing I cam convinced: Most of the women serving in the Detroit
House of Correction were cases of psychopathic care or, at least, expert
medical attention. Many of them, I am convinced, could be returned to normal
life by proper care and psychological treatment--not physical punishment.
But they can never return under the existing conditions.
The effect of such an experience on a woman, born and bred to a very
different place in life, is certain to be revolutionary. The girl in
"Manslaughter" leads a life of ease and self-gratification up to the time
that she goes to prison. Most of the penitentiaries, and especially the
women's prisons in New York State, are vastly better than the jail in which I
suffered. But this girl must go through that horrible first night in some
intermediate City or County Jail. That is one moment that is certain to
exert a powerful influence upon her. And by comparison with this experience,
the actual penitentiary will seem a paradise.
I went in search of an experience and I found it. I wouldn't go through
the same experience again for any amount of money. But I wouldn't sell it
for an even greater sum.
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January 21, 1923
Dorothy Day
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
Jeanie Macpherson Rests Amid Roars of Broadway
Jeanie Macpherson is in New York resting. Unlike most writers, she does
not resort to the farm for relaxation, but takes a suite in a hotel in the
very busiest part of Broadway, where the glare of the electric light signs
flicker in through the windows and the roar of the many street noises hurl up
their ceaseless symphony.
"Adam's Rib," which Cecil B. De Mille finished screening a short time
ago, is the latest picture story from the pen of this charming young writer.
Her next effort is to be called "The Ten Commandments." This title was
selected from thousands which were received in response to a prize offer of
$1,000 in a contest for the best picture title. Letters with suggestions
poured into the Lasky office from China, Japan, Germany, France, Africa and
America. Three translators were kept hard at work. During the first week of
the contest a letter came containing the suggestion "The Ten Commandments"
and before the thirty days of the contest were over seven more with the same
idea were received, and so when it was finally decided that the title was to
win the prize, $5,000, instead of $1,000, had to be distributed.
It is interesting to note from what varied sources the same suggestion
sprung. One was from a poor widow who was struggling to pay for a small
house in which she and her four children live. The money came as manna from
heaven to her.
Another one of the winners was a major, who, when he sent in his
suggestion, stated that if by any chance it should be accepted, he desired
the money to go to the crippled children's hospital.
A boy working his way through college was awarded one of the $1,000
prizes, which, of course, meant a great deal to him.
A society woman donated her winnings to a charitable organization.
Many people whose suggestions were rejected wrote in that they were glad
of it, because they realized that "The Ten Commandments" affords far greater
possibilities than their own idea of a title.
Miss Macpherson does not even let herself think about the method she
will use in developing the story for the picture. She is letting her mind
have a complete rest, so that when she returns to Hollywood the first part of
February, she will be refreshed and ready to start work on it in real
earnest. The story will not be a Biblical one, but will be modern in design,
with the commandments applied to everyday life. Miss Macpherson says that
there is nothing antique about the commandments--that they are practically
embodied in our present laws--also that the subject will have to be handled
in a delicate manner so as not to offend any religion. One of her friends
asked her how she would develop the commandment, "Thou shalt not covet thy
neighbor's wife," without treading on an army of toes, to which she very
resourcefully replied that in the original Hebraic form the words were simply
"Thou shalt not covet."
It seems that since their origin some one has been at work amending the
commandments.
Miss Macpherson grew indignant when the subject of the vices of
Hollywood were approached. "It is a deplorable truth," she said, "that human
nature is so constituted that tales of virtue are never as interesting as
stories of vice"--and so all we hear in the East about wicked Hollywood,
which might readily lead us to believe that dope parties take place right in
the middle of the main street, are only one side of the story, and that a
negative side. "There are 30,000 men and women out in Hollywood," continued
Miss Macpherson, "who are working seriously for the pictures, and there are
any number of happy families who live sane, decent lives." If Miss
Macpherson's serious little face is an echo of the true spirit of Hollywood,
then we'll say it must be a pretty fine place.
