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A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF
SCREEN PLAYWRITING
for theater and television films
A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF
for theater and television films

SCREEN PLAYWRITING
BY LEWIS HERMAN
FORUM BOOKS
THE WORLD PUBLISHING COMPANY

Cleveland and New York
A FORUM BOOK
Published by The World Publishing Company
2231 West 110th Street, Cleveland 2, Ohio
First Forum printing February 1963
Copyright 1952 by Lewis Herman.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced in any form without written permission from
the publisher, except for brief passages included in a
review appearing in a newspaper or magazine.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 52-5175
Printed in the United States of America. WP263
To my most ardent though prejudiced admirers:
my wife Marguerite and our children-

Stephanie, Judith, and Helmar.
The sections "Dialects" and "Foreign Language Dialogue"
were originally published in full in
The Screen Writer magazine.

PREFACE
This book is a practical manual of screen-play writing. Its purpose

is to supply practical rules and suggestions and to describe practices
applicable to the writing of motion-picture screen plays for both
theater and television presentation.
Itshould be obvious that motion-picture techniques are adaptable
to television production— especially to filmed television drama.
The television drama, as produced on film, varies from the feature-
length film mainly in the matter of the size of the script and, hence,
the running length of the film. This difference operates so that
ninety-minute films made for theater showings cannot be cut down
for television without affecting their quality considerably, no matter
how may have been originally.
fine they
When this has been done— and it will be done more and more as
the major studios release their old films— artistic mayhem results.
Violent jump cuts, for example, are the rule rather than the excep-
tion. These jump cuts occur not only picture-wise but, what is even
worse, in dialogue, in sound, and in music. Characters who have
been arbitrarily cut from opening scenes suddenly appear as if from
nowhere and disappear again just as mysteriously. Characters intro-
duced in the opening scenes of the theater version are sometimes
discussed in the TV version as though they were familiar to the
viewer, despite the fact that they have found oblivion on the cutting-
room floor of the TV studio.
These as well as other crudities can mean only one thing: that the
theater-length film is not ideally suited for television presentation
when it is cut down to size. More and more it must become apparent
that the only films suitable for television are those that are expressly
written for television.
vii
Vlil PREFACE
With but few exceptions— which will be duly noted and discussed
—all the material written in this book regarding feature-length films
for theaters can be applied to feature films for television as well.
There was a time, for example, when the long shot was proscribed
to the television film. This was so because the average home TV
image screen was considerably smaller than it is at the present time.
Thus, the figures in a long shot appeared so small as to make them
almost invisible. But with the advent of the large TV screen, this
injunction, together with many others, was lifted. So that now it can
be safely said that the TV film script is almost the exact counterpart
of the feature-film script.
Screen plays must be written for motion pictures other than Holly-
wood feature films— for documentary films, commercial films, educa-
tional films, and training Although screen plays for these use
films.
certain basic techniques, writing forthem requires specialized knowl-
edge that would require another book to detail. Hence, in this book,
complete emphasis will be put on the rules for writing screen plays
only for feature films for theaters and dramatic films for television.
The techniques given will be those that have evolved through the
years into a sort of filmic grammar. As such, they have become
almost inflexible rules for the making of acceptable motion pictures.
The result is that the noncreative segment of picture makers abide
by them with doctrinaire slavishness. A corollary result is bad pic-
tures.
The rules are being presented here, however, in no such light.
For the free and creative spirit recognizes no rules. It accepts rules
merely as conventions to be shattered if fresh, unfettered creations
are to result. Therefore, the rules given in this book should be used
only as signposts— or springboards— to creative invention.
Accept most of these rules with reservations. Accept them only as
steppingstones. And go on from there to create, if you are able,
original and imaginative works.
LEWIS HERMAN
November, 1951
CONTENTS
page vii Preface
DRAMATURGY
3 The screen play, the screen writer, tools of the trade.

7 Historical background
5? Present studio procedures
12 Screen play classifications
13 Before we begin
15 The story idea, notebook, idea selectivity, idea develop-
ment, ideas for free, idea twists, ideas by assignment,
research ideas, ideas are not enough.
19 Theme outline, background locale, first act resume, second
act development, third act denouement, write for story
analysts, names are important, avoid name cliches.
25 The synopsis, personality shading, all cats are gray, conflict

from complexities, puppets are not people, is it con-
trived?, conflict by opposition, problems breed conflicts,
credible problems, universality, emphatic problems, char-
acter dossiers.
30 Plot vs. character, plot and character, what is plot?, no
beginning nor ending, be chary with crises.
32 Plot patterns, love pattern, success pattern, Cinderella pat-
tern, triangle pattern, return pattern, vengeance pattern,
conversion pattern, sacrifice pattern, family pattern.
34 Minor-character development, minors are human too.
36 Subplots, integrate subplots, other subplot uses, play ma-
jors against minors, major treatment of minors, love in
the minors.
38 Dramatic values, motivate actions, shock dramatics, the
ix
CONTENTS
horns of a dilemma, structural unity, straight-line story

line, telegraphing.
40 Suspense, someone to root for, write— don't telegraph, don't

withhold, the pay-off, suspense tricks, fight against time.
45 The chase, movement in the extreme, universal applica-
tion, Western chases, comedy chases, murder chases, build
your chase, dialogue impedes chases, suspense chase,
chase sound effects, chase direction, anything can hap-
pen, picturesque chases.
50 The serial
54 Westerns
55 The gimmick, integrate the gimmick, scene-tag gimmicks.
58 Plants, plant with care, plants must flow, plant without
telegraphing, build your plants, pay off your plants.
60 The running gag. character and humor, running-gag pay-
off, build with running gag, transition running gags,
running-gag props.
62 Comedy relief, why comedy relief?, it must flow, played by
minor characters, as natural reactions, relief without
comedy.
64 Humor, the wisecrack is king, pictorial humor better, don't
contrive humor, real people mean
humor.
real
66 The flash back, flash backs impede movement, flash backs
fritter suspense, flash backs lose immediacy, flash backs
make money, flash-back transitions, flash-back uses lim-
ited, start at the beginning, flash backs within flash
backs, tricky but unnecessary.
7/ Repetition, character traits, repeat figures, avoid undue
recapitulation, use dissolves, condense repetitions, when
recapitulation is unavoidable.
75 Quick conversions, time is the essence, action vs. character,
arguments are not enough, plant conversions, dramatized
motivated conversions.
J5 Realism, the omnipresent camera, candid realism, infinite
details, dialogue selectivity, reel realism is not realistic,
don't gild the lily, answer? compromise, of course.

yo Semi-documentaries
83 Fantasy
8y Story holes
CONTENTS XI
88 Happy ending vs. unhappy ending

po Treatment
2 THE FILMIC COMPONENTS
93 The shots
98 The full shot
100 The long shot
101 The medium shot
102 The medium close shot
102 The close shot
103 The close-up
104 Inserts
104 Extreme close-ups
105 Moving shots
jo6 The pan shot, follow action only, exit and entrance pans,
pan-motivated movement, revelation pan, pay-off pan,
medium to close pan, reaction pan, subjective pan, limit
the pan, flash pan, transition flash pan, avoid reverse
pan.
112 The tilt shot
114 Dolly shots, trucking shots, dolly or cut-in?, pullback dolly,
transition dolly shot, re-establishing dolly shot, travel vs.
pan, Chinese dolly.
119 The angles, eye-level angle, low angle, high angle, side
angle, boom shots, avoid too many unusual angles, point-
of-view angles, change angles, reverse-angle shots, reverse-
angle revelations, dialogue reverse angles, reverse-angle
action.
12J Cutaways, establish cutaways, related cutaways, unrelated

cutaways, cutaway action-direction, cutaway comment,
cutaway to relieve tension, scene-capping cutaways, lapse-
of-time cutaways.
131 Indirection, reaction cutaways, cutaway from death, fore-
shadowing cutaways.
134 Time lapses, what are they, how they are used, dissolve
time lapse, wipe time lapse, time lapses impede action,
telescope story time, avoid time-lapse cliches, use cliches
as springboard, integrate time lapse with character, use
Xll CONTENTS
cutaways for short time lapse, dialogue time lapse, exact

time-lapse realism.
141 Transitions, continuity with transitions, shot-to-shot con-
tinuity, sequence transition, direct-cut transitions, direct
cut for suspense, wipe transitions, detailed transitions,
detailed transitions for pay-off, Cook's tour unnecessary,
dialogue transitions, match-dissolve transition, motivate
match dissolve, sign-insert transitions, stock-shot transi-
tion, title-card transitions, gratuitous title cards, fade-
out, fade-in transition, run-through transitions, sound-
effect transitions, dissimilar scene transitions, parallel-
sound transitions, sound and visual transitions, letter
transitions, simple deviceless transitions.
152 Montage, direct-cut montage, dissolve montage, montages
save money, historical montage, wipe montage, super-
imposed montage, time-lapse montage, procedure mon-
tage, date montage, symbolic montage, do not overuse
montages.
156 Opticals. dissolves, time-lapse dissolve, out-of-focus dissolve,
wipes, push-off wipes, special-effect wipes, fade-in, fade-
out.
160 Special effects, trick effects, camera tricks.
162 Process screen shots
WRITING THE SCREEN PLAY
169 The master-scene screen play

1J3 The shooting script
178 In the beginning was . . ? open with a bang?, open slowly?,
opening to build.
182 Building, the filmic sense, build dramatically, use cause
and effect, build with details.
185 Building the components, build for continuity, organize
for flow, organize for scene length, organize for rhythm,
organize for interrelationships.
j8y Image size, progression in image size, opposition in image
size, repetition of image size.
188 Image angle, progression in image angle, opposition in

image angle, repetition in image angle.
CONTENTS Xlll
189 Camera movement, progression in camera movement, op-

position in camera movement, repetition in camera
movement.
189 Tempo,progressive tempo, opposing tempo, repetitive
tempo, build with a purpose, build for rhythm.
191 Tempo and rhythm, tempo is timing, rhythm is flow, write
in detail.
194 Dialogue writing, continuity with dialogue, visual more

important than verbal, education, occupation, emotion,
tempo.
196 Verbal cliches, avoid the bon mot, use cliches to charac-
terize, gags choke up character, cliches for comedy.
198 Dialects
200 Foreign language dialogue
205 The dialogue hook, single-word repetition, line repetition.
210 Speech length, speech length regulates tempo.
211 Stream of consciousness, use stream of consciousness spar-
ingly, memory recall thoughts.
213 Monologue, motivate monologue.
213 Dialogue realism, realism compromise, dialogue selectivity,
dialogue un grammatical, use dialogue tags, overtones,
dialogue directions, avoid gratuitous directions.
21J Indirection
21J Dialogue punctuation, reading punctuation vs. acting
punctuation.
218 Interjections
219 Dialogue revision, superfluity, repetition, length, rhyming,
singsong, alliteration.
221 Telephone dialogue, use consistent phone dialogue.
224 Dialogue cutaways
226 Writing character action, describe action thoroughly, de-
scribe actions exactly, act it out, present-tense directions,
participial present, action before speech, delayed reac-
tions, exits and entrances, crossing actions, action for
children, consider children's limitations, animal action
directions.
253 Budget writing. "B" picture weather, visit the back lot,
consider re-dressing, consider corners, avoid staircases,

library shots, limit location shots, "cheat" the actors,
limit the cast.
XIV CONTENTS
238 The verbal cliches, going to pieces, surprise names, sur-

prise place names.
240 Prop cliches, the pajamas, long underwear, the buy-off,
cigarettes.
242 On learning from seeing, your own picture, not your own
picture.
245 Props, props for pantomime, character props, props for
actor ease, write in props, props for child actors, props
for suspense, props as symbols, props come in handy,
done with mirrors.
249 The subjective camera
251 Conventions
252 Composition, composition definition, three-way composi-
tion, emotional-content analysis, establish mood patterns,
simplicity, old-fashioned attraction, keep it simple, vari-
ety.
255 Balance, off-center balance, lower left to upper right, strive

for depth, frame foregrounds.
25 j Movement composition, limit background movement.
258 Dynamic symmetry, dynamic symmetry with low angles,
dynamic symmetry with set furnishings, static close-up
with dynamic symmetry.
260 Epiphanies
262 Symbolism
265 Topicalisms. avoid year dates, avoid dated gags.
267 Sound, know your sound effects, selectivity, establish sound,
indirection with sound, sound sequences, fill in with
sound, recalled sound, sound transitions, sound leitmo-
tifs, three-dimensional sound, avoid sound on cue, cap
with sound, volume important, sound volume increases,

sound filters, phone filter, echo chamber, Sonovox, bud-
get with sound.
2J4 Music, plot music, background music, avoid familiar music,

functions of background music, informative music, fore-
shadowing music, intensifying music, identification mu-
sic,psychological music, dramatic music, chase music,
atmospheric music, building with music, transition mu-
sic, crutch music, commenting music, dialogue- displacing
music.
282 Format
DRAMATURGY
SECTION
1
The Screen play ™L J The motion-picture screen play
is a written composition designed to serve as a sort of work diagram
for the motion-picture director. He causes it to be photographed as
a series of picture sequences. When spliced together these sequences
become the finished motion-picture film, after suitable sound effects
and background music have been dubbed in.
Unlike the play or novel, the motion-picture screen play— or, as it
has been variously called, the shooting script, the script, or the
scenario— has seldom become a work of literary art. Like the blue-
print in architecture, it has served only as an intermediate stage
through which the completed motion picture must go before it
achieves its ultimate structure as a movie.
The Hollywood screen-play writer's position in the manufacture

of motion pictures is comparable to that of the writer in no other
medium in the field of entertainment. The playwright usually sees
his drama produced and performed almost as he has written it,
unless a play doctor has been called in. The magazine writer's work
is published with relatively few corrections by his editor. The book
author is rarely forced to make radical editorial changes. Radio

writing is by the demands of adver-
affected in not too great a degree
tising-agency account executives. But the supposedly creative work
of the Hollywood screen-play writer seldom, if ever, reaches the
screening stage intact.
There are many reasons for this peculiar difference. The making
of motion pictures is a collaborative enterprise. The creative work
of dozens of closely knit crafts and arts is necessary— acting, cinema-
tography, architecture, scenic design, costume design, interior deco-
3
4 A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWRITING
rating— these and a multitude of others are all essential to the
making of motion pictures.
To some idea of the varied amount of craft work involved,
give
the following were observed on the sound stage where Maugham's
The Razor's Edge was being shot.
In addition to the director, his two assistants, the actors and their
standees, were: the gaffer (head electrician) and his assistants; the
cameraman (director of photography) and two assistant cameramen;
a camera operator; a crane operator; a crane steerer; the head grip
(stagehand) in charge of five other grips; a script clerk; four elec-
tricians; a dialogue director; a unit production manager; a contact
man; a fixture man; a greenery man; a special-effects man; a sound
engineer and his assistant; a sound-boom man; a sound-cable man;
a prop man and his assistant; two make-up men; a hairdresser; two
wardrobe people; and a still photographer.
Note particularly that the screen-play writer was not present.
Incidentally, these employees were only those actually working on
the set. They did not include the hundreds of others who had been
involved in the many other phases of picture making, from the set
designers through to the man who swept up the debris after the set
had been used and struck. Even in the production of cheaply made
television dramas— those produced in accredited studios and with
union and guild personnel— the number of workers is surprising.
In addition to this multiplicity of crafts and talents that makes
for the differences between screen-play writing and other forms of
creative writing, there is still another important variance.
The novel (especially) and the dramatic play (occasionally) are
written directly for an audience. The screen-play writer, however,
creates only a set of directions for the director, the actors, the cam-
eraman, and the vast horde of other craftsmen. Therefore, a screen
play should never be written to be read. That is why so few of them
have ever been published. When they are, it is usually with most of
the camera directions and actor actions deleted.
The test of a screen play, then, should be not how it reads, but
rather how effective it is in describing scenes to be photographed,
dialogue to be heard, and actions to be seen.
This accounts for the frequent failure of so many novelists— and
even playwrights— who are called to Hollywood to write screen plays.
DRAMATURGY 5
They write beautiful scripts that read well. Their dialogue— written
extensively, as it is done in the discursive novel— has fire, emotion,
and realism. And their descriptions of a character's appearance, his
actions, and immensely apt and readable.
his motivations are indeed
But is called in to do a
unless an experienced screen-play writer
"polish job" on the script, it will usually photograph very badly.
Its dialogue will emerge from the sound track as uninspired and
pedestrian. The elaborate directions for the action will, of necessity,
have been watered down by the time it is brought to life by the
actors. And the inept camera directions will have been ignored by
the director, who usually asserts his prerogative of shooting the
scenes in his own way.
It can be stated, then, that a successful fiction writer does not
necessarily possess the ability to write acceptable and shootable
screen plays.
The screen writer. It can also be stated that, because a writer works
in a Hollywood studio or at an Eastern television film studio as a
screen-play writer, he does not necessarily practice screen-play writ-
ing. Of the roster of more than fifteen hundred members of the
Screen Writers' Guild in Hollywood less than one-fourth actually
write screen plays.
Many are known as "idea men." That is, they are proficient in
dreaming up ideas for future motion pictures. Others are "situation"
men, who can read a completed script and suggest new scenes and
situations with which to enliven the action and dialogue. Still others
are "gag" men, whose job it is to insert funny situations or dialogue
jokes. And then there are the "polish job" writers whose forte is to
take a completed script, juggle scenes and dialogue, add or take out
scenes and dialogue, generally clean up rough spots, heighten action,
and accelerate tempo.
But a majority of the screen writers, other than the above-men-
tioned, write master-scene scripts, without camera shots and angles
indicated.
Tools of the trade. Primarily, a screen-play writer should be able

to write— to express his ideas in words that are amply descriptive
and appropriate.
Then, he should have a creative imagination. He should be able

to recognize subject material that is intrinsically dramatic.
He should be a good storyteller. He should know those techniques
of storytelling that make for a plot that is expertly opened, provoca-
tively developed, and satisfactorily concluded.
He should have developed a catholic power of observation. He
should be able to see characters, situations, and story developments
as they can be related to a screen play.
More important, he should be able to relate outer, physical char-
acteristics and actions to inner, emotional drives, and to integrate
them naturally into the screen play so that acceptance of psycho-
logical motivation will not be strained and, therefore, lost.
In addition to possessing a photographic eye, the good screen-play
writer should have a dictographic ear. He should be able to repro-
duce living speech in a way that is revelatory and at the same time
selective.
He should also be able to use sound effects for the purpose of
creating mood, of heightening dramatic action and, as is often
necessary, for transitional, scene-capping, and plot devices.
These qualities, though, are not exactly exclusivewith the screen-
play writer. The radio-script writer and the playwright should pos-
sess most of them— the
fiction writer some. But the screen-play writer
must possess, in addition, a highly developed sense of the visual.
He must have the faculty of "seeing" to an extraordinary degree. He
must be able to see an idea in terms of a picture rather than as a
well written, verbally colorful, mentally stimulating— but physically
static paragraph of words.
In a recently produced British Technicolor picture, the physio-
logical sensations of a sneeze were reproduced by cutting in a few
blank pink frames of film covered with twinkling sparks. Someone—
the writer, director, or producer— believed that the sneeze could be
made more graphic in this manner. It was a good try even though
the desired effect was not completely realized.
Because he is writing a motion picture, the screen-play writer must
deal primarily with motion. His story must move swiftly or slowly,
the exact pace depending on the nature of the story. His dialogue
must move continuously. It must have in it the very essence of
dynamic movement— again, either swiftly or slowly according to the
pace desired— but it must move. His characters must move so that
DRAMATURGY 7
there is sufficient physical action within the framework of each shot

to justify its existence in a motion picture.
Then the screen-play writer should be able to develop movement
in the order of his individual shots within the scene so that, photo-
graphically, a moving progression of shots will result. At the same
time, this progressivemovement must be injected into the sequence
of scenes, into the act sequences, and into the picture as a whole.
Much of this movement is contributed by the director and the film
editor. But the basis for it should be furnished by the screen-play
writer.
The quality of character growth, which has a certain innate move-
ment of its own, is still another means of projecting this progressive
movement.
The accomplishment of these factors of movement, however, re-
quires an intimate knowledge of motion-picture techniques. It de-

mands a knowledge of the use of the various kinds of shots; that is,
of camera distances and angles. It demands a knowledge of optical
effects, like the "dissolve" and the "wipe," which are effective aids
for moving from scene to scene and from sequence to sequence. It

demands a knowledge of the use of a vast tool chest of technical
devices without which a motion picture could not be made.
Historical background
There was a time when such a specialized knowledge of motion-

picture making was unnecessary. In the cradle days of picture
making, the cameraman was the Koko of the industry— the story
plotter, the script writer, the director, and the film editor. He was it!
Gradually, as the demand for pictures increased, and as the cam-
eraman's job became more onerous, he was forced to relegate some
of his tasks to other specialists. But he retained the story-developing
responsibility for some time simply because he never found it neces-
sary to write a formal screen play. In those days, shooting was done
"off the cuff," extemporaneously.
The next step was the hiring of a writer— usually a vaudeville or
stagecomedian— to write down a series of funny situations for the
cameraman to shoot. Soon he was required to write "title cards"
with which the silent pictures tried to present a minimal amount of

only absolutely essential dialogue and descriptive comments, the
most typical of which were of the "came the dawn" variety.
Then, as the pictures matured in concept and grew in length from
two-reelers to four-reelers and finally to eight-reelers, the outlines
became longer and more complex. So specialists were developed to
handle the separate elements of a screen play: idea men to furnish
the plot kernel; situation men to develop the plot idea into dramatic
situations; title-card writers to supply the words to be flashed on
the screen as explanatory material, or as essential dialogue; and a
general, over-all writer to put together all the separate elements and
to write the final shooting script.
The addition of sound and speech automatically eliminated the
title-card writer.But it also created a demand for authors who could
write dynamic dialogue. At first they were recruited from the ranks
of Broadway playwrights. In the first disordered rush of the change-
over from silent to talking pictures, the legitimate theater was raided
for every type of professional, from actors and directors to dialogue
writers.And the first talking pictures demonstrated the error of
attempting to transplant what was basically a static medium to
"motion" pictures. They were simply stage plays transplanted to the
flickering shadow-screen.
Much of the fault lay with the playwrights, who made no attempt
to adjust their stage-play writing techniques to the requirements of
motion-picture writing. Speeches were windy and wordy. Slow-mov-
ing, individual scenes made the movement pedestrian. The close-up
fell into disfavor and was supplanted by the medium-shot and the
full-shot mise en scene.
But gradually, as the picture makers began to assess their errors
in the finished product, the level of screen-play writing rose. The
long-worded dialogue was trimmed until now, for the most part, it
has become succinct and realistic. The full shot, it was realized, had
its place, but not to the detriment of one of the motion picture's
chief tools, the close-up. And definite techniques for screen-play

writing have evolved that produce stories that move along as a
motion picture should do.
DRAMATURGY
Present studio procedures
The current Hollywood staff-written screen play is the result of

much preparatory work. It begins with the purchase of a bare idea,
a published book, a produced or unproduced play, a magazine story,
or an original story written expressly for the screen. At one time
the last mentioned was bought mainly to star an already contracted
actor or to supply a specific market or picture trend. But the
original-story screen play is rapidly gaining greater acceptance, espe-
cially with television film producers, who cannot afford to pay
exorbitant prices for "best seller" material.
The basic story is elaborated— if it is an idea— or boiled down— if
it is a novel or play— to a synopsis. This synopsis will run anywhere
from five to ten double-spaced typewritten pages. Sometimes, if a
producer is too busy to read even these few pages, the synopsis is
truncated to a page or even a paragraph. One important producer

is known to hire actors to act out the story for him the while he
cogitates on more important matters.
Then a story conference is called. This is attended by the super-
vising producer (who has from two to half a dozen different pictures
going under his aegis) the individual picture producer; the screen-
;
play writer; and sometimes, but not often, by the director assigned
to the picture, although usually the director is assigned only after
the screen play has been completed.
The story idea is thrashed out. The writer is given sundry opin-
ions and injunctions. Production values are discussed. There is also
much consideration of the stars that might be available for the
picture. Innumerable phone calls interrupt the proceedings. Loca-
tions and budgets are discussed. Finally the conference ends. The
writer returns to his cubbyhole to think, to make notes, to pound
out on his typewriter, write longhand, or dictate to a stenographer,
his elaboration of the synopsis into what is known as a "treatment."
The writer tries to incorporate into it all the ideas that have been
proferred him during the story conference, plus the ideas implicit
in the original story and his own ideas about it. This takes the form
of a fifty-page short story written in the present tense. It is corre-
spondingly shorter, of course, for the shorter television drama. It
lO A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWRITTNG
should describe the characters, list their individual characteristics,
detail their various interrelated actions throughout the story,
and, at the same time, try to give the dramatic high spots of the
dialogue.
But story conferences continue to be held between the writer and
his unit producer. Story values, actions, and dialogue are thrashed
out, always to the satisfaction of the producer who, at the same time,
bends a quaking ear omnipresence— not necessarily physical—
to the
of his supervising producer. And the result becomes a finished treat-
ment.
This treatment then goes to the supervising producer. Copies are
sent to the heads of the story department, to the studio heads, and
to their assistants. That is to say, about twenty-five people then read
it, comment on it, make suggestions for it, tear it apart, or build
it up. The shreds of the treatment are then returned to the writer
for co-ordination. He, of course, is told that he may reject or accept
the suggestions as he sees But if he is experienced, he rejects only
fit.
minor changes and suggestions and accepts most of those made by

his salary-superiors, the exact number of acceptances being in direct
proportion to the importance of his critics in the studio hierarchy,
and to the writer's desire to retain his job and to get further assign-
ments.
A revised treatment is then completed by the writer and sent
around. The same group it. Eventually—
of studio executives read
usually after about six weeks— a completed treatment is written that
isacceptable— but always with reservations— to the executives. That
done, the writer begins to work on the shooting script proper, which
is the master script that will be followed when the actual shooting
of the picture begins.
Needless to say, the same procedure is gone through in the writing
of the shooting script. Endless conferences are conducted. Multi-
tudinous changes are made. Reams and reams of new scenes, of new
dialogue, are written and The writer swelters. The stenos
rewritten.
sweat. The unit producer gnaws at his fingernails. The supervising
producer snarls. But gradually, and miraculously, a completed
shooting script evolves, until, from about six weeks to a year later,
the final-final-final, last-draft shooting script comes off the mimeo-
graph machine.
But still other things can and do happen. After a year, the script
1
DRAMATURGY 1
may be discarded. Another writer may then be put on the original

idea. And the same weary process is repeated. What will happen
almost certainly— even if the finished script is perfectly acceptable—

is that still another writer will be called in to rewrite the work of
the original writer. This is called a "polish job." That done— if the
picture is an important one— still another writer may be hired to
rewrite the rewrite. The theory here is that if one writer's work is
good, then certainly the work of half a dozen additional writers
should be six times better.
Now, with half a dozen or more versions of the story before him,
the producer is beset with doubts. Eventually he makes his choice,
and the winning script is mimeographed and sent out to the heads
of the various departments for their estimates and work on the
picture.
Technical workers are assigned. Actors are auditioned and cast.
The sets are designed and erected. The shooting schedule is worked
out in a script breakdown. Finally the picture is shot. Rarely, if
ever, is the writer called on to work on the set with the director, to
make on-the-spot changes in the dialogue. When he is, it is usually
only for gag material.
While the picture is being shot and edited, the various writers
who worked on the script are sent, through their agents, the names
of those writers that will appear on the credit cards in the picture.
If a number of writers are involved, a squabble usually results. For
measure of competency in Holly-
credits are the screen-play writer's
wood. This squabble is usually referred to an arbitration panel com-
posed of three members of the Screen Writers' Guild. The panel
reads all the scripts and makes the necessary decisions. The result is
usually a compromise. Until recently the compromise was: "Original
story by Joe Joakes and Bill Boakes; adapted by Sam Soakes and
Moe Moakes; screen play by Frank Foakes and Nellie Noakes; with
additional dialogue by Ralph Roakes and Hiram Hoakes, and addi-
tional scenes added by Oscar Oakes and Pat Poakes." The names of
the writers who were not mentioned were filed away in that Valhalla
of anonymous screen credits, "the archives of the Academy of Motion
Picture Arts and Sciences."
But the Screen Writers' Guild has tried to limit the number of
credits for one picture so that today the names of only a few writers
are permitted to be included.
12 A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAY WRITING
Screen play classifications
The Hollywood screen play can be broken down into a number of

classifications. Although they call for the same over-all treatment,
insofar as writing is concerned, each is subject to certain variations.
Many of these variations will be discussed in forthcoming sections.
The same classifications, with few exceptions, can be used for tele-
vision films. It will suffice now merely to list the classifications for
identification purposes.
WESTERN COMEDY CRIME

Action Romantic Action
Mystery Musical Prison
Musical Juvenile Social Problem
MELODRAMA DRAMA
Action Romantic
Adventure Biographical
Juvenile Social Problem
Detective-Mystery Musical
Murder-Mystery Comedy
Social Problem Action
Romantic Religious
War War
Musical Psychological
Psychological-Mystery Historical
Psychological
MISCELLANEOUS
Fantasy Documentary
Fantasy-Musical Semi-Documentary
Comedy-Fantasy Cartoon
Comedy-Fantasy-Musical Historical
Farce-Comedy Travelogue
Farce-Murder-Mystery Musical-Review-Drama
Farce-Horror Drama
Horror Serial
Horror-Psychological Two-Reel Comedy
DRAMATURGY 13
Before we begin
"In the beginning was the word." This biblical phrase can well be
applied to motion-picture making. For in the beginning of every
modern motion picture there must be words— the words of the
screen-play writer fashioned into a script from which the entire
studio personnel takes off and begins to function.
The era of the off-the-cuff cameraman and director has become
only a vestigial remnant in Hollywood. With the exception of very
few directors— Roberto Rossellini of Italy and Charles Chaplin, in
his Woman of Paris, are the only two who come to mind— directors
can begin to function only after the screen play has been written.
The screen-play writer, then, is the prime mover of every motion
picture, whether it be for theater or television presentation. It is
incumbent on him to see that his work, which serves as the initial
impetus, continues to carry the action forward. His screen play
should have overt and covert movement. It should suggest shots that
contain action movement and dialogue movement. It should string
those shots together so that the movement does not falter, but con-
tinues to go forward progressively, in a pattern designed to suit the
general mood of the finished picture.
This cannot be repeated too often: The prime consideration
fact
of the motion-picture screen play is that it should make for a motion

picture that moves.
Motion is also especially required by the television film play.
Feature films for theater projection are displayed in motion-picture
houses to what has been termed "captive audiences." That is to say,
the audience is more or less forced to remain to watch the unreeling
of the picture, primarily because they have paid admission to see it.
The television film, however,viewed in the home, plays to no

such captive audience. The members of this audience have not only
paid nothing to see the film but, what is more, simply by turning
the dial, they can avail themselves of any one of several more attrac-
tive entertainments.
And there are other differences. In a dark theater, the audience's
attention is almost hypnotically directed toward the flickering
screen. Distractions— other than the typical ones of crackling paper
bags, popcorn-crunching, cooing lovers, and squirming youngsters-
are reduced to a minimum. Hence, the audience's attention can be
quite easily held by the picture.
But this is not so with the TV filmed picture. The living room
isseldom darkened completely for TV viewing. There is no motion-
picture projector drone to act as a soporific. The baby's whimpering
in an adjoining bedroom; the bickering of the couple next door
heard through flimsy walls; the chatter of traffic coming through an
open window; the telephone; the doorbell; the comments from fel-
low viewers— these and many other distractions serve to sever the
tenuous thread of attention which acts as a point of contact between
the TV audience and the picture they are seeing. And then there is
always the little numbered dial on the set which promises different
and, perhaps, better entertainment.
The viewed in the home makes for still
fact that television is
another difference that by the television
calls for special attention
screen-play writer. At home, the viewer is surrounded by few fellow
viewers. In the theater, though, he is part of a very large group who
respond to the picture en masse. Laughs that may be missed by some
are caught by others, who transmit their reactions to the less acute.
In the same way, coughs and throat-clearings— indicating boredom
and disinterest— can also be transferred to others. Radio and live
and comedy shows, solved
television programs, especially the variety
this problem by performing for studio audiences whose reactions-
rehearsed in a "warm up" before show time and properly coached
with applause cards while the show is on the air— are broadcast to-
gether with the program. Thus, the herd responses are supplied to
the home listener.
The "Amos and Andy" television films use this method too, by
dubbing into the traditional sound track an applause track of audi-
ence responses. This is indeed a radical departure for, in effect, it
becomes a motion-picture drama that supplies its own appreciative
applause, thus assuring itself of acceptance. This leaves one to shud-
der at the possibility of other producers adopting the method for
theater motion pictures, where the captive viewers would be sub-
jected to the indignities of an audience-conditioning cheering sec-
tion.
One other point applies particularly to the writing of comedy
drama for television. The usual procedure for motion pictures is to
5
DRAMATURGY 1
write in a few seconds of "dead dialogue" after a laugh line or situa-

tion. This acts as a cushion for the audience laughter and assures
their not missing anything pertinent. In television, however, this
"dead dialogue" is not required because the viewer is usually at
home and the laughter reaction is neither so loud nor so long as it
is in the theater.
These are considerations which must be taken into account in the
writing of motion into a TV film script that moves. How this move-
ment can be translated from the original idea, through the synopsis,
the treatment, and the shooting script, will be discussed in the forth-
coming sections.
The story idea
We have already seen that ideas for feature motion-picture screen

plays are obtained from a number of sources. When the picture is
based on a "best-selling" book, a Broadway-produced play, a short
story, or a magazine article, the story idea, synopsis, and plot and
character development are already furnished to the screen-play
writer. His is merely a job of adaptation.
But an increasingly fecund source of material is to be found in
the "original story," written especially for motion pictures, either to
a specific order or on speculation. The reasons are many. They are
cheaper to buy than the others. The cost of a successful play or book
is proportionate to its success. And the more successful it is the
greater interest it develops in the studios, who then bid against each
other for its purchase and thus run up the cost, sometimes to enor-
mous sums. In addition, costs must be added for adapting the book
or play into a screen play.
The original-story screen play, however, is complete in itself. Its
original cost is its only cost. What is more, bankers who are ap-
proached for backing by independent producers consider a com-
pleted original screen play as a property and will often advance
money solely on the strength of it.
Ideas for original-story motion pictures can be found anywhere.

They can be gleaned from the multifarious activities of people as
they are observed by the writer himself.
l6 A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWRITING
This is the safest and most advantageous way. For if your story is
to concern the actions of people— and it must, of necessity— and if
it is to be fresh, realistic, and universally appealing, then it is from
real people that the stories of your reel people should come.
Notebook. This requires, first, an acquisitive and curious mind,

and, second, a notebook. Observe details and note them down
immediately. To delay this process of notation is to call into play
two negative factors: (1) the forgetting of important details, and
(2) the embroidering or fictionalizing of them. The contrived story
results when these two factors are present. The memory is, at best,
a faulty faculty and the only method for making certain that it will
function perfectly is to avoid its use completely and resort to written
notes.
Idea selectivity. Selectivity is one of the writer's most important

techniques. The amateur writer can be discerned almost always by
his lack of it. The work of a finished, professional writer is always
evidenced by the orderly compactness of his writing.

Selectivity plays a very important role in all aspects of screen-play
writing, and itbe dealt with in succeeding sections of this book.
will
It is particularlyimportant in finding and using ideas for motion
pictures. The writer should develop the talent for noting down only
those ideas that may lend themselves most easily to screen-play
development.
This means that you will not assiduously note down all of grand-
nor all Aunt Prissy's idle gossip of the doings
pa's tales of derring-do,
of her Wednesday Night Social Circle. Grandpa has changed his
stories so often that, by the time they reach you, they contain all
the tag ends of hundreds of other tales with which he has been
inoculated over the years.
But the story of cousin Joe, who works at the bank— of how he
frustrated a holdup of the bank by a twelve-year-old boy— has in it
the basis for a good screen story.
Idea development. Using this story only as a jumping-off point,

you would then start to delve into the family situation that may
have forced the boy to attempt the robbery. And eventually, out of
DRAMATURGY 17
this idea may comea dramatic story of juvenile delinquency. You

may with something that has nothing to do with a bank rob-
finish
bery. But you will have a story— which was what you started out to
write in the first place.
Ideas for free. The printed word is another fruitful source of ideas.
Newspapers are ideal for this purpose, particularly the items on the
local news pages. Human interest stories are constantly recorded.
Avoid the national story covered by the big news services. Motion-
picture studios themselves have research units that clip these stories
for submission to their story departments and producers.
Once again, try the oblique method. Use the news item only as
a springboard for another story by delving into the story's back-
grounds, and by developing them.
Sam Goldwyn is said to have gotten the original idea for his pic-
ture The Best Years of Our Lives from an item in Time. The story
he read was simply one about a trainload of marines returning home
from the wars. What was eventually evolved for him from this
starter idea was a trenchant picture detailing the postwar readjust-
ments of returned soldiers.
Jerry Wald, another dynamic producer of Hollywood pictures,
subscribes to scores of magazines and newspapers which he scans
and clips religiously for topical story ideas from which many excel-
lent pictures have emerged.
Idea twists. Fiction, plays, and even motion pictures themselves

may furnish the germ of an idea for a story. Forget about plagiarism.
The important thing to remember is not where you got the idea,
but what you do with it.
Shakespeare cribbed most of his ideas from other authors. His
Henry V story was derived largely from Holinshed's Chronicles.
Few know Holinshed. Shakespeare is an immortal.
When reading a book, stop and lay the book down somewhere in
the middle. Then try to figure how you think the plot will turn out
—or, more important, how you think it should turn out. Quite often
you'll find, after completing the book, that you have come up with
an entirely different ending for the story— and you'll have a new
idea, gratis.
Use the same method when seeing a picture or play. Try to figure
out the plot development and the denouement in advance, accord-
ing to your own idea. You'll be amazed at the stock of new ideas
you can accumulate by such a method.
Ideas by assignment. If you are fortunate enough to be working

you may be confronted with a situation in which your
at a studio,
producer throws a title at you, something on the order of "High
School Daze" or "Prison Ship." And he'll tell you to write a story
lor him to fit the title.
Or the studio may have mock-up (incomplete full-scale model)
a
on the back New
England whaler that has been used in
lot of a
a former picture and has been gathering overhead instead of profits.
"Write me a whaling story," you may be told.
The former assignment is the easier of the two. The Hollywood
habit of using a title only as bait, without worrying too much about
relating it to the story, should enable you to fit almost any idea to
the title.
Naturally, you should try to create an attractive title for your
story, one that suggests the theme provocatively without revealing

it completely. It should contain at least one "color" word, and
should be short enough to fit into a movie-house marquee sign-

board. Even if your original story is bought, the chances are that
the original title will be jettisoned for another. A story which
started out as "Jane Froman's Story" was switched to "I'll See You
in My Dreams," then to "You and the Night and the Music," then
to "With a Song in my Heart." It will no doubt be released under
still another title— or the original one.
The assignment of writers to a prop calls for a certain amount of

ingenuity. Be sure to visit the back lot and examine the mock-up
to be used. One screen-play writer was assigned to a prison-ship
picture because the studio had the prow of a ship on its back lot.
He wrote a complete treatment, using a slave "blackbirding" idea
as the theme, only to discover later that the prow was that of a
modern oil-cargo ship, with no possibility of being revamped to
suit the purposes of the slave-ship story.
Research ideas. Story ideas may come indirectly, while you are
doing research for background material. Suppose you decide a story
with a trucking background would be saleable. You do some library
DRAMATURGY 19
research on trucking— its techniques, its peculiar locutions, the char-

acter types, etc. Out background research may
of this local-color
come springboards for a number A magazine article
of story ideas.
on the trucking business may tellthe story of a trucking tycoon and
describe his unique experiences. With some judicious adapting,
switching, and protective camouflage, these experiences may well
serve as the idea for your story.
Remember this: Ideas proliferate all about you. They abound in
everything you see, everything you do, everyone you meet, every-
thing you read. The British screen-play writer T. E. B. Clarke got
the idea for his gimmick in The Lavender Mob from a picture
postcard.
Ideas are not enough. But the Hollywood studios are crawling
with idea men, who do nothing but dream up ideas for pictures.
Unless you are well placed in the industry, unless you have the ear
of an executive who can say "yea" or "nay" to the purchase of your
bare idea, don't try to sell it as an idea alone. Only a Ben Hecht
can get away with it. And he has been known to sell an idea verbally,
get paid for it, and forget about it the next day. If you can do this,
then you are in the wrong business. You should be selling stocks
and bonds or real estate.
But if you are just another journeyman writer, like most of us,
and can recognize an idea as picture material, adapt it into a fresh
conception, and develop it into a cohesive, unified, and dramatic
story, then you are well on the road to beginning what may turn
out to be an acceptable and profitable sale.
At least you have the basic foundation for going into the next
process in the fashioning of a screen play— the synopsis.
Theme outline
The story idea written down in your notebook is only a memory

jog. It merely an ironic twist, a
states a situation, a character facet,
mystery-story clue, a unique method of murder, or any one of the
countless other story ideas or devices.
But if you decide to use the idea for a feature-length film, it will
be necessary for you to develop it further into a three-act theme

outline,and then into a more detailed synopsis.
This process is performed in one of two ways. If the need for the
idea is urgent, or if the idea is hot— that is, if it is so compellingly
good that you are unable to forget it— then you will think about it
continually. It is this "worrying" of an idea in the author's mind
that starts a process of plot development which can sometimes result
in a complete outline— story synopsis, character development, and
all— with which he can go into the next phase of idea development—
the laying out of the story treatment. But ordinarily it is better to
write out this synopsis, using whatever idea embellishments you may
have thought of.
If your idea is to be used as a half-hour television drama, ordi-
narily you will have to break it up into two acts instead of three.
This is to accommodate the insertion of a "middle commercial."
As long as advertisers— who make television entertainment possible
on a free basis— insist on putting in this middle commercial, it will
be necessary for the script writer to write his scripts in two acts, with
the first act winding up with some sort of "cliff hanger" situation—
either physical or emotional— to serve as an attention carryover from
the commercial to the second act. The elimination of this annoying
and interest-destroying device will make for more successful tele-
vision presentations.
Background locale.It will be necessary to introduce a background

locale against which the action of your idea can be played.
You may have a background idea to start with. Your idea may be:
"What about a picture to expose the advertising-agency racket?" In
which case, with a background already set, your next step would be
to lay out and develop the idea.
Ordinarily the development would be inherent in or suggested by
the basic idea itself. The basic idea may come from another motion
picture, as was previously explained. News stories were published
about the actor starred in De Sica's The Bicycle Thief to the
effect that, after his initial success in the picture, he had a difficult
time obtaining other screen acting work. Eventually, he was forced
to return to hisformer job of laying bricks.
Now, from news item it is possible to fashion a screen story
this
that could have the same appeal as The Bicycle Thief. It could be
1
DRAMATURGY 2
the story of aman— a bricklayer or a carpenter or any artisan— who

is apparently happy in his work, and with his family. He suddenly
finds himself a famous movie star because, and only because, he
looks like a bricklayer, thinks like one, can perform the duties of
one and, to top it off, can impersonate a bricklayer without appear-
ing to be acting like one.
With this springboard the following three-act theme outline, three
paragraphs in length, can be evolved.
The first act should consist of a brief resume of the basic situation
of the story.
First act resume. A young bricklayer— who is happily married and

with his place in life— is selected to play the leading role
satisfied
in a semi-documentary motion-picture being directed by a famous
Hollywood personality who believes in using real people in real
situations. As a result of his experiences, subtle changes take place
in the bricklayer's character. He becomes dissatisfied with his own
work of bricklaying. His relationship with his wife and son under-
goes a change. He actually believes he possesses great acting ability
despite the fact that it is the director's talent for handling amateur
actors that is responsible for the bricklayer's fine performance. He
isno longer carefree and philosophical but nervous and anxious as
he awaits the great day of the picture's release when, he is sure, the
world will recognize him as a great motion-picture star. The atten-
tions of his wife and child are nothing compared with the acclaim
of the world.
The second act should leap from this springboard into a gradual
development of the story, and should wind up with the climax.
Second act development. After the usual delays, the picture is

eventually released, and with great critical and popular acclaim.
The young bricklayer is feted and honored. He is asked to make
personal appearances— the usual star buildup. And his relations with
his wife and son become very strained. He becomes infatuated with
the director's wife, who encourages him only because he is in the
limelight and because she is in the mood for light flirtation. He is
approached by a studio to make another But the original

picture.
director refuses to work on it because he has other commitments
and also because he knows the bricklayer cannot interpret the part.
The bricklayer accepts the offer confidently and, of course, con-
tinues his affair with the director's wife. However, despite his im-
mense enthusiasm for acting, his limitations are realized and his
contract dropped. He tries to get work at other studios but to no
is
avail. His discouragement is capped when the director's wife jetti-

sons him with a revelatory payoff. Now, he is right back where he
had started except that as a successful has-been he doesn't know
which way to turn. He's licked.
The third paragraph should present the denouement, the final
revelation that will clarify the outcome of the story and supply a
solution to the situation.
Third act denouement. After an argument with his wife, he stalks

out of the house followed by his son. Eventually, they find them-
selves at the entrance to the zoo. The bricklayer is furious because
his son prefers towatch a caterpillar rather than a magnificent lion
or the exotic birds.The child's simple answer— that he likes to watch
the caterpillar and it makes him happy— strikes a soothing chord in
the father. On the way home he begins to take notice of the brick-
work along the way and comments on it. He stops self-consciously by
a building some of his fellow-workers are erecting and, having been
taunted, proves he is still a better bricklayer than most. When he
arrives home, his wife is startled by his more cheerful attitude and
extremely confused when he explains it by telling her he found a
caterpillar. We leave him, happily tackling life once more, on a
construction job receiving a golden Academy Award Oscar for the
part he had played in the picture. Unceremoniously, he throws the
Oscar into a refuse dump and returns to his job of laying bricks, a
completely satisfied man again.
Write for story analysts. There is a definite reason for writing the
theme outline in this way. For that is just what the story analysts
will do if your treatment or completed screen play is submitted to
the studio on a free-lance basis. It is their job to read everything
submitted, and to break down each story into a one-paragraph plot
theme, condensing the story so that it can be easily and quickly read
by the studio's story chief and the producers.
After boiling down the story to one paragraph, the story analyst
reverses the process and enlarges the theme to a three-paragraph
DRAMATURGY 23
summary, on the order of the one given above. If the story is well
constructed, should be able to withstand the sloughing off of the
it
verbiage with which the average writer festoons his stories.

The story analyst's next step is to enlarge the theme summary to
a synopsis. He does this only if he likes the story well enough to
submit it for possible consideration by the studio. In this synopsis
he will write from ten to twenty-five pages, giving a more detailed

elaboration of the story outline, the dramatic conflicts, and the
characterizations. He sees to it that all excess wordage is eliminated.
He stresses the integration of the characters into the story, and
makes certain their dominant characteristics are presented, because
most of the studios scan story submissions as possible vehicles for
stars already under contract to them. Primarily, the theme outline
should stress those aspects of the story that would best make for a
moving motion picture, and not for a fine piece of writing.
Because the story analyst is your first hurdle at the studios, it is
advisable to write your story so that it will stand up under his expert
probings. He looks, primarily, for a good basic idea. Then he'll
appreciate a rational and moving development of the idea. He'll
spot story weaknesses immediately, so make certain that all story
holes are plugged up. Finally, he seeks constantly for honest, ra-
tional, and orderly character development, perfectly integrated into
lively action.
With these facts in mind, your next step should be to develop
your story line from the three-paragraph theme outline, to a more
detailed synopsis.
Names are important. Now it will be necessary to identify your

characters by name. This should not be done haphazardly. Their
names should fit them and should be as identifying as their clothing
or their speech. Names carry with them certain associations that
have come to possess an almost inflexible acceptance by audiences.
A "bitch" character, as the industry labels a villainess, would be
misnamed "Mary." Conversely, a warm, sympathetic character would
hardly be suggested by the names "Daisy" or "Mamie." To the
average audience these are names of chorus girls or the girl friend
of a Brooklyn character.
The same care should be used in choosing names for national
types. But avoid typing within the type. Do not call your French-
man "Duval" or your Swede "Petersen." These may be common
names but all Americans or Englishmen
for those national types,
are not named Smith or Brown. Try, when possible, to suit the
name to the character, by obtaining a translation of the name. The
German name "Schoenberg," for example, would be "Belmont."
In the matter of surnames, especially when the name of the pro-
tagonist is also to be the title of the picture, strive for euphony.
"William Faversham," for instance, ripples. "Martin O'Grady," with
the "O" as a grace glide, has a pleasing rhythm. "Simon Bocanegra"
has a compelling sonority. "Dan Cott," on the other hand, has a
staccato beat. It could be used for a character who is abrupt in his
speech and actions. Study Dickens for his superb handling of sur-
names.
Avoid name cliches. The name "Jason," somehow, has come to

represent a skinflint banker. It is almost always used to identify the
eccentric millionaire in murder mysteries whose strange will brings
together a variegated set of misbegotten relatives. Not all ancient
New England codgers are named Caleb. Not all Brooklynite girl
friends are named "Mamie." Not all GI's are named Joe. Not all
Frenchmen are named Jacques. Not all Russians are named Ivan.
But there are certain names that in themselves suggest the charac-
ter to be portrayed. Names on the order of Anastasia, Agatha, Abi-
gail, Arabella, Bessie, Elvira, Flora, Hepzibah, Henrietta, Lavinia,
Mathilda, Melissa, Nettie, Martha, Tabitha, Sophronisba and Zen-
obia suggest, somehow, an old-maid aunt, especially when she is a
comedy character. Perhaps it is because they are old-fashioned
names. But the suggestion is present and must be taken into account
when choosing names.
Avoid Tom, Dick, Harry, Joe, and Bill for men unless you intend
to use them for comedy purposes, or to symbolize American types.
The same applies to Mary, Jane, Sue, and other too familiar names
for women.
Use a telephone book to obtain your characters' names. Try to
give them names that are not only characteristic but, in addition,
have the quality of realism. "Pat Collins," "Robert Montagu," "Phil
Rabin," "Rudie Spivak," "Edna Ward," "Kate Woodson"— these are
the real names of real people. They are familiar without being cloy-
ingly clich&I.
DRAMATURGY 25
Donot use a name that might be misinterpreted or misunderstood

at normal speech speed, unless for comedy effect. Try to vary the
syllabic content of your cast names so as to avoid monotony. Be
careful about giving two characters names with the same initial
letter. Try not to use the names of actual people in the news. If you
do, and if you hold that character up to ridicule, you are inviting
certain libel suit. Do
not make acrostics out of real names, or re-
verse real names. They always have a phony, manufactured ring.
Unless you have a specific purpose for doing so, give Smith, Jones,
and Brown the go-by. Instead, use names that are distinctive,
graphic, and easily understood. Above all, do not get snared into
the currently popular name trend. Some time ago an epidemic of
"Peters" popped into all casts. For women, it was "Lisa." England
contributed "Gogo" and "Jiji."
And do not use names for puns. Puns are all right in their place,
especially if they are bright and fresh. But puns on names are in
bad taste and are resorted to only by rank amateurs.
A last word about names: All character names must be in capitals
(GEORGE) when first introduced— in the synopsis, the treatment,
and the screen play— for identification purposes. Some prefer to
continue capitalization throughout the screen play. Others use only
the initial capitalization.
The synopsis
With the names of your characters set, your next job is to enlarge
on the three-paragraph theme outline and develop a more detailed
synopsis. The
result will not contain the complete action of the
story as it go into the finished screen play. For, in the process of
will
continued development of the story, other factors always enter to
change the story line, sometimes radically. But, with the synopsis,
the writer will have a detailed blueprint to aid him in building the
finished edifice of the screen play.
Your first task in this process is to establishyour characters. Using
the given outline as a basis, you will establish: (a) a young, happy
bricklayer (b) his understanding wife (c) his adoring young son
(d) an eccentric motion-picture director (e) his beautiful and
bored wife (f) an earthy, older bricklayer as a foil and for comedy-
relief (g) a cynical know-it-all assistant director to be used as a foil
and for comedy relief; together with various minor characters neces-
sary to the development of the story.
Personality shading. With the characters established, the next step

is develop characterization. In establishing the
to traits of your
characters, care must be taken not to sacrifice realism. No evil person
is ever all black. No good
guy is always all white. There are nuances
of gray that shade off from the white and from the black. More
important, there must be reasoning and emotion and often sub-
merged memories behind your characters' actions.
The gangster-villain of your piece should not be shown as a com-
pletely broad-stroked blackguard. He should have some redeeming
qualities, but they must not be so startlingly at variance with his
evil nature as to throw the character completely out of kilter. The
oft done movie killer who loves and breeds canaries, goldfish, or
angleworms is an example of this fault. An extreme leap from
black to white, without the humanizing effect of a gradual gray
carry-over, makes for character incredibility.
In The Prowler Van Heflin played a gambler who was willing to
risk his neck to achieve his ends. In his final breakdown, he is made
to say, "I did it for the $62,000—but I love you. You've got to give
me credit for that." He was a self-admitted villain, yes, but a human
one.
This, too: your good folk should not be so utterly good that they
will floataway on angel's wings. Then they would become unbe-
lievableand even their virtue would be suspect. "No one was ever
that good!" would be the mental reservation of most of the audi-
ence, who would like to think themselves all good but realize that
they have all sorts of devilish, negative traits as well.
All cats are gray. Here again, when endowing a good character
with negative traits, the method is not to show them in violent
opposition to the good qualities, but rather to fashion them so that
there will be a gradual graying-off from the white into the black, if
there is any black at all. Gray qualities usually suffice to round

to be
out the character of an ostensibly good person.
These detailed, motivating traits of character, however, need not
a
DRAMATURGY 27
be brought into the synopsis itself. But a basis for their use must
be introduced into it. Later, when the treatment is written, there
will be no awkward and unfounded action that must be forced to
remain in the script because later plot developments will be based
on them.
Conflict from complexities. There is another important reason

for not limning a character with one-track traits. The more complex
his character, the more conflicts he will engender and be confronted
with, and the more variety will there be in those conflicts. Com-
plexity of character breeds conflicts which, in themselves, make for
emotion which, by itself, makes for motion, a prime necessity for
motion pictures and television dramas.
Puppets are not people. Remember this: Your characters must

not be puppets patently manufactured by another. They must be
credible human beings with all the physical and emotional wrinkles,
wens, warts, and freckles that disfigure most people— so that what
they do is the result not of the author's expert plot manipulation,
but of an inherent drive within the "real-person" character. Con-
trived characters make only for contrived situations. When it be-
comes obvious that it is the writer who is putting his characters into
a fix— and is also trying to extricate them from it— then the resultant
story becomes contrived, unnatural, unrealistic, and unbelievable.
Is it contrived? The favorite dodge of many story readers, agents,

producers, and critics is to label a story they don't like as "con-
trived." When asked to elucidate the generality with specific exam-
ples, most of them back water with a weak, "Well, that's how it
strikes me. I just feel it, that's all."

Actually, all stories are contrived, in that they are the creations
of writers. Writers brought them into being. But there are certain
faults written into many stories that result in mechanized, robot-like
action. One of these faults comes with coincidence. An accidental
meeting obviously arranged for by the writer makes for a situation
that is too pat. Such a situation is the one in The Third Man, in
which Joseph Cotten is picked up by a tough cabby, in a cab with
barred windows, and driven at breakneck speed to—of all things—
lecture on James Joyce. The rigmarole of trying to establish the
cabby as a menace and the wild ride as a kidnaping, in order to
justify theinnocuous pay-off, was a creaking contriving and, what
was worse, audience cheating. The menacing cab driver was never
established as such and, as a result, his sudden injection into the
plot was completely unmotivated. To have introduced him previ-
ously, however, would have killed the effect of the pay-off; hence
his precipitous arrival.
What makes for a least contrived story, then, are real characters
who involve themselves— through the alembic of the writer's imagi-
nation—in a crucial situation which they themselves must resolve,
either for good or for bad.
Conflict by opposition. Given a set of real characters, your next

job is have the characters become enmeshed in a set of seemingly
to
unsolvable problems and situations. They must be opposed by
someone or something. There must be conflict. If there is no appre-
ciable conflict there is no story for motion pictures or television, for
only conflict can beget action and only action can endow a drama
with motion.
It should not be difficult to do this. We live in a world that teems
with opposites capable of generating conflict. For every aspect of

life that is good there is a corresponding aspect that is bad. In
opposition to health, for example, there is sickness.

The story conflict: a healthy man suddenly finds himself faced
with a siege of sickness. How he solves his problems attendant on
the sick spell will make your story.
Let's take another set of examples. In opposition to youth there
is old age. The story conflict, then, could be: A woman who has
been beautiful in her youth finds herself confronted with the prob-
lems of old age— loss of love, health, friends, etc. How she goes about
solving those problems will be the burden of your tale.
Even colors can make for dramatic conflict. Let's take black and
white. The story conflict: a light-skinned Negro who is passing as
white is suddenly exposed as a Negro.
The most exploited set of opposites is to be found in the poor-rich
pair. In most success stories use it
fact, in obvious and cliched ways.
There is no end to this involvement of characters with "positive"
traits in conflict with characters with "negative" traits. You need
only a good book of synonyms and antonyms to have an inex-
DRAMATURGY 29
haustible fund, enough to last you for your entire lifetime of writ-
ing. Take each set and see what you can do about working out a
story conflict.
Once you have mastered the technique of establishing conflicts by
contrasting opposites, you should find it comparatively simple to
endow your characters with values that represent either positive
or negative aspects of their opposite, and to set their conflicts in
motion by juxtaposing the opposite aspects.
It is in the synopsis that these basic conflicts must be definitely
established. For without conflicts, there willbe no story— no motion-
picture or television story, at least, which demand that emotional
and physical conflict be present if motion is to result.
Problems breed conflicts. To make

certain that your story contains
your basic idea possess the seeds of con-
conflict, it is essential that
flict. It must involve the characters in a problem or in a series of
problems which must be solved. If they are solved, your screen play
will end happily. If these personal problems remain unsolved at the
end of the picture, as far as your characters are concerned, your
screen play is a tragedy and will have an unhappy ending. But there
will be a solution to your problem, even though it may be an un-
happy one for your characters.
Credible problems. These problems must stem naturally from the

character of the people you are portraying, from their backgrounds
and present milieu.
Universality. At the same time, these problems must have univer-

sality.That is to say, they must affect the audience so that they can
identify themselves with the character and his problems, and so be
made to feel that "there, but for the grace of God, go I."
Empathetic problems. Also, these problems must have significance,

not only to the character, but to the audience, which expects to be
entertained. This capacity to entertain can be measured by the
natural, human reaction of "empathy," in which each member of
the audience is caused to project his separate and individual con-
sciousness into the consciousness of the character. The audience
must be made to want to care about the character, to become in-
volved in his struggles and in the manner in which he solves his
problems and overcomes his conflicts.
To do this it is absolutely necessary that your character possess
traits that are personally important to the audience. They must be
made know each character intimately, that they
to feel that they
love or hate him according to his nature and the part he plays in
the story— that he could be living down the block, or next door, or
even in their own households.
Character dossiers. Before you begin to develop your characters

and their story for your synopsis, you must do one thing— prepare
a dossier of each of the important ones, containing an extensive
background for each, even if you don't intend to use it all for your
script. List everything you can think of: milieu of birth; predilec-
tions; age, shape, coloring, and general appearance; taste in cloth-
ing, art, music, etc.; occupation and hobbies. The dossier should
contain everything, in fact, that will aid in obtaining a well-rounded
character who can become involved in motivated conflicts that both
you and the audience can understand and believe in.
In Mankiewicz's otherwise excellent picture, All About Eve, the

character of Eve was never fully realized, because her actions were
never fully motivated. This gave a cast of improbability to her be-
havior which resulted in making her eventual success somewhat
unbelievable. You never understood what it was in her background
that made her act as she did.
Plot vs. character
One of the greatest differences between Hollywood films and those

made in Europe is to be found in the plot vs. character dilemma
with which the screen-play writer is constantly being confronted.
Where the Hollywood product emphasizes the actions of the
people involved, the European picture— and especially those from
the British studios— hew to the character line, to the inner motiva-
tions of the characters.
The Hollywood method, therefore, in stressing action to the detri-
ment of character, produces a picture that may move but, like an
1
DRAMATURGY $
ineptly handled marionette, often moves erratically and unpurpose-

fully. The European film, on the other hand, in stressing character
to the detriment of action, sometimes slows up to a pedestrian pace
so that the characters lose identity and actuality for want of revela-
tory action.
Plot and character. Actually, both extremes err in that neither

takes cognizance of the obvious facts that plot and character should
be interrelated, and that the ideal form would be to combine plot
with character so that each stems from and flows into the other.
What is plot? The plot of a story is the outlined pattern of action

taken by a certain set of characters. This pattern must involve a
central character— or characters— in a situation that appears to be
hopeless. Then, after being brought into conflict with powerful
forces— within himself, in others, or in Nature— the central character
becomes enmeshed in certain complications which make the solving
of his hopeless situation even more hopeless. He is forced to do— or
not to do— certain things by the conflict-creating force. These things
he is forced to do create a series of crises in his life— turning points
in the story— which build up to a dramatic climax, which is the
most important of the crises. This climax— resulting from the solving
or from the not solving of the problems— resolves the story in that
it brings the central character to the end of that particular episode
in his life.
No beginning nor ending. This fact must be noted: There is no

beginning nor ending in most stories. It would be impossible to
picture a person's lifetime from the moment of his birth to the
moment of his last breath. Therefore, a motion picture actually
depicts only a highlighted episode, or episodes, in a person's life.
This being so, the audience should be given to understand that

the character was living his life before they get their first glimpse
of him on the screen. Also, when they see him in the last fade-out,
they should be made to realize that he will continue to live— if it is
a happy ending— despite the picture's ending.

can accomplish this— if it can present a character, or a
If a story
set of characters, in the complete round, by implication and by
indirection— then it can be said to possess true stature.
It is for this reason, then, that character should not be subverted
to the purposes of plot. If a subject can be naturally and realistically
characterized in that segment of his which has been picturized
life
and viewed by the audience, then it would not be difficult for that
same audience to visualize not only his pre-picture life, but his
post-picture life as well.
The pre-picture elements can be subtly indicated by means of
dialogue "hark backs," or by certain present actions that will hark
back to similar actions of the past.
The post-picture elements can be suggested, at the picture's end,
by means of dialogue and action. The fairy tale's "they lived happily
ever after" is an example of writing that suggests the nature of the
hero's post-story life.
But aside from these elements, there should be implicit in the

character of the hero certain intimations of his pre-picture experi-
ence, together with certain implications that will suggest the nature
of his actions after the end of the picture is reached.
With pre-picture, picture, and post-picture elements written in
unobtrusively, and suggested as intrinsic character components, it is
possible to present the picture of a person who, as a certain popular

magazine has it, is "unforgettable."
Be chary with crises. In the composing of the plot, care must be

taken not to interpret every sequence as a crisis and concluding as
one. Instead, the sequence should end in some sort of pay-off. And
the various sequences should build to a crisis which, in turn, should
be part of the build-up to the climax. To top a crisis with another
crisis which in turn is topped with still another crisis, and so on to
the actual climax, will result in a picture that loses interest and
gains only monotony.
Plot patterns
The plot patterns mentioned above can run the entire gamut of
human emotions and actions. Generally speaking, though, they fall
into a number of broad classifications. Georges Polti attempted to
DRAMATURGY 33
classify them in his collection of "Thirty-six Dramatic Situations."

But these thirty-six can be simplified by even broader grouping.
1. Love pattern. Here, boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl
is the order of events. It is the tried and true formula of many
pictures.
2. Success Pattern. This deals with the attempts of a person to

achieve success, which he either does or fails to do, according to the
nature of the story. Any of the pseudoscientific, pseudohistorical
pictures on the order of The Magic Bullet falls into this pattern.
3. Cinderella pattern. Here, the ancient story of the ugly duckling

being metamorphosed into a beautiful girl is retold in countless
forms. One most outstanding examples of this pattern
of the is to
be found in the picturization of Shaw's Pygmalion.
4. Triangle pattern. The interrelated loves of three protagonists

have formed the set pattern for innumerable film stories. That these
stories are cut to a pattern should not militate against their quality.
The British picture Brief Encounter is a fine example of this pattern
and is, at the same time, a superb picture. Too often, though, this
pattern has degenerated into banalities.
5. Return pattern. The dramatic return of the prodigal son, the

wandering father, the missing husband— of Enoch Arden, to use a
classic example— is a pattern that has been used in many diverse
forms.
6. Vengeance pattern. This

the basic pattern for most murder-
is
mystery stories. A committed and vengeance must be

crime is
wreaked on the criminal, either by the forces of law and order, or

by the person most affected by the crime.
7. Conversion pattern. The story of the reformation of an evil

person to virtue has been the subject of countless pictures, gopd and
bad. The bad ones err in that the conversion is usually affected too
quickly, and with insufficient motivation. The writers of the good
pictures see to it that the conversions are planned so that they grow
out of the character into action, slowly and naturally.
8. Sacrifice pattern. The converse of the vengeance pattern, this

pattern revolves around the actions of a person who, by sacrificing
himself or his own personal aims, helps another to achieve some
desired end. The difficulty here, as far as most pictures are con-
cerned, is that such sacrifice calls for a greatness of character which
picture producers, somehow, are either unable or unwilling to per-
mit for fear of sacrificing dynamic character mobility to static char-
acter development.
9. Family pattern. That there is drama in the interrelationships

of a family group has been proved by the plethora of stories using
the family pattern. Such families need not be related by blood. The
story can concern the doings of a group of boarding house lodgers,
insane asylum inmates, shipboard fellow-travelers; in fact, any group
of people thrown together by circumstances whose lives are brought
to a dramatic point by those same circumstances. The Royal Family,
Dinner At Eight, Orient Express, You Can't Take it With You, and
many others, successful and unsuccessful, are fitting examples of this
extremely popular pattern.
These, then, are the most important and oft-used plot patterns
available to the screen-play writer. When they are embroidered with
an emphasis on action alone, the results are negligible and add
nothing to the stature of the writer. But when attention is paid to
character and action, the pattern can become a richly colored work
of art.
Minor-character development
Because no human being lives in a vacuum, but is affected by his

relations with other human beings, it is when creating a
necessary,
story, that your central character or characters move in a milieu in
which other characters live. Even Defoe had to introduce his man,
Friday, in order to vary the conflicts with Nature with human con-
flicts. These minor characters must be involved somehow in the
DRAMATURGY 35
lives of your major characters or else their presence would be gratui-

tous.
Minors are human too. But at the same time, these minor charac-
ters have lives of their own which cause them to become compli-
cated with those of the major characters. To round out these minor
characters so that they can become clothed with essential depth and
third-dimensional realism it is necessary that they too be motivated
by well defined, natural character traits. For unless they are well
developed, their connections with the major characters will become
clouded with unreality. As a result, the actions of the major charac-
ters, no matter how realistically they may have been presented, will
suffer because they will reflect the unreality of the minor characters.
But because they are minor characters, and because they are pre-
sented only for brief periods, they must be developed quickly. This
can be done in dialogue and action. Often this is accomplished with
foreign or regional accents— by making the characters Brooklyn cab-
bies, Irish cops, or cockney maids.
But this is not enough. It is necessary to present them, not only
as sounding like Brooklyn cab drivers, but acting like them as well.
In addition, they must not be presented as cliched types, to be seen
in hundreds of other pictures, but as individuals. The cab driver,
for example, can be given to complaining constantly of traffic cops—
a persecution complex. Or, instead of dialogue, he can be character-
ized by a bit of identifying pantomime— a peculiar grin, an ugly
leer, or even a tic. Una O'Connor's mincing walk, in the minor role
of the cockney maid in The Barretts of Wimpole Street, was a fine

example of this type of characterizing. The same actress' nervous
cough in Cluny Brown was another excellent bit of characterization
that gave major proportions to a minor character's part.
Each minor character should be given something— either in dia-
logue or action— that will endow him with a quality of reality, so
that in his relations with the major characters, his genuineness will
be reflected in their scenes together.
The writer has a difficult problem, though, in presenting minor
characters for a half-hour television film. Because of the compara-
tive lack of time, there is insufficient footage available for develop-
ing them. But they should be present to be used as foils for the
major characters and also for comedy relief. And the lack of time
available makes it imperative that the writer know his minor charac-
ters thoroughly, so that though presented briefly, they are believable.
Subplots
Contrast is necessary in every art form. In painting, warm colors are

contrasted with cool ones. In motion-picture writing, the good is
contrasted with the bad, the slow with the speedy, and the rich with
the poor. There must always be some means of comparison, some
frame of reference, if any quality, good or bad, is to be presented
truthfully and effectively.
That is why in all dramatic forms subplots are resorted to as
foils for the main plot. Shakespeare was addicted to far too many
of them, which accounts, at times, for the confusion in his plays,
especially his comedies. When he hews to the story line, as in
Hamlet and Antony and Cleopatra, Shakespeare's art is seen at its
best.
Basically, a subplot is a divagation from the main story line, con-
cerning minor characters whose doings are tied in with the main
story line and with the actions of the major characters.
Integrate subplots. To be most effective, a subplot must be inte-

grated into the main story line. It must contribute to its develop-
ment, influence its crises, or affect its climax. In many screen plays
this accomplished by having the minor characters in the subplot
is
involved as friends of the major characters. Thus, the girl in the

story usually has a wisecracking girl friend who, while the heroine
is involved with her own young man, is also having romantic com-
plications, in a subplot. That is a basic formula.

Variations are unlimited, their freshness being in direct ratio to
the creative ability of the screen-play writer. But the girl friend's
subplot must be integrated with the heroine's main story line so
that its developments are contributory, in some way, to the develop-
ments of the main story line. The wider the divergence between the
two the less correlation there will be, and an element of confusion
will be introduced that will destroy unity and coherence and make
for utter confusion in the audience.
DRAMATURGY 37
Other subplot uses. Subplots and minor characters have this added
virtue— they make excellent vehicles for comedy relief, crisis relief,
and time-lapse cutaways. When the major story line becomes too
tense, the action can always be cut away to the antics of the charac-
ters in the subplot.
Play majors against minors. In addition, minor characters in sub-

plots can be used as character foils for the major characters and
their story line. Every comedian must have a straight man off whom
he can bounce his gags. In the same way, the characters of those
taking part in the major story line can be heightened tremendously
simply by playing them against the characters of those in the minor
roles. The quick-thinking executive can always be made to appear
quicker thinking if he is permitted to play against a slower thinking
person as a foil.
Major treatment of minors. A word of warning: Don't slough off

the writing of minor characters in subplots. They must be well
motivated persons with definite, individual characters— with traits
and actions that are reactions of inner compulsions. The same atten-
tion must be given to them as to those in the major story line.
And the same attention must be paid to the subplot story line as
well. Not only should it be a story in itself, but it must be carefully
worked out and integrated into the main story line. It should build
within itself and, simultaneously, within the framework of the
main story line. But its importance must never be permitted to get
out of hand so that it will intrude into and take precedence over
the main story line.
Obviously, the more subplots in a story the greater the possibility
of losing the main story line. In the British film Laughter in Para-
dise three or four separate subplots served to make the main story
quite confusing.
Love in the minors. Minor characters have a peculiar habit of

charming the writer. Because they are usually parts written for
character actors, because they are sometimes more real than the
major characters, the writer unconsciously finds himself falling in
love with them. Before he is aware of it, he discovers he is writing
his best lines and situations for them. The result is disproportion
in regard to the emergence of the main characters. Such dispro-
portion tends to throw emphasis from the main story line to the
subplot and its minor characters. In most films in which a minor
character obviously steals the picture from the star this failing is
usually to be found in evidence in the original scripts.

In half-hour television scripts, the subplots must be limited both
in number and in length. Once again the time factor intrudes, so
that it is impossible to do justice to the major story line if too much
attention is paid to the subplot. Subplots are admissible, but only
if they can be used to point up the main story without digressing
too far from it.
Dramatic values
Your synopsis should now contain certain inherent emotional values

inculcated into its story line. But emotion is not enough. Emotion
in itself is static unless it is related to action.
Motivate actions. Conversely, any action need not be dramatic in

itself. It too must be motivated by specific emotions, emotions that
could only result in the concluding action.
Shock dramatics. Dramatic values, in other words, must contain

make for an empathetic reaction from the audi-
certain factors that
ence. They must have shock value. They must deviate from the
expected norm so that, when presented, they will create a definite
reaction in the viewer.
A car driving along a road is a normal phenomenon. It has in-
herent movement. But it is not necessarily dramatic movement. It
can be dramatized, however, and thus thrill the audience, simply
by having it swerve off dangerously as it hits a soft shoulder on
the road.
A slum child staring into a bakery window is an ordinary sight.
But dramatic value can be injected by having the child's nose flat-
tened against the windowpane— thus high-lighting the child's yearn-
ing and also stimulating the viewer's sympathy.
DRAMATURGY 39
An act of courage, in a war picture, can be given heightened

dramatic impact, and can achieve truly heroic proportions, if it is
shown that the heroism was performed in the face of dangerous
obstacles— exploding shells, rat-tat-tatting machine guns, barbed
wire, etc.
The horns of a dilemma. Dramatic values are especially present

in a situation in which a character finds himself, as it were, on the
horns of a dilemma. He must be confronted with a situation in
which he is forced to make a decisive choice. Then, as Hollywood
puts it, "he's in a manhole" out of which he must extricate himself
or perish.
Structural unity. But these points of impact, of dramatic values,

must have continuity, unity, and coherence and, in addition, they
must build to a climax. Once the story theme has been made clear,
the developments should flow from the theme, through the theme,
and around the theme. Everything in the story should contribute
to its structural unity. The characters, their actions and reactions,
their speech, the milieus in which they operate— everything should
be made a part of a life that flows from the FADE IN of the picture
to the FADE OUT.
Straight-line story line. The story line, however, must not progress
in a straight line. It can appear to wander off at times, but only for
planned, definite purposes.
The straight-line story line is the commonplace story, the devel-
opment ofwhich forces the characters to follow hackneyed patterns
of behavior which result in hackneyed situations and, therefore, in
definitely undramatic values. This subject will be treated more fully
in the section entitled GIMMICKS. But here it will suffice to men-
tion that the story line must never be one of straight, to-be-expected
developments.
For the straight-line story reveals its plot prematurely. It excludes
the important element of suspense— of which more later. This factor
of suspense is not confined "who-dunnits" and psychologi-
strictly to
cal thrillers. It is an element that should be present in every story
if audience interest is to be maintained.
Telegraphing. A major fault that robs many stories of suspense is
to be found in "telegraphing"— revealing a story point prematurely
so that an imminent incident is robbed of its full dramatic value.
A prize fighter is said to "telegraph" his Sunday punch when, as a
preparatory maneuver, he cocks his fist, wrist, and elbow in such
a manner as to inform his opponent that an intended haymaker is
on the way. This same fault is to be found in many badly written
stories.
Telegraphing can be visual and verbal. It would be verbal tele-
graphing, for instance, to have one of your characters announce,
"I'm afraid we're going to have trouble with that guy!" The audi-
ence will then expect that trouble and be on the qui vive for it, so
that when it does eventually come it will have lost its dramatic
impact.
Other common errors of this type are such statements as, "You'll
be sorry for this," and, "He doesn't know what's in store for him,"
and, "You'll find out soon enough"— in short, any predictions of
dire consequences that tend to vitiate suspense.
Suspense
The quality of suspense involves degrees of mental uncertainty,

curiosity, anxiety, and, in an oblique manner, sympathy. When
these qualities are evident in a picture they can be transferred to
the audience so that they, too, by empathy, can suffer the same
anxieties and uncertainties as the characters.
Suspense can contribute to the flow of continuity. By forcing the
audience to want to know how things are going to turn out, sus-
pense thus makes for a constancy of attention that moves along with
the unreeling of the picture.
In the British film The Spider and the Fly, for example, the
audience's curiosity, anxiety, and sympathy are centered on Phillipe
in that extremely suspenseful scene in which he tries to make a
desperate getaway after the bank robbery by walking across the
overhead girder. The device is simple and old. The old-time serials
used it at the end of every episode.
But when your hero is thrown into a seemingly inescapable situa-
tion, he must be able to extricate himself not by accident, nor by
DRAMATURGY 41
a coincidental happenstance, but by his own devices. It must be

his own strength and ingenuity that result in the solving of his
problem. The long bow twangs inharmoniously
of coincidence
when the marines just happen when the hero
to be around, or
accidentally discovers a ladder in the manhole.
Someone to root for. It is necessary, first of all, to present the

characters so that they will gain the sympathy and interest of the
audience. Without an understandable and sympathetic character,
there can be no audience interest. If there is no interest, then there
can be no anxiety for that character's present and future. Few
people can attend a horse race, for example, without placing a bet
on a horse, even if it's one chosen at random. This gives the bettor
a horse to root for in the race, a horse in whose immediate future
the bettor becomes vitally interested.
The motion-picture onlookers must be vitally concerned with the
character if they are to be expected to root for him and with him in
his struggle to achieve his ends, or to overcome his difficulties, or to
solve his problems. Once this interest is created— once this link of
sympathy is welded— then it is a simple step for the audience to
suffer the tenseness that accompanies temporary setbacks or mo-
ments of indecision and uncertainty.
These moments of indecision, however, can be created only when
your hero is opposed by a force that is either more puissant than he,
or is his mental or physical equal. Doubt as to the outcome of any
conflict— which creates suspense— can result only when the opposing
forces are equally aligned, or when the evil force appears certain to
have the upper hand.
Story-line suspense can be achieved in many ways. With the com-
bined factors of the visual and the verbal available to the screen-
play writer, the possibilities are increased tremendously.
Write— don't telegraph. At no time, though, should the audience

be given an inkling of exactly what is going to happen. They can be
teased with vague presentiments, with indefinite suggestions, and
at times even with misleading clues— a favorite dodge of the master,
Hitchcock— but never with telegraphing, suspense-killing giveaways
of the climactic action that is to come.
Anything the audience sees but which it is unable to understand
readily, will add But suspense must not be injected

to the suspense.
for the sole purpose of creating suspense. It must be completely
justified. It must flow out of the characters and out of their actions.
And it must flow smoothly into the eventual revelation which sud-
denly makes the audience aware of the full significance of what has
previously been unknown.
Don't withhold. Suspense cannot be sustained if important— but

necessary— items of plot information are deliberately ignored by the
writer and conveniently withheld from the audience. This fault is
apparent in many mystery stories where important clues are not
given, or are glossed over, so that the real killer's identity can be
continued to be hidden. Such suspense may work for a while. But
the time will come when the revelation is essential. And the audi-
ence will sense a definite feeling of having been cheated. The re-
sult will be a denouement that will fizzle out completely.
The otherwise fine work of William Irish— also writing under the
nom de plume of Cornell Woolrich— contains numerous examples of
another type of suspense which, if used ineptly, tends to confuse,
mislead, and disappoint. His people always become involved in
situations which seemingly have little to do with the main story
line. Occasionally, at the end of the story, the author justifies the
use of these irrelevant scenes by tying them in with the denoue-
ment. But more often than not, most of these extraneous episodes
remain unexplained, even to the very end of the story.
Such suspense defeats its purpose. Too much of it, for instance,
becomes boring. At the same time, any and all unexplained sus-
pense episodes that are not paid off at the end remain like stickle
burs in the audience's subconscious, and tend to detract from the
effects of legitimate suspense episodes the author has created.
The pay-off. Every dramatic element in the story must pay off.
That is must all come to some satisfactory conclusion

to say, they
after the denouement. The running gag— which will be dealt with
shortly— must be capped with a "topper" (a humorous denoue-
ment) The hidden papers must eventually be found. The missing
.
heir must turn up. The character traits of an individual actor must
result in something positive. Information that has been withheld
must be revealed to achieve its full measure of suspense value. If
DRAMATURGY 43
minor characters or subplots are introduced for suspense effects, a

return must be made to the major story line at the end of the story
and they too must be paid off.
The telegram fashioned into the shape of an airplane in Reed's
The Fallen Idol flies lazily through space, lands at the detective's
feet, andthen kicked about by him. But eventually he picks it
is
up. After he creates a terrific amount of suspense by fingering it

idly, unfolding it casually, and then glancing only at its contents,
he pays off the gimmick by revealing to Baynes, the accused butler,

that he has read the contents of the telegram, thus upsetting the
butler's chief alibi.
This element of suspense must be introduced into the synopsis
first.Later on, in the screen play, it can be developed further by the
judicious use of angles and shots. Film editing can add tremendously
to suspense. These methods will be dealt with in their respective
sections. But here the fact must be stressed that the element of sus-
pense is vital to the synopsis story— love story as well as mystery,
comedy as well as tragedy.
Suspense tricks. There are innumerable little tricks that can be

introduced later on, in the treatment and in the screen play, that
can add a fillip of suspense.
1. The entrance through a door of someone other than the one
expected.
2. The tire blowout, machine breakdown, or any minor accident.
3. The messenger or emissary delayed by a casual stop engendered
by curiosity, arranged for or otherwise.
4. The ignoring of an important letter, package, or any other
vital item, by a number of people who could profit were they to
stop, recognize, and identify it.
These and many other similar devices— anything, in fact, that

interruptswhat appears to be the inevitable— are all legitimate tricks
that can be adopted and adapted for suspense purposes.
Fight against time. One of the most effective and most often used
of such devices for sustaining suspense in motion pictures is the
so-called "fight against time." This is so because it contains all
the virtues of movement, of violent action and reaction so essen-
tial to the forward flow of a good motion picture.
A crude but effective application of this device has the baddie say,
"If you don't hand over the papers by the time I count five,
well ." Then he starts to count as the shot changes to an extreme
. .
close-up of his trigger finger squeezing relentlessly on his gun. And

as the dread "five" approaches, suspense mounts almost to the break-
ing point.
When the fight-against-time device is used in a static situation,
the result is suspense. When, however,
used in a situation that
it is
requires sustained movement, the result is a chase (which see)

containing the elements of suspense. This device has been used so
often, however, that its effectiveness has been considerably blunted
by repetition. It has been particularly handy in crime pictures,

where the governor must be reached for a pardon before the inno-
cent man is electrocuted; in Westerns, where the posse must be
informed of the imminent arrival of the cattle rustlers; and in come-
dies where the husband must get home in time to warn the little
wife, who cooks from tin cans, of the unscheduled arrival of his
boss, who dotes on home cooking.
Regardless of its overuse, though, it can be adapted in some form
or other as a device for carrying the movement forward and of thus
sustaining interest through suspense. The creative writer should be
capable of taking over this hoary mechanism and creating a freshly
slanted twist, the originality of which can more than compensate
for its ancient lineage.
A classic use of the device came up in Hitchcock's The Woman
Alone, which featured the journey of a boy carrying a time little
bomb that had been set to go off at one o'clock. The camera fol-
lowed the boy in his meandering through the London streets, as he
stopped to have his hair shampooed by an itinerant soap grifter, as
he paused to get a puppy, etc., until finally he boarded a bus. All
the while, the audience had been shown various shots of different
clocks indicating that the time was dangerously approaching one
o'clock. Finally, after an almost excruciating, ever mounting peak
of suspense— and as the last clock indicated the creeping but in-
sistent stream of minutes, then seconds— the time bomb exploded
and the crowded bus blew up.
Actually, every story— if it is to show a struggle to achieve a defi-
nite end—must have some form of this fight-against-time element
in its make-up. Someone must do something before something or
DRAMATURGY 45
someone By adding a
else intervenes to frustrate his intentions.
which the intention is to be executed,
definite limit to the time in
the suspense can be heightened and the interest strengthened and
sustained. Even without setting a time limit, suspense can result.
The chase
The fight-against-time device is usually part of another dramatic

device, one that has been popularized by, and is best suited to, the
motion picture. It is the chase.
Movement in the extreme. The chase was used in the first feature
motion picture ever produced— The Great Train Robbery. It has
been an effective stock in trade ever since.
Griffith used it effectively in the ice floe scene of Way Down
East, in the ride of the hooded men in Birth of a Nation, and in
the chase to save a man doomed to the gallows in Intolerance, which
he also used in Danton's ride to the guillotine in Tale of Two Cities.
The chase, of all filmic devices, is basic motion-picture material.
By its very nature, because it presents movement in the extreme,
it furnishes motion to every picture in which it plays a part. There
was a time, in the early days of picture making, when the chase was
imperative, because the producers were fully cognizant of its sure-
fire propensities.
Universal application. Even today the chase

being used in
is still
almost every picture. Westerns, especially, dote on Even docu- it.
mentaries, which supposedly eschew the hackneyed feature-film

tricks to create cinematic devices of their own, often rely on the
chase. O'Flaherty's Louisiana Story used it in a number of variations
in the scenes between the boy, the alligator, and the tame coon.
And De Sica's magnificent Bicycle Thief was a chase from begin-
ning to end, with Maggiorani and his son chasing the bicycle thief
through the murky streets of Rome.
Western chases. The broad-vista setting of a mountain range as a
backdrop lends itself admirably to a chase of any sort, especially
when the sound effects of clopping hoofs, horses' snorts, and jingling
spurs and harness add to the sense of excitement. Years ago
it was
the cowboys who chased the Indians who, in turn, had
chased the
unwary settlers in their Conestoga wagons. Nowadays cowboys chase
cattle rustlers, posses chase stagecoach robbers, and the villain chases
Li'l Nell as she approaches the dynamited mine.
Sam Wood's last picture had two chase sequences-one in which
the soldiers wiped out most of the Indians, and the other where
the
escaped Indians set a trap for the whites, killed most of them, and
were in turn wiped out by the Reserves.
Comedy chases. The chase is especially effective in comedies. The

old-time two-reelers featured a chase in almost every sequence.
The Keystone Cops came into being because they were needed to
chase baggy-pants comedians. When the camera was slowed down
to twelve frames a second (which increased the number
of photo-
graphed frames and thus sped up the action) the chase was made to
appear even faster and the action more hilarious. In photographing
Westerns, the normal twenty-four frames per second are gradually
cut down to eighteen frames in chase scenes. Cross-screen action
need not be slowed down to increase the speed but head-on shots
are usually photographed attwenty frames per second to increase
speed. A wide-angle lens is also used to accomplish the same effect.
More about these matters later, however.
Murder chases. In murder-mystery stories the chase usually begins

with the discovery of the crime and with the uncovering of the first
clue. Here the chase is more subdued, slower paced. It becomes not
so much a chase from one place to another— where the movement
is obvious-but a more subtle procedure, one that is slowed down to
a stalk.
Very often, though, especially in suspense or crime-without-mur-
derstories, the chase can become as frenzied as in a two-reel Western
comedy. In the British film A Run for Your Money an effective, sus-
tained chase was used in which one character was pursued by an-
other while the girl was being tracked down by her victim and a
harassed copy boy, vainly trying to capture his charges, wound up
being captured by the police himself. This double chase has been
successfully exploited in Hitchcock's films. In his The Lodger the
DRAMATURGY 47
Ripper is chasing the young girl, or his next victim, while, at the
same time, the Ripper is being chased by the Scotland Yard man
who is in love with the young girl.
The Carol Reed picture, Odd Man Out, was a sustained chase
from beginning to end, suspenseful to the very moment when the
chase ended with Mason and his girl framed in the pitiless glare
of the police-car headlights.
Build your chase. To be effective, the chase requires top-notch

film editing, to which the screen-play writer can contribute by writ-
ing in suitable shots and shot descriptions.
The chase calls for, in the first place, careful attention to "build-
ing." It must be introduced after the characters in the chase are
fully identified, and after their place in the scheme of the story is
well established. There can be variations of this dictum, of course.
The hunter, for example, need never be identified until the very
end of the picture. Then, again, the identity of the hunted need
never be established until the picture's closing shots, as was done in
The Mask of Dimitrios.
But by and large, if the chase is to be integrated, its characters
and their relationships must be fairly well established. That done,
the exposition of the plot can then be developed slowly at first, but
gradually mounting in speed by shortening the length of the scenes
until the actual chase begins.
Dialogue impedes chases. The chase itself then, should serve as the
high spot of the build-up. It should be written briskly. The de-
pendence here should be not so much on dialogue as on action. The
audience should be permitted to see the story rather than to hear it
being told in dialogue form. In Western chases, minutes often elapse
before a word of dialogue is heard, and then the dialogue is usually
staccato, on the order of a laconic, "He went thataway!" the cliche
which has come to typify most Western chases.
For dialogue tends to slow up the action necessary to the chase.
But where the action has been breathlessly fast and where a halt
is called for, dialogue— and only that of the terse, staccato type-
can be introduced, in much the same manner as a jockey checks the

speed of his horse in order to reserve enough strength for a burst
of speed in the home stretch.
Suspense chase. The chase should never be permitted to go along

unimpeded outcome will always be known to the audi-
so that the
ence. Suspense must be added. This can be done by having the
hunted just miss falling into the hunter's hands, eluding him by
some accident or, preferably, by a resourceful stratagem. These epi-
sodes of near capture and near escape should be shortened— in scene
length— as the action of the chase progresses, so that by the time the
capture, or escape, is imminent the pacing is such that the escape or
capture occurs at a high spot.
This pacing on the part of the writer can be accomplished by
writing the scenes so that they will time progressively shorter and
shorter; by cutting away from shots of the hunter to those of the
hunted; by using the techniques of suspense outlined in the section
devoted to shots.
Chase sound effects. The use of sound effects is very important to

the chase— is almost an essential adjunct to it. In comedies, the rat-
tles and bangs of the trick auto add a sort of comic verisimilitude.
In the Western "hoss oprys" chase, the clop of horses' hoofs, the
squeak of saddle leather, the click of hardware, the grind and groan
of the swaying stagecoach, the snuffling of the horses, the punctu-
ating pistol shots are all accouterments to the chase. In murder
mysteries the use of such sound atmospherics as echoing footsteps,
creaking doors, disembodied shrieks in the night, and dogs baying at
the moon, can all be used to give an effect of third-dimensional chase
tension. Sometimes, in suspense pictures, a desired mood can be
achieved by the complete absence of sound, or by the sudden injec-
tion of a slight sound into tense silence.
The British picture It Always Rains on Sunday concluded with
an astounding chase when the hero tried to escape capture by
the police. It was climaxed by a terrifying melange of railroad
sounds when he was cornered in a switchyard— the puff of locomo-
tives, the click of steel rails, the screaming of sirens, the clank of box-
cars—these sounds, played as a sort of aural backdrop to the chase,
served to give it a sense of tense expectancy that made it the redeem-
ing sequence of what was a pretentious and otherwise unsatisfactory
picture. The section devoted to sound will suggest additional uses
of this important element in chase sequences.
DRAMATURGY 49
Chase direction. A very important factor in a chase sequence is

the direction which the chase takes. This is actually within the
province of the director and the film editor. But the screen-play
writer should have some knowledge of the techniques involved so
that the script material he supplies will be as usable as possible,
and so that rewrites may be avoided. This subject will be dealt
with more fully in other sections, so it will suffice to say here that
the direction the action takes on the screen— from left to right or
from right to left— must be consistent throughout so that the audi-
ence is able to accompany the hunter and the hunted as they ap-
proach each other.
Anything can liappen. The chase has a peculiar virtue in that, in

it, anything can happen. Where the other elements of a picture must
hew to the line of normality, the elements of the chase can be atypi-
cal. They can be comic, humanly realistic, outlandishly burlesqued,
even maudlinly sentimental. Chaplin's comedies— even the later
ones— drool with bathos of the worst sort. Yet, because much of the
bathos is introduced in a fast-action chase, the frenetic, supercharged
effects engendered by the chase tend to offset the false sentiment, so
that it loses some of its objectionableness.
So, in the chase, the writer has an opportunity to go hog-wild, as
it were, with his creative imagination. Because anything can happen
in a seemingly uncontrolled chase, even the most fantastic situa-
tions and developments can be resorted to. Hitchcock and Rene
Clair have both fully realized this virtue of the chase in many of
their pictures.
In the old days almost every comedy company hired what it
termed a "wild man," someone who knew nothing about picture
making but who was capable of suggesting the most outlandish,
the most impossible things to be done. The results were chases that
bordered on the maniacal— but they were funny.
Picturesque chases. To be most effective, chases should take place in

picturesque locales, places that are not necessarily pretty but, rather,
out of the ordinary. They can occur on murky docks, through
towering theater fly galleries, across impassable canyons, through
underground water mains (He Walks by Night and The Third
,
Man) , over mist-hung moors (The Hound of the Baskervilles)

in ghost towns (The Prowler) , up and
in cavernous warehouses,
down grand staircases, through the length of a transcontinental
train, up and down the muck of slum streets, in the tortuous cor-
ridors of a mine, through the halls of Madame Tussaud's Wax Mu-
seum, among the ruined headstones of a cemetery, across the arctic
tundras, through impenetrable jungles, up and down the escalators
of a department store, from basement to attic of a deserted old
house, up and down the various floors of a skyscraper, on circus
grounds, up and down the elevators of the Eiffel Tower (The Man
on the Eiffel Tower)— anywhere, at any time, with anyone, anything
can happen in a chase.
Of late, there has been a tendency to conduct chases through
streets glistening in the night from a previous rain. Carol Reed's
The Third Man used it, as did his The French
The Fallen Idol.
Such a Pretty Little Beach, directed by Yves Allegret, leaned
heavily on the photogenic quality of wet pavements adopted,
no doubt, from the originator of the effect, Marcel Came, whose
latest picture, Marie du Port, features this excellent chase back-
ground.
In ordinary circumstances, it would be considerably out of place
in a dramatic picture to have action call for dumping a policeman
in a stream. But in The 39 Steps— which certainly could not be clas-
sified as a comedy— this was done and the director got away with it
because it was performed in a chase sequence.
The importance of the chase to any screen play cannot be over-
estimated. To master its intricacies is to be well on the road to
success.
The serial
Although the writing of weekly juvenile serials is done by a few

specialists, it would not be amiss here to discuss some of the aspects
of serial screen-play writing. It is apropos at this time because all
serials consist of a chase that extends over fifteen two-reel episodes

of film. It is also appropriate because eventually such serials will
undoubtedly become television fare— if they are not so already. The
DRAMATURGY 51
principles which apply to the theater presentation variety will also

apply to those that will be made especially for television.
The first serial to be made was Fantomas, a French production,
in 1913. The first American imitation came with The Adventures
of Kathleen. Since then, thousands have been ground out to regale
juveniles and, more often than they care to admit, adults as well.
In the old days, such serials as The Man with the Iron Claw, The
Voice on the Wire, and The Perils of Pauline were replete with
death-dealing buzz saws, dynamited dams, lava cauldrons, alligator
pools, flaming buildings, locomotives, and the like. Nowadays, the
trend is atomic bombs, poison steam, bacteria, nerve
to death rays,
gas, and other such modern forms of civilized persuasion.
The serial screen-play writer's job is to dream up new and in-
genious perils— fabulous "manholes" in which the hero or the
heroine become entrapped. In addition, he must also supply the
method by which the good guy is able to free himself.
The escape must come shortly after the introductory recap of each
episode. This recap recounts the details of the previous episode's
climactic point, in which the hero is left dangling over the cliff's
edge the while a cougar nibbles at his straining fingers. Then comes
what is known as the "take-out"— the rescue, in other words.
To accomplish this, it is necessary to cheat the audience with
what is known as a "cheater cut." done by cutting in a few
This is
feet of a scene that introduces the means of escape which had been
carefully ignored in the closing feet of the previous episode: that
is, the hero's leaping from the wagon immediately before it goes
crashing over the cliff, or succeeding in de-activating the death-ray
machine seconds before it is to be detonated.
All this preliminary material must be brought out in the first
two or three minutes of each episode. From then on, the action be-
comes once again a wild, headlong chase which, in the closing feet
of the film, ends with the hero hopelessly entrapped by the baddie.
The first few minutes of this twelve-minute section should be
devoted to exposing the course the new action is to take. The bad
guy, for example, orders his henchmen (they're always henchmen
in serials) to waylay the hero's girl as she wends her way to her
father's scientific laboratory. Suspense is then introduced for about
two minutes, as we see the girl being stalked by the mobsters, and
as we yearn for the marines to arrive, in the form of the bemuscled
but shapely hero. Of course, he does arrive, in the nick of time— to

coin a cliche— and, after a desperate brawl with the baddie's mob-
sters,succeeds in succoring the fair maiden.
This leads us into what is called the "middle action." This fight
with the tough guys must always be a sadistic, knock-'em-down, drag-
'em-out ruckus. Balsa-wood chairs are smashed over heads, break-
away tables are broken to bits, plaster-thin pottery is scrambled into
shards and sugar-glass windows are broken. Then various and
sundry gymnastics are indulged in by the hero and the toughest
tough guy— always performed by doubles, in long shots (intercut
with close-ups of the real actors) so as to make them unidentifiable.
,
These invariably end with the tough guy landing a lucky, one-punch
knockout blow on the hero's chin.
The girl is then spirited away by the henchmen and the place
is set on fire with our hero still unconscious in it. But he recovers
in time to avoid cremation and undauntedly lopes out to chase the

heroine-snatching villains.
This where the high spot of the chase comes in. It should run
is
for about seven minutes of film and should call into play the use
of any vehicles that move, and the faster the better. By this time,
nine minutes of the serial should have elapsed, so that when the
hero reaches the baddie's hangout, he should have about two or
three minutes of time to become embroiled in still another fight
with the henchmen, in an attempt to save the girl from a fate
worse than death. Once again the hero should receive a lucky clout
on the jaw. Once again he finds himself chin-deep in a manhole
situation. Once again the girl whisked away as the water slowly
is
fills the manhole, to kill off the hero for certain this time.
It should be obvious from the foregoing that the accent in serials
is on action. One inflexible rule in the making of serials is: Keep
it moving! Only a minimum of dialogue should be written— about
seven hundred words per episode— and only enough to carry the
plot forward. There must be no idle repartee, no wisecracks.
Characterization, of course, must be sedulously avoided. The hero
must always be a clean-living, typical American lad. The leading
heavy, or menace, must always be sinister and suave. And his hench-
men must always be "dirty dog" heavies, with leering countenances,
innumerable facial scars, and heavy eyebrows. The heroine must
be blonde, frail, comely, capable of displaying a perpetual "badge
DRAMATURGY 53
of sufferance" and, at the same time, sturdy enough to withstand

the rigors of being mauled and of mauling back. Never must there
be even the slightest leer of sex to besmirch her relations with the
hero. This is so because all serials are made for only one kind of
audience— the Saturday-afternoon kid trade, particularly in rural
areas. City kids get their blood and thunder from the radio and
somehow, aren't taken in by them
television serials. British kids,
unless, of course, they are Western serials, with cowboys and In-
dians. On the other hand, South American audiences have been
known to see fifteen complete episodes at one sitting!
The making of serials is definitely a budget proposition. Only
the most economy-minded producers are put on them. Cheap screen-
play writing is used. Shots calling for big sets fall back on the use
of sets that have been used in other pictures and have not been
struck. Stock film is a must: wild animals, train crashes, conflagra-
tions, and the like. If horses are called for, only a few are rented
and they are mounted by a few riders who are photographed sepa-
rately, to give the impression of a mob of horses and riders. Shoot-
ing schedules are hectic sessions, with action comparable to the
action in the scenes shot. A good serial unit should be able to get
an average of 125 shots in the can— about 18 minutes of running
film— in one day's work. The average cost of a serial runs to any-
where from $300,000 to $500,000— that is for 30 reels of finished
film or about four feature-length pictures.
A word about the serial's opening episode: it must introduce and
establish the characters first. Then it must introduce the "weenie."
This is the thing, the object, the papers, the will, the secret formula,
the treasure map, the pearl of great value which sets the suave bad
guy off on his trail of mayhem and arson against the good guy and
his gal. It is the seesawing struggle to obtain this weenie which moti-
vates the action of the serial. If you can think up a new weenie,
and devise new methods of torture, new manhole situations, and
new take-out devices, you can be kept busy at the Columbia, Uni-
versal-International, and Republic Studios, where most serials are
made.
But your creative faculties should stop there. For from then on
you must conform to the strict rules of serial-making. They are in-
flexible.Like the rigid, formalistic movements of a ceremonial
dance, they must be adhered to with complete conformance.
Westerns
Because most Westerns are made for the same juvenile trade as
serials, they must also conform to certain traditions. The hero must
always be brave, forthright, honest, trustworthy, kind, obedient,

cheerful, thrifty, clean, and reverent— like his Cub Scout fans. The
villain must always be a "yeller-bellied polecat." The girl must al-
ways be long-haired, of sweet disposition and with sufficient his-
trionic ability to portray a sunny disposition. Love is only sissy stuff,
and woe be it if the hero ever dares kiss his girl friend. He may
nuzzle his horse, but love with a girl is not countenanced.
The pattern remains unchanged since the days of Bronco Billy's
"hoss oprys" or "oaters," as they are termed in the trade. That it
pays off is proved by the about thirty-five per cent of

fact that
all American films are of the Western variety. A cheap-budgeted
straight Western picture, costing between thirty-five and fifty thou-

sand dollars to produce, is sure of netting a fifty per cent profit.
The pattern, of course, is the old familiar conflict between the
hero, as represented by the cowboy, and the villain, as represented
by the cattle rustler, the crooked sheriff, the rapacious banker or,
in fact, any low character. The same pattern can be found in the
three types of Westerns: the low-budgeted straight Western; the
musical Western which usually features a recognized name star and
which is produced on a medium budget; and the deluxe, top-budget,
million-dollar production put out by the big studios. Basically, as
far as plot pattern is concerned, there is little difference between
a Monogram Studios Riders of Gower Gulch or Republic Studio's
Gun Totin' Sheriff and the major studios' The Plainsman, Stage-
coach,and Duel in the Sun.
Within the narrow framework of that pattern, and encumbered
with a variety of taboos and musts, the screen-play writer must
fashion a story that will result in a picture that is fresh, provocative,
and cheap. Usually he compromises with all those qualities but the
last. The hoss-opry audience wants nothing better. It cannot rec-
ognize quality or value. When a superior Western, The Oxbow
Incident, dared to stray from the accepted formula, it received wide
DRAMATURGY 55
critical acclaim— but died in the box office. Its people were depicted
But the audience stayed away in droves
in shades of gray. It was real.
because it did not give them what they seek in all Westerns— escape.
The moral is this: Forget about any ideas you may have about
doing something new and different if you are ever assigned to do
a Western picture. Not that this is a common occurrence, for most
Western screen plays are written by specialists willing to accept sea-
sonal employment. Westerns are shot only in the outdoors when the
weather is clement enough to warrant continuous days of shooting.
But if you can turn out reasonably different variations on the
same theme pattern; if you are hep to cowboy lingo (and it must
be authentic, and not of the Coney Island variety) if you are con-
;
versant with the mores of the old West; if you have seen sufficient
hoss oprys and read enough Western novels to be able to limn
Western characters with reasonable likenesses of same; if you are
quick on the typewriter trigger finger and can turn out a Western
opus in, at most, two weeks; if you know some of the many methods
for cutting production costs; if you have a faculty for visualizing
and for depicting exciting horse chases; if you can remember not
to permit cowboys to fire their six-shooters more than six times
without reloading; if you are able to write scene after scene with-
out resorting to action-impeding dialogue; if you are aware of the
limitations of a horse's mentality so that you do not give it too
many script lines to read; if you can remember that cowboys are
sexless, silent, strong men of impeccable scruples; if you are will-
ing and able to forget that you are a creative writer, and to com-
pose drivel of the corniest kind— then you should be able to make
a pretty good living.
The gimmick
The search for the weenie is not confined to serials and Westerns
alone. Known variously as the "gimmick," "old switcheroo," "wee-
nie," "boff," "yak," "topper," "twist," "routine," "formula," "heart,"
and "bleeder," this device is used in other types of pictures. It is
simply an arbitrary reversal of the usual elements in a situation
designed to achieve a shock effect. It is not a new literary device. It

has been used as a writer's tool for centuries. It was brought to the
apex of perfection in O. Henry's short stories.
In Hollywood the gimmick is the most overused stock in trade.
It is because of the gimmick that Hollywood pictures stress plot to
the detriment of genuine characterization. Few story conferences

have been held in which the discussion did not revolve around some
sort of "switcheroo" for the story under discussion.
A supervisor will suggest, "But suppose we make it so the girl
ain't his daughter."
"Can't," the writer will reply laconically, "the father's charac-
ter hasn't been written that way."
"It'll make a better story if it is."
So our writer returns to his cubbyhole and rewrites his story until
it is completely out of joint, in order to squeeze in the gimmick.
And the result will be a surprise ending that will have shock effect
—but nothing more.
One independent producer purchased a radio drama solely be-
cause of the unique gimmick which he thought would make for a
good picture. His writers evolved a completely new story to fit the
gimmick. Then the picture was shot. After viewing the answer
print (the last temporary print made before the final release print
is OK'd) the producer decided he didn't like the gimmick after
,
all, reshot the end, and made it, of all things, a dream topper.
The gimmick has its place in the screen-play story. There is no

denying it. The impact of the surprise— if it is used in the right
place, at the right time, and with the proper character build-up— can
be entertaining. But the gimmick must not be used for itself alone.
Integrate the gimmick. It, too, must be completely integrated into
the flow of the story. As surprising as its revelation may be, it must
be realistic in thatshould be within the realm of probability as
it
far as the characters and

their actions are concerned. It should be
presented so that the audience will accept it as something that could
very well have happened.
If the gimmick is not integrated into the story, does not flow from
a legitimate character development, and is used solely for surprise
overshadow the main story line. The audience will
effect, it will
then come away from the picture with the impression of the gim-
DRAMATURGY 57
mick alone. And although they may have been entertained by the
gimmick's novelty, they will be puzzled at the same time because
they will be unable to connect the gimmick's denouement with any
definite plot or character development. Usually such an unmoti-
vated gimmick is brought off only by leaving an unexplained story
hole in the plot. This, in itself, breeds audience dissatisfaction.
Scene-tag gimmicks. Another type of gimmick is used as a tag to

top off a scene or a sequence with a laugh, a shudder, or any other
kind of violent or semiviolent audience reaction. Thus, in the pic-
ture The Return of Rusty, in a scene which showed a bully brow-
beating a group of smaller boys, the scene ended with one of the
tykes shaking his fist at the bully, after his cohorts had been fright-
ened though he were threatening him. But when the bully

off, as
made a feint at the moppet, as if to leap at him, the little boy

turned on his heel in fright and ran off squealing, "Mama!"
These tag gimmicks need not be visual. In comedies especially, a
verbal gag can work the trick. A combination of both the verbal
and the visual, however, is the ideal.
Sequence gimmick tags in mystery stories may wind up with a gag
too, for comedy relief. These can be mixed in with visual shock
gimmicks— the sudden revelation of an important clue which has
been previously planted, or with the revealing of a new corpse.
Such gimmicks should be written into the synopsis and treatment
so that eventually they will become integrated into the screen play.
The ad lib or plan such gimmicks from the
creative director can
script. But if he is furnished one that is tailor-made to the story, the
chances are that, where he would ordinarily ignore the screen play
as far as camera angles are concerned, he will be more than glad to
accept the effective tag gimmick.
No gimmick, though, should be pulled out of a hat to be used
solely because of its shock value. They must all be carefully in-
tegrated into the story so as to flow from the previous action and
into the succeeding action.
A case in point where a gimmick was thrown in indiscriminately
is the excellent picture Sunset Boulevard. Its opening sequence
ended with gruesome shots of a screen-play writer's body floating in
a Hollywood swimming pool. Then, inexplicably, the dead man be-
gan to tell the story of how he got that way. The story of how he
got that way made for an adult motion picture. But it was spoiled
because of the gimmick which necessitated the return, at the pic-
ture's end, to the dead man floating in the pool— the gimmick being
that now the audience realized that the unidentified corpse at the
opening was actually the hero and narrator of the picture. What
bothered everyone, though, and detracted from the picture's worth,
was the question: How was the dead man able to narrate the story if
he was as dead as he appeared to be in the opening and closing shots?
Plants
Still another type of gimmick used in screen plays is the plot plant.
This an item of information— either in the form of dialogue or
is
picturized action, or with a combination of both— that is introduced

at the story's opening, developed in the second act, and then ex-
ploded by a sudden revelation, as a denouement.
In Hitchcock's The 39 Steps, for example, the fact that the
master spy had an amputated little finger was introduced in the first
act in the two-shot between the dying female spy and Donat. In the
second act the fact was brought out again so that it remained in the
audience's subconscious. Then, at the end of the second act, as Donat
was discussing with a presumed pillar of British society his search
for the man with the amputated little finger, the pillar calmly asked,
"You mean this one?" as he raised his hand and showed Donat a hand
with a portion of the little finger missing. The impact was such that
the denouement always resulted in audible gasps from the audience.
In The Third Man, the fact that the cat licked Welles's shoes was
planted early in the picture so that, in the identity-uncovering scene,
when the cat repeated its shoe-licking of the unseen man lurking in
the shadows, the audience realized suddenly, without seeing him,
that the skulker was Welles.
Plant with care. The seed for a plant must be sown with care,
subtly and unostentatiously. The audience must never be permitted
to realize that later on the plant will be developed and paid off.
Otherwise they will wait expectantly for it to appear, pounce on it
when it does, and thus destroy the effect of explosive suddenness
DRAMATURGY 59
which the denouement or pay-off of each plant must possess to justify
its use. The
planting of the cat licking Welles's shoe, for example,
seemed to be a perfectly natural thing when it was first introduced.
The camera did not linger on it nor was there any reference made
to it in the dialogue. It was introduced naturally and then dropped.
Plants must flow. The plant must be written so that it flows natu-
ally out of the preceding scene, action, or dialogue, and then flows
just as naturally into the succeeding scene, action, or dialogue.
Plant without telegraphing. Be sure that all plants are integrated

without telegraphing their presence. The
introduction of any for-
eign element— foreign, that is,what has gone on before is
insofar as
concerned— is always dangerous because it makes that element stand
out too noticeably. In the little-finger plant of The 39 Steps, a
masterful motivation brought results. It came in the description of
the master spy given by the dying lady spy. One of the details— given
with sufficient importance to remain in the audience's subconscious
but with not so much as to make it outstanding— was the detail of
the missing little finger.
Build your plants. At the same time, however, care must be taken
not to throw off the plant with such careful carelessness that it will
be buried. If the plant loses its significance, so that when it is finally
paid off its denouement is lost to the audience, the resulting fizzle
will be as disappointing as a dud giant firecracker. That is why a
second-act development— or repetition— of the plant is almost im-
perative. For if the initial plant is lost, the repetition can serve to
return it to the audience's awareness and thus justify its use in the
pay-off.
Pay off your plants. And your plant must pay

you condition off. If
the audience to expect something to happen, the expectation must

not be frustrated. To pay off with an ill-conceived, shoddy revela-
tion is to admit to creative insufficiency. It is bad enough to write
inconsequential gimmicks into a screen play without preparing for
them with introductory and developing plants, but to use them as
pay-offs after they have been pointed up with preliminary prepara-
tion is to court certain disapproval.
6o A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWRITING
The running gag
One of the most effective plants is to be found in the running gag.

This is usually ahumorous bit of business— verbal or visual— that
is repeated a number of times throughout the picture.
In the British film, A Run for Your Money, a decrepit and down-
at-the-heel musician who suffers from a constant dearth of alcohol,
tries to manipulate his prize possession, a harp, into pubs, buses,
and trains, with, of course, hilarious high jinks.
Character and humor. Ordinarily, the running gag is used as a

character developer or as comedy relief, rather than as a device to
advance or develop the Thus, in the picture The Gorilla the
plot.
detective chief was given the cry,"Where the devil is Mulligan?" as
a running-gag line, which he repeated whenever his dumb aid de-
camped on a scatterbrained clue quest of his own.
In Hitchcock's The Lady Vanishes, the running gag presented was
a seemingly disconnected discourse between the two cricket enthusi-
asts who, because of an important cricket match they were on their
way to see, bewailed the fact that their train was being delayed.
Whenever the action became tense, and when the suspense was al-
most unbearable, Hitchcock masterfully introduced the innocuous
pair and their more innocuous cricket chirpings, as comedy relief.
At the end, he paid off the running gag by establishing the fact that
after all the concern of the two cricket fans, the game had been
called off on account of rain.
Running-gag pay-off. The running gag must always pay off. Con-
stant repetition of this device induces an expectation in the audi-
ence for something to happen to cap the gag— something to make it
complete.
In the French picture The Procession of the Hours Fernandel
plays a cadging deadbeat who tries to live by borrowing money and
drinks from his bistro friends. Instead of paying him off at the end
of the picture— by having him come into money, perhaps, and then
having him turn down his old friends— the picture concludes with
his singing a few naughty French ballads.
DRAMATURGY 6l
The pay-off is especially necessary to the oft-used running gag

which has a strange character barge into a party (he's usually
drunk) and wander in and out aimlessly, completely unknown to
any of the confused guests and to the host. This mysterious myr-
midon was excellently paid off in the picture Hi Diddle Diddle,
in which a strange girl wandered on and off the set. When someone
asked Adolphe Menjou who she was, he replied, "Oh! she's the pro-
ducer's girl friend."
In The Set-Up intermittent shots showed a fat man in the boxing
audience eating progressively larger snacks of hot dogs, popcorn,
etc. As the excitement in the ring mounted, the interest in him
increased, but these shots were not paid off at theend and thus lost
much of their effectiveness. Simply by topping off the gag by show-
ing the fat man daintily swallowing an antacid pill would have paid
off the running gag sufficiently.
One warning: the running gag should not be repeated too often
or it will tend to take precedence over the main story line and thus
shift the interest to a divergent theme.
Build with running gag. The running gag need not be humorous. It
can be used in a serious picture for the purpose of building a series of
scenes or situations. It is almost a must— as a visual element— in mys-
tery and horror pictures when successive shots of shadows, footsteps,
creaking noises, and the like, are introduced at well chosen spots to
build suspense. In the original play, and in the picturization of Wex-
ley's The Last Mile, the intermittent dimming of the electric bulbs
to indicate that another doomed inmate of Death Row was being

electrocuted had a horrifyingly cumulative effect on the audience.
Transition running gags. The running gag can also serve as a

connecting device to tie together scenes, or as a transition technique.
In Ford's The Informer, the figure of the blind man and the sound
of his tapping cane (adapted freely from Joyce's novel Ulysses, as
were a number of other elements in the same picture) were used as
a connecting device to tie together varied Dublin street scenes. This
sort of device was peculiarly necessary to the picture because it was
a sprawling, many-scened film adapted from a very discursive novel.
When both sight and sound are used for transitional purposes the
running gag pays off handsomely. The remarkably effective build-up
to M
cLaglen's death— from the beginning to the end of the picture-
was achieved in part with the running-gag device.
Running-gag props. Props— and live ones especially— furnish excel-

lent material for therunning gag, as was evidenced in the splendid
byplay created with the dog in My Favorite Wife, and in The Awful
Truth.
Running-gag props can also be used to establish surface character-
ization. George Raft's persistent coin-flipping is one example that
comes to mind. There is a danger, though, in overdoing this device
for characterization. It may take on so much importance that the
audience may misconstrue it as a plant, which calls for a pay-off,
instead of as a character-developing running gag. This was true in
the British Storm in a Teacup, where the judge was characterized
as a knuckle-cracker. He was seen— in big close-ups, too— cracking
his knuckles so often that in time the audience must have won-
dered whether the action had any significance, and undoubtedly
believed that shortly it would pay off into something funny or dra-
matic. But nothing of the sort happened. And there was a definite
feeling of being let down.
The knuckle-cracking may have been intended to furnish comedy
relief perhaps, but because it was highlighted to such an extent and
repeated so often, even its value as comedy was lost.
A running gag that is worked too long can fall flat despite the
pay-off. In another British film, Laughter in Paradise, in the scene in
which the old solicitor is reading the will, Guy Middleton continued
to supply the aged lawyer with the words for which he constantly
groped. This went on and on until it became very unfunny. And
even with the pay-off, when the barrister stopped in the middle of
the post-will singing of "For he's a jolly good ..." and waited for
Middleton to supply the last word, audience exasperation was suf-
ficient to kill the laugh.
Comedy relief
Why comedy relief? It is almost obligatory that comedy relief be

used in some form or other to help sustain interest. It would be
DRAMATURGY 63
asking the impossible of any audience to expect its collective atten-

tion to remain riveted to a sustained scene that does not vary its
mood in any way. For there is only a limited amount of sticking
power in the interest of any audience. The mind is obliged to
wander when it has been forced to concentrate on any one thing or
subject for a length of time, especially in the darkened sleep-pro-
ducing confines of a motion-picture theater. Therefore, immediately
following a particularly dramatic scene, there should be introduced a
short scene that will relieve the audience tension.
In the picture The Hasty Heart comedy
relief was furnished by a
gag sequence in which the ward patients tried to learn what the
Scotsman wore under his kilts. The attempts were interspersed so
that stark tragedy was relieved with humor.
It must flow. This relief need not always be humorous. But it must
flow naturally from the previous dramatic scene into the succeeding
scene. And it should be kept in only long enough to relieve the
dramatic tension without breaking it entirely.
Although much of this depends on the film editor, it helps for
the screen-play writer to insert his relief scenes into their niches, to
prevent tampering by the director and the film editor.
Played by minor characters. Ordinarily, comedy relief should not

be written in to be played by the characters who have just under-
gone a grueling emotional experience. The switch-over to comedy
should be made by minor, though essential, characters. The former
would be incredible to an audience and would result in the com-
plete dislocation of character, mood, and story-line development.
As natural reactions. The best way to make certain that comedy

relief is integrated with tense dramatic action is to arrange so that
it comes as a natural reaction to it. The reactions of an onlooker—
a hotel clerk or a cop— can be used for comedy relief after showing
an argument between a man and his wife. Even the reactions of a
pet dog could be shown in a cutaway shot, for comedy relief. But
if it is necessary to the plot development to cut away from the scene
of the dramatic action to other characters in another scene of action,

something in what they say or do must be tied in with the dramatic
scene the audience has already witnessed. The cutaway must in
some way advance the story line so that no break will occur to bring
confusion as to the direction in which the plot is developing.
Relief without comedy. It has already been stated that it is not

necessary to relieve a tense dramatic situation with comedy alone.
Comedy may be completely out of place under certain conditions,
where the dramatic intensity must be sustained, but only in a
limited degree. This can be done by cutting away to another scene,
with other characters, who are not necessarily involved in a humor-
ous incident. But here again the flow of unity must not be disrupted.
The new scene, its characters, and their actions and speech should
all contribute to the story line and should be written so that the
situation can be accepted by the audience as the next logical

development.
Relief in some form, however, is essential. When you find an
audience laughing during a tense moment in a dramatic picture,
the reason, in most cases, will be that they were not furnished with
and were forced to give vent to their supercharged,
sufficient relief
pent-up emotions even at an inappropriate time.
Humor
In the days of the old silent pictures, was necessary to flash title
it
cards onto the screen to effect transitions and also to furnish high
spots in the dialogue, which could not be heard, of course, but which
was essential to the understanding of the action. It was found that
these titles had to be written brightly to hold attention. Their com-
position, therefore, was relegated to vaudeville writers, who gagged
them up.
Later, when the talkies arrived, the heavy dramas were so over-
laden with dialogue that only the comedies purchased from Broad-
way were able to survive as acceptable box-office material.
The wisecrack is king. The vaults of most studios are filled with
treatments that were purchased only because they were witty and
read well, but which could not be developed into acceptable screen
plays.
DRAMATURGY 65
Even now the wisecrack persists. It is not considered necessary

that a person talk like an ordinary human being; he is allowed to
mouth quips and gags that are as spontaneous as a burlesque
chorine's dance routines. Make it funny, is the criterion.
In the smart, breezy comedy film, such verbal gags have their
legitimate place. Such stories make no attempt to present real people
in real situations. Their sole purpose is to entertain by titivating
the audience's risibilities.
But Hollywood pictures frequently do not stop there. It has be-
come almost axiomatic that screen-play writers must be prepared to
pepper their dialogue with smart cracks, sophisticated retorts, hu-
morous gibes, double-entendre jokes, puns, malapropisms, and the
like, in the belief that because they are funny they are, ipso facto,
entertaining.
But the average person does not converse with sparkling, ad lib
humor. Even Oscar Wilde, who was supposed to have been a su-
preme master of the witty retort, actually composed his witticisms
carefully, long before he found— or made— an appropriate opening
for their use.
Pictorial humor better. If humor is to be used, it should be prefer-

ably of the pictorial kind, for motion pictures are, by nature, almost
completely visual. It should be situation humor rather than verbal.
Don't contrive humor. These situations, however, must not be

patently manufactured contrivances. They too, like all the ele-
ments of a film, must be perfectly integrated with all the other
elements. They must not be inserted only for laughs. Instead, in
addition to creating humor, they must advance the story, develop
character, or create a mood.
Real people mean real humor. And they must be real if they are
to be concerned with real people. Good, acceptable comedy— not of
the comic remark variety— must be, to quote Lincoln, "of the people,
by the people, and for the people." It must concern itself with the
antics of people caught in the tentacles of modern society, who react
with natural evasions and subterfuges.
Consider the Italian masterpiece To Live in Peace, which con-
cerned itself with the grim subject of war but which was presented as
a comedy. The exceedingly funnyhumor was introduced in a situa-

tion in which the an entire Italian village quaked in their
citizens of
boots because a drunken German soldier might awaken from his
stupor and remember that the night before he had sullied his Nazi
racial beliefs by dancing with an un-Nordic, American Negro soldier.
Remember the situation in Foreign Correspondent when Joel
McCrea was chased over the roof tops by the Nazis? As he scurried
past a hotel sign, he accidently broke off the tubing that formed
the last two letters of the word "hotel," thus making the sign read
"hot," an ironic comment on his precarious situation.
The dearth of real humor in our motion pictures may be ac-
counted for by the fact that we are afraid that people will resent
being made to laugh at themselves. They know that they do not
drip flip cracks with every tenth word, so they disassociate them-
selves completely from the reel characters who do. They may laugh,
yes, but it is the sort of laughter that is forgotten, like last night's
off-color story.
But people can laugh That has been proved by
at themselves.
the success of Shaw's plays, byRing Lardner's bitter but comic gibes
at the genus homo americanus, by Gilbert and Sullivan's comic
operettas, by such pictures as It Happened One Night, The Awful
Truth, The Great McGinty, The Baker's Daughter, by all the
Chaplin comedies, and even by many of the Marx Brothers pictures
and the early W. C. Field mordaunt comedy satires.
Yes, there is a time for comedy and it is right now. But it must
be the comedie humaine, of the real people, and not the stultifying
wisecracks of the flicker folk of the reels.
The flash back
Filmic realism is often killed with still another popular device— the
flash back. Why should be necessary to go back in time to pick
it
up incidents that occurred previous to the beginning of the picture,

is a mystery. When used legitimately, the flash back can be an effec-
tive device, but when it is resorted to in pictures that could do much

better without it, the flash back has serious drawbacks.
DRAMATURGY 67
Flash backs impede movement. For one thing, the flash back defi-
nitely impedes the forward flow of a picture's action. Because it is
retrogressive, it halts progression. That in itself defeats the primary
rule of motion-picture making— the picture must move.
Flash backs fritter suspense. Flash backs also tend to destroy

attention-getting and attention-holding suspense. To be most effec-
tive, suspense should build to a climax. Anything that interferes
with that important gradual build-up saps suspense and fritters

away audience interest.
The audience always wants to know "What happens next?" That
is what makes for a suspenseful, attention-compelling flow of con-
tinuity. But in a flash back the audience is given, not what happens
next, but what happened some time ago.
Newspaper editors recognize the fact that "nothing is so dead as
yesterday's news." The same applies to yesterday's events in a
motion picture. For it is the motion picture's task to create a sense
of immediacy that will create the illusion in the audience that the
shadows they see cavorting on the screen are real people under-
going real experiences, in the immediate present, at the time the
audience is viewing the picture. A picture which can accomplish
that has most of the ingredients of success.
Flash backs lose immediacy. More often than not, the flash back
destroys that sense of immediacy. Because, unless it is actually told
by a narrator and in the form of a back does not
story, the flash
happen in real life. Life is a continual flow of events that begin and
end without going back in time. Unless the flash back is sufficiently
motivated in a picture, the continual flow of events which the
picture must try to represent in its delineation of life will be inter-
rupted unnaturally.
When an entire picture written as a flash back it is necessary
is
by one of the principal characters, by

that the story be told, either
a minor character, or even by someone who has no part in the story
line itself.
Thus, in Wuthering Heights, the picture we saw was actually a
backs constituting the story told by the old house-
series of flash
keeper. Now in order to keep this fact in focus, it was necessary to
return occasionally to the old housekeeper, as she retailed the story

of Wuthering Heights who had wandered into the
to the traveler
forbidding house. Thenwas necessary to return to the succeeding
it
episodes of the story she was telling, until it became necessary to

return to her again, to re-establish her identity, and go on from
there again to the story proper.
What happened, as far as the audience's view of the housekeeper-
narrator was concerned— and she was more than a minor character
in the story— was to see her first as an old woman, then as a young
woman, then again an older woman, and again as an old woman

as
(as the narrator), and then again as an aging woman. This may
have been a remarkable tour de force by the make-up department,

but it added nothing but confusion to the audience's attempt to
understand the housekeeper's role in the story. She was presented
in fits and starts, first young, then old, instead of by means of a slow
character build-up. As a result, she never emerged as a distinct
character although Heathcliff and the others did, despite the shat-
tering flash-back technique. They came through, but what could
have been a perfect picture without the flash back was just a rather
good picture. Consider the picture Sunset Boulevard, made some
time after Wuthering Heights. Now Sunset Boulevard is a great
picture— a modern classic. But how much better it could have been
had its writers not succumbed to the insidious attraction of the
flash back. The picture opened with shots of a squad car speeding
to the scene of a crime. Then came shots of a man's body floating
in a Hollywood swimming pool. Then, as if from nowhere, came a
man's voice— William Holden's— telling the story of what had hap-
pened to the man who was now lying dead in the pool. Following
that came the real story of the picture, the one that presented one facet
of prismatic Hollywood and its fantastic denizens in its true light.
Itwas picture making of the most supreme kind. But, at the end of
that story, and at the picture's end, the audience was suddenly given
to realize that the corpse they had seen floating in the pool, in the
opening shots, was the hero of the picture and, to their consterna-
tion, was also the voice of the narratorl Just what mumbo-jumbo
was resorted to to conjure up this trick of reincarnation was never
explained by the script writers. They had concocted a trick ending
that had sock, and they were satisfied.
DRAMATURGY 69
Flash backs make money. There are concrete reasons why pro-
ducers use the flash-back device so often. It has audience-acceptance
value. Pictures in which it is featured make money despite the short-
comings of the technique. But the producers realize that they would
make money even if they were to return to title cards. For picture
makers have created a hunger for motion pictures that cannot be
put off by inferior quality. The "B" picture has thrived because audi-
ences demand pictures— any pictures— as long as they can relieve the
tedium of humdrum life and furnish a colorful vehicle of vicarious
escape. Popular success, therefore, should be no criterion for quality.
What is more, the flash-back picture is easier to write than one
using normal techniques. For cutbacks to the narrator serve as
transition devices to connect the component flash-back sequences
that go to make up the picture as a whole. And fresh, effective
transitions are not easy to come by.
Flash-back transitions. But there is the root of the flash-back error.

The reorienting cutback to the storyteller more often serves as a
transition device for the flash back, instead of for the originaland
main story line. In other words, smooth between the im-
transitions
portant story-line sequences— the heart of the matter— are sacrificed
in order to carry the flash backs, which are an artificial form, to
make them work satisfactorily. Transitions are made not because
the story itself calls for them, but only because the form makes it
necessary to cut back to the storyteller in order to reorient the

audience to the device.
It can be stated categorically that no picture told wholly in flash-
back style could not have been told just as well, and even better,
were a simple beginning, middle, and ending technique to have
been used. But the flash back is flashy. So it attracts screen-play
writers and producers who see in it only a tricky, novel manner of
presenting mediocrity. Perhaps their reason for resorting to the
flash back is that it gives them an opportunity of dressing up in
novel attire what is actually threadbare.
Flash back uses limited. Under certain conditions, though, the

flashback may have its legitimate uses, and then only in a limited
way. It may be necessary in some stories, for example, to withhold
certain background information from the audience in order to build
suspense, or to create a delayed dramatic impact. In the main, this
is a device that is confined to mystery stories, where the audience has
been conditioned to being cheated in this manner. In such cases,

and where it is imperative to reveal the withheld information to
make its use pay off, the flash-back technique can be resorted to
despite the obvious fact that, in being used, it destroys the continu-
ity build-up, unhinges the pacing, and shocks the audience's atten-
tion receptivity by forcing them to reorient themselves from the
present to the past, and then back to the present again.
When used for this purpose, the flash back properly belongs near
the picture's end, almost immediately before the climax is reached.
In no case, though, should the flash back itself be used as the climax,
for then it will lose the quality of immediacy which is so essential
to dramatic impact. The denouement must be shown to be happen-
ing, not in the past— as far as the time of the picture is concerned,
of course— but in the present.
When the flash back is thrown into the opening sequences— as has
been the case quite often— the audience becomes confused by the in-
direct line of action. Even before they have been completely oriented
to the characters as they see them involved in events that are hap-
pening in the immediate present, orientation is snapped and they
are wrenched away to a time in the past, peopled by characters who,
because they are younger and differently attired, are of necessity
considerably different from those whom they have met at the pic-
ture's opening.
Start at the beginning. The flash back's only excuse for being is
that can depict characters in actions that took place some time
it
before the picture's story began. If the flash back concerns these
people in incidents that took place only a short time before the
opening of the picture, there is no reason for its use. The picture
could just as well have started with the previous incident presented
in the normal manner, with a time lapse to connect it with the
ensuing action.
Flash backs within flash backs. Confusion can be confounded with

flash backs. In some pictures (The Passionate Friends) screen-play
writers have thought it necessary to write a flash back within a flash
1
DRAMATURGY 7
back! Lady in the Lake contained a flash-back sequence in which

one of the characters told a story which was dramatized as a flash
back. This made it necessary to reorient the audience first from the
interior flash back to the major flash back, and then from the major
flash back to the regular story line.
Tricky but unnecessary. Avoid the flash back. It may look pretty,
but itcan do more harm than good. It's tricky. On the stage, in
Death of a Salesman, the flash back was used so often that, although
it appeared to have a positive effect on the audience, its use began
to pall. The play could have been written in a straightforward style

—with the first act in the distant past, the second act in the early
past, and the third act in the immediate present. The flash backs
were gaudy tricks that were impressive only because they were tricks.
They added nothing to the basic quality of the play itself. Here
again, too much emphasis was put on construction and form. And
the only reason why the play was a popular success was that innate
honesty, sincerity, and superior writing came through despite the
flash backs.
In television, the flash back creates an additional problem. Be-
cause television plays are usually broken into two parts (for half-
hour shows) and three parts (for hour shows) accommodate the
to
advertising commercials, the character narrating the flash back must
be brought back at the end of each act and at the beginning of the
following act. The breaks in time and sequence necessitated by the
commercials make reorientation to the narrator an absolute essential.
Repetition
You may have noted in the foregoing section that the words "orient"
and "reorient" were repeated time and again. This was done de-
signedly. For a lack of orientation on the part of the audience makes
only for confusion. That is why, at all times, they must be made
fully aware of what is going on, why it is going on, who is involved
in the goings-on, where the goings-on are taking place, how the
goings-on affect each of the characters, and when the goings-on are
taking place in time.
One method of accomplishing this is by repetition. Because the
motion-picture image is so fleeting, it is necessary for the screen-play
writer to resort to constant repetition throughout the story in order
to retain audience orientation and to make certain that the impor-
tant story elements will remain integrated with the picture's theme
throughout the picture.
Character traits. Character traits must be repeated, not necessarily

in kind, exactly, but definitely in pattern, if the character is to be
sustained. Thus it would not be necessary to have a character kick

a dog three times throughout the film to establish his cruelty. Nor
would it be necessary to have him fondle a canary to establish that,
although he is a low-down cad, he is also possessed of a sentimental
streak. It should be part of the screen-play writer's creative ability
towork out repeatedly different aspects of the same character trait,
which could recognizably fall into the same pattern of behavior.
Repeat figures. What must be especially repeated are facts and

statistics that figure prominently in the story line. If the plot hinges
on the fact that 10,500 shares of stock must be sold to prevent the
hero from being thrown into bankruptcy, then that figure must be
repeated often enough so that when it is actually brought into the
denouement the audience will recognize it immediately and associ-
ate it with the next plot development without too much retro-
spection.
Avoid undue recapitulation. There is a certain type of repetition

that must be avoided. At no time should an entire scene or con-
versation be entirely recapitulated for the benefit of a character
who has not been in on the scene previously, and who must be
brought up to date on what has already happened.
If the audience has already seen something happen, or has heard
it in dialogue, they should never be subjected to a repetition of it.
Thus, if the audience has already heard a character tell of how he

has gotten into a certain predicament, and if it is necessary to have
him repeat the details of the situation to still another character,
then some device must be used to spare the audience and to tele-
scope the retelling so that their reaction will not be an annoyed,
"Oh! we've heard all that already— let's get on with the story!"
DRAMATURGY 73
Use dissolves. The most common device for surmounting this diffi-
culty is the "dissolve," (see p. 135) a filmic device which can in-
dicate the passage of time which the retelling may consume. Indicate
that the picture should fade out at the beginning of the retelling
and then fade in at its end, thus eliminating much unnecessary
detail without losing attention.
Another device is simply to dissolve or wipe out at the beginning
of the retelling and leave it up to the audience to fill in the balance
with their previously obtained knowledge.
Condense repetitions. Still another device makes use of condensa-

tion, a retelling of the already told facts in summarized form. Thus,
if the action already witnessed by the audience involves the beating
up of the character retelling the incident, instead of having the un-
fortunate character meander through all the details, it would be
sufficient for him something on the order of, "And then the
to say
guy beat me up."
When recapitulation is unavoidable. There may be times, how-

ever, when recapitulation becomes unavoidable. When that situa-
tion exists, it is good practice to repeat the known information over
a cutaway shot (see p. 127) to some same
significant detail in the
scene, or overan extreme close-up of the character who is hearing the
recapitulation, to take advantage of reactions expressed on his face.
Quick conversions
Repetition is a handy device for offsetting what is a common be-

setting sin in a great many pictures— the quick conversion. This
ineptness can be attributed only to faulty writing. For in using it,
the writer neglects to furnish a solid, realistic basis for the conver-
sion of a character from evil to good, when the plot calls for such
a conversion. Usually this switch occurs at the climax and leaves
the audience with a vague feeling of dissatisfaction. In Sirocco,
after practicing assorted skulduggery through almost the entire
picture, Humphrey Bogart undergoes a last-reel conversion and per-
forms the customary noble gesture.
Time is the essence. There are reasons for this failing. The motion
picture— and especially the half-hour television film— is afforded
only a short period of time in which to present its story as compared,
say, with the novel. A novelist can devote a considerable number of
pages to the development of the motivation and character revela-
tions necessary to accomplishing a satisfactory conversion.
Action vs. character. Then again, the current Hollywood insistence

on action progression to the detriment of character development
provides the writer with insufficient footage with which to prepare
the audience for the character's conversion by means of a slow,
cumulative process. For people do not respond on the spur of the
moment even when they may appear to be doing so. Their actions
are usually the result of an accretion of thoughts and afterthoughts,
actions and reactions, questions and answers, accusations and self-
accusations, conversations, arguments, proofs by example, injunc-
tions, threats, promises— in fact, by a vast arsenal of moving elements
that are part and parcel of the process of conversion.
Arguments are not enough. Usually only one, or a few at best, are
brought into play to bring about a quick conversion. When little
time is available for it, a very quick conversion is accomplished
by the use of "argument." The evildoer is made to see the evil of
his ways by having a good character— usually someone on the order
of a priest, a teacher, or any other older person of accepted moral
stability (and sometimes a child)— convince him by argumentative
persuasion that what he is doing is bad and that if he is to enter
the Kingdom of Heaven he will have to mend his ways and confess
to having been the real perpetrator of the act of which some inno-
cent character has been accused. It stands to reason that a hardened
character whose evil has been developed over a long period of time
would hardly be so receptive to moral suasion.
Plant conversions. It is necessary, therefore, to make such a con-

version seem genuine. To do this, the breakdown of evil should be-
gin some time before the actual conversion takes place. Also, there
must be planted in the character of the evildoer those elements that
could make for a conversion. He could, for instance, be shown to be
vacillating in intention, simply by dramatizing one of his vacilla-
DRAMATURGY 75
tions. He could be shown reacting to the results of his evil-doing so

that it will not be necessary to tell the audienceabout it. His final
answer to the request for a conversion could be delayed for some
time, while he deliberates, with self-probings, on the possible results
of his conversion, both to himself and to those who are affected by
his actions. Before his final conversion he could be visited by a
number of people— people who are in some way connected with his
evil-doing— and remonstrated with, argued with, pleaded with, and
implored.
Dramatized motivated conversions. Better still, before the evildoer

makes his final decision he could be shown (and this is very im-
portant) acting and reacting to certain results of his fell life. If
these preliminary preparations are made before he is actually
brought around to goodness, our evildoer's conversion will be docu-
mented so that what he does will flow out of his character and
will be sufficient motivation for the story's climax.
In Wilder's Ace in the Hole, Kirk Douglas played the part of a
newspaperman who was a double-dyed, unregenerate heel, liar, cynic,
and conniver— selfish, cruel, arrogant, vicious, ambitious, and patho-
logically insecure. He was that from the beginning of the picture
until almost the very end when, after undergoing a flash of unmoti-
vated remorse, he was stabbed and fell to his death. This unwar-
ranted last-minute conversion spoiled what was otherwise a splendid
picture.
On the other hand, in St. Benny the Dip, the conversion of three
confidence men who donned ecclesiastical costume early in the pic-
ture to escape the police was a gradual reformation— the first becom-
ing a chaplain, the second returning to his old job as a taxi-driver

and the third becoming a happily married man.
Realism
No matter how hard the screen-play writer may strive to inject

realism into his script, he labors under a constant disadvantage.
For how real, how true to actual life can a motion-picture story
be? To be absolutely realistic a motion picture must be concerned
with the happenings of a set of people within the limits of the
running time of the picture.
In other words, the picture would have to concern itself with
happenings that take place in an uninterrupted period of about
twenty-seven minutes for a half-hour television drama, fifty-four
minutes for an hour-length television drama (about an average of
ten per cent of the time should be allotted for advertising com-
mercials) and about seventy-five to ninety minutes for a theater
feature film. Hitchcock's The Rope attempted this with its long-
playing single scenes in which the camera roved at will around the
big set. But even Hitchcock was forced to break up his scenes with
cuts because of the limited amount of film his camera could hold,
thus destroying the utter realism he strove for. For real life does not
operate like a series of film cuts cemented together by a film editor.
The omnipresent camera. To be pure realism a picture must, of

necessity, follow its characters around from set to set, from the be-
ginning of the picture to the end, without resorting to such filmic
tricks as cuts, wipes, fades, montages, and dissolves. This, however,
is a physical impossibility. Hence the need to temper pure realism
with filmic conventions— with expressionism, for all cinematic de-
vices are nothing but expressionistic representations of the real.
Candid realism. The purely realistic film would also have to be

shot in newsreel style— candid camera, as it were, with little con-
sideration being given to lighting, cameramovement, and make-up.
The semi-documentaries Boomerang and The House on 92nd Street
followed the techniques of the March of Time, and attempted a
form of candid-camera shooting— quite successfully, it may be added.
But they did not go whole hog with the method, for many of the
scenes were studio-mounted and shot. The result was that in blend-
ing the unreality of the studio scenes with the reality of the candidly
shot scenes the former suffered by comparison, and a sustained
sense of realism was frustrated.
Infinite details. The purely realistic film must also be all-inclusive.

Although the screen-play writer's sense of selectivity should con-
tinue to be operative, at the same time he should not slough off
DRAMATURGY 77
essential details that develop character and plot, details that may
slow up the picture's pace, but which are essential to the reproduc-
tion of reality.
British pictures offer many good examples of this almost fanatical
attention to realistic details. In Brief Encounter, what could have
been a tawdry, ordinary story of middle-class marital infidelity, had
it been produced with the customary pseudorealistic techniques,
turned out to be a remarkable cinematic experience because of the

systematic attention given to character-developing and story-progess-
ing details.
The Italian films Open City, Bicycle Thief, Paisan, and Shoe
Shine, and the Swiss film The Search are good examples of this
painstaking devotion to significant details. For in them,life was
what the audience saw was a living,

so realistically portrayed that
breathing reproduction of life as it was actually being lived by
characters who were, in many cases, indigenous to the countries in
which the films were made.
Dialogue selectivity. Again, the purely realistic film must have

dialogue that does not scintillate with witticisms. Most real people
just don't talk that way. Instead, their speech would be hesitant,
groping, repetitive, and quite undistinguished.
Their dialogue would be similar to Joyce's stream of conscious-
ness' inner monologues. Again, though, the writer's sense of selec-
tivity should operate so that, although the effect would be that of
a realistic groping for words, the dialogue would not actually be
slowed up. Long speeches would be out. Suspended lines would be a
must. Interruptions would be written into almost every other speech.
Reel realism is not realistic. If the realistic film is desirable, then

it should be as completely realistic as it is possible to make it. Lost
Weekend was fairly realistic in that it delved into the inner com-
pulsions of a chronic inebriate. But when it edged into the fantastic
—as when it portrayed the drunkard's delirium tremens by pictur-
ing his hallucinations of a bat flying about his room and killing
another creature on the wall— it destroyed the unity of the realism
engendered in the rest of the picture. It is difficult enough to sus-
tain a tenuous mood under ordinary conditions. Deliberately to
V8 A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWRITING
snap the sustaining thread of unity-of realistic unity, in this case
-is to court a drop in attention. Which accounted, in part, for
the
decided letdown in the picture's closing sequences.
Don't gild the lily. But in the ordinary motion picture, such ex-
tremes of realism would be out of order. As an art form, motion
pictures are necessarily subject to certain limitations. To gain real-!
ism, for example, by painting sculpture-as was done by the
Greeks
-is to court a definite esthetic loss in that the pure medium
of
sculpture has been encroached on by the similarly pure medium
of
painting, even though added realism may result. The sculptor must
recognize the limitations of his medium and work within their
scope. In the same way, the screen-play writer should recognize the
limitations of his own art form.
In Von Stroheim's Greed, for example, a definite and deleterious
shock of audience disapproval came with the shot of the hoarded
gold under Zazu Pitts' mattress. Suddenly, in a black and white pic-
ture, the real color of gold was injected. Someone had suggested
that the shots of the gold pieces be hand-tinted, frame by frame,
to
make them more realistic! To have done this was, indeed, tanta-
mount to penciling a mustache on the Venus de Milo.
Answer? Compromise, of course. The screen-play writer must tem-

per his creative urge with self-preserving selectivity. Some verbal
fumblings, some interrupting interjections, a few introductions of
realistic character byplay-enough, in other words, to add the third
dimension of character roundness, without resorting to the more
effective fourth-dimensional utter realism would be appropriate.
Such a compromise was seen in the television film presentation
of Budd Schulberg's adaptation of the newspaper article concern-
ing a dramatic operation conducted in a submarine. The utter real-
ism of the newspaper description was not completely carried over
into the television film production which, in spite of the compro-
mise, remained an engrossing and satisfying film drama.
DRAMATURGY 79
Semi-documentaries
There has been a world-wide trend toward the making of what have
been called semi-documentary pictures. Before discussing these it
would, perhaps, be advisable to determine, first, what a documen-
tary picture is. According to what Robert Flaherty, the dean of
documentary pictures, has said about his own work— Nanook of
the North, Moana and, most recently, his Louisiana Story—
a documentary picture is a fact film in which the story stems out
photographed on location at
of a real and, therefore, realistic locale,
and using the actual people concerned
the actual scene of the story
with that story. The documentary, as it has been developed through
the years, has become much more than this. But, for our purposes
—to examine the semi-documentary picture— this definition is suffi-
cient.
The semi-documentary picture compromises with a strict adher-
ence to the documentary tenets. It photographs exterior scenes only
on location, but shoots interior scenes on stage. It uses professional
actors in the main and, only occasionally, and for bit parts, resorts
to the use of local, non-professional actors. It is not averse to inject-
ing stock shots to simulate verisimilitude. Its cameramen let up a
little in their constant drive to lighting perfection to permit for a
sort of newsreel immediacy in their lighting of both exterior and
interior sets. But, mainly, in the semi-documentary, the story takes
precedence over the background material, the reverse of conditions
in the documentary film.
The British Brief Encounter, for example, is an ideal
film,
example of an excellent semi-documentary which recorded what
appeared to be the true, unromanticized events in the lives of two
real people, with all the real details of the milieu in which they
moved as a realistic background for their tortured peregrinations.
The Italian Open City, Shoe Shine, Bicycle Thief and Bitter Rice,
and the Swiss The Search similarly presented unvarnished life. To
all intents, facts were not juggled in these films to suit the purposes
of the story.
In most American semi-documentaries, however, far too often
the facts are tortured in order to present a more palatable story. In
8o A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWRITING
de Rochemont's Boomerang, for example, the hero of the story was
purported to be the actual and real Homer S. Cummings, a former
Attorney-General, although the facts as limned by the picture did
not follow the actual life of Mr. Cummings. In Sturges' Sullivan's
Travels, a screen writer of fatuous comedies (Mr. Sturges, him-
self) decides to desert Hollywood to make a hegira through the dis-
tressed areas of the country in order to gather material for a stirring

picture on the plight of the masses. Eventually the author (nee
Sturges) comes to grips with life by realizing that, in making Holly-
wood comedies, he is adding to the gayety of the nation. So he re-
turns to Hollywood to grind out his comedies once again. These are
not facts but gross misrepresentations. For it would take far more
than a screening of a Mickey Mouse cartoon (as shown in the pic-
ture) in a southern jail to make its inmates forget their woes of
racial discrimination, social injustice, and anti-social manifestations
brought on by a multitude of modern society's muddling attitudes
to its children and its adults.
In the semi -documentary The Beginning or the End, which
concerned itself with the atom bomb, the introduction of a sup-
posed newsreel clip (presented as a historical fact) of a group of
,
scientists burying a secret file of atomic records in a sort of time-

capsule, fiction was fobbed off as fact.
And in The Sleeping City, another Hollywood semi-documen-
tary, a common, mine-run, cops-and-robbers story was glossed over
with the sugar-coated surface facts of location shooting and pre-
sented as a true story.
If the semi-documentary picture is to be assured of its full stature
—as it has and can be if we are to judge by the standards set in Italy
and in England— then it is incumbent on the screen-play writer that
he adhere, as closely as is possible, to the methods and procedures of
writing real documentaries, and without compromising too much
to the demands of the mass audience for fictional fripperies.
The writer must, first of all, be fully steeped in the background
he is to portray. He must visit the locale, observe the people, talk
with them, research in their newspaper files and libraries, and try
to get under the skin of both the community and its inhabitants
so as to discover not only what they do, and how they do it, but why
they do it.
He must then make notes of certain people who possess the
DRAMATURGY 8l
ability to act in the projected film— people who are fully repre-
sentative of the characters to be portrayed and who are typical of
the locale.
Then he must scout out locations for the shots he intends to de-
scribe in his screen play, locations that are best suited— from a pro-
duction standpoint as well as a story standpoint— to the delineation
of the events that are to be photographed.
He must be particularly observant of revelatory details— those
little which people do and say which can be developed into
things
little gems of epiphany. For it is the intelligent and effective use of
such details that make for the difference between a solid document
tary film and a so-so fictional motion picture. Graphically presented,
even a series of manufacturing details can be made inordinately
absorbing to any audience. What could be quite banal and common-
place in the completely fiction film could, in the semi-documentary,
be presented interestingly and even suspensefully.
Dialogue in the semi-documentary must be extremely realistic,
must sound as though the microphone had recorded candid conver-
sations, as it were, but with the felicitous use of authorial selec-
tivity, of course.
Candid photography is a must. In de Rochemont's 73 Rue
Madeleine the most impressive scenes— in an otherwise unpre-
possessing cloak-and-dagger melodrama— were those, shot with a
hidden camera, of the spies in operation and conversation. For
shooting scenes in the documentary The City, New York's mil-
lions were dramatically caught by a camera hidden in a suitcase.
Camouflaged trucks (as used in the picture Berlin) can be used.
One resourceful director set up a dummy camera and crew at one
street corner to attract crowds, so as to leave the street free for him
to shoot scenes,with a real camera and crew, at an adjacent scene,
using the crowds meandering past to get to the dummy camera as
the crowds for his real shots.
many of these candid shots cannot carry live sound
Obviously,
dialogue. Hence they should be written so as to be shot silent, with
narration to carry over. But remember this: let the picture tell the
story. Only when additional narration is an absolute must should
narration be resorted to.
Much of the information given in the section on dramaturgy
is adaptable to the writing of the semi-documentary screen play.
,

Only the obviously tricky effects should be elided or considerably
watered down, to permit for as much realism as is possible. The
section on character and character development is especially use-
ful. Plot, on the other hand, should not be given precedence over
character. The less plot, and the more character, the more suitable
the script will be for semi-documentary development. Sub-plots are
admissible but they should not be too involved and should not in-
troduce too many minor characters.
All the elements discussed under "dramatic values" apply to the
writing of semi-documentary pictures. The same applies to those
under "suspense." Because of its semi-documentary nature, a pic-
ture need not eschew suspense, which is in evidence constantly in
real life. Even the chase can be adapted. The pure documentary,
Flaherty's Louisiana Story, used it very effectively in the scenes
between the boy and the alligators.
Go easy with gimmicks, however. At best, a gimmick is contrived.
And real life is devoid of such patent, literary contrivances. Plants,
the running gag (to a limited degree) comedy relief (especially)
,
humor (of the real-life variety and not the wisecrack) and repeti- ,
tions—these are all appropriate to the semi-documentary film.

Avoid the flash back, however. It is not true to life. Instead, use
an established narrator, one, preferably, who is a character in the
action rather than an ephemeral, disassociated voice. Definitely
avoid quick conversions which just do not happen in life as it really
exists. Also