Aeroplaning is one of Miss Macpherson's chief delights. She pilots the
machine herself and guarantees that a trip in the air will cure any woman of
such petty fears as mice and spiders.
Mr. De Mille, who will direct "The Ten Commandments," is off cruising on
his yacht somewhere in the Pacific. He plans to go to the Tiberan Islands,
off the south coast of California, which is said to be inhabited by a savage
tribe of Indians. He is interested to see these people, who are alleged to
be very primitive, and who rarely encourage visitors to their shores. He is
also going to catch some ray fish. These, Miss Macpherson said, are thirty
feet broad, and are caught by means of a harpoon. And thus do our great
minds of the pictures seek rest and relaxation.
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1924
Jeanie Macpherson
THE TRUTH ABOUT THE MOVIES
Building the Dramatic Scenario
The trouble with ninety-nine out of one hundred stories is that they
lack the cement of perspective.
A group of very pretty, well-made bricks of situation and character
portrayal are made and are set on top of each other. But they tumble in a
heap when pushed with the prod of dramatic analysis because there is nothing
to hold them together. And even if there is a slight joining medium running
through the story structure, oft times the brick of particular characters is
so much larger or smaller than the situations to which it is attached as to
create an equally dangerous weakness.
I would be carried away with the particular series of sermons I was
writing. I would build them and build them and build them. And then at the
end I would find them utterly out of proportion to other elements, equally
important dramatically but not nearly as interesting to develop.
And I would find that a small minor character would so intrigue me that
I would load upon the lady or gentleman a great deal of very important
business which would give them a flash in the limelight for a few scenes and
then die out, without having advanced the story in any way.
A story is a unit and not a conglomeration, but this is a fact that few
who desire to write ever learn.
Amateur writers too often get panic-stricken when minor characters get
out of hand. The tendency then is to throw too much of the plot to them and,
as a result, the story develops a jarring flat wheel.
When a minor character seems to be gobbling too much, I transfer its
business to a major character and thus move toward a smooth, direct plot.
But sometimes this action is real torture. In "Don't Change Your
Husband," I had a wife's friend who was simply lovely. She was a piquant,
delightful little piece. I had all sorts of fun playing with her. But one
day I woke up and found she was nothing but a nice, big log right square in
the path of my leading lady. I wept about twenty-four hours, and then
carefully amputated my pet, transferring all of her important action to the
feminine principal.
I would say, "Keep your minor characters down to the limit." But you
must have some. Those that pass the acid test are very vital to your story
in their capacity as scavengers, removers of waste material in the way of the
plot's progress.
Take Lois Wilson's baby boy and her mother in "Manslaughter," You see
the boy but twice or three times--and yet he provides the motivation for all
of the tense drama which surrounds the mother part and he does it with very
little waste of "footage."
The boy's grandmother you see but once, but that one time saves us half
a dozen titles and keeps the audience from worrying about the child for three
reels, by showing us that the boy is being kept well and happy while his
mother is in prison. The grandmother is an excellent example of the manner
in which a minor character may keep debris from cluttering a plot.
Cecil B. De Mille has me read this first synopsis to him. But he does
not allow me to relate the story as I have written it. He forces me to
condense the flower of my imaginative writing into plain, unadorned
description of the dramatic action. His reason for this is that he does not
wish to have his dramatic sense clouded by the imaginative fervor of my first
rush into the story.
Then comes the "one-line continuity." Each scene is written in one or
two lines. It is the "clearing house" of the story, for here we are
concerned with straightening out the structure and the motivation.
Everything is eliminated that is not essential to the building of these
fundamentals.
Then I start my second continuity. In this continuity I am through with
the problems of building structure and drama. My sole concern is with the
precision and accuracy with which my characters move, the determining of
whether it would be better for a certain player to die in the sitting room or
the bedroom, etc.
But a scene that sounds great on paper may fail to hit when the camera
cranks upon it. And back it comes for revision, and it is changed until the
minutest detail holds water.
Finally the picture is finished.
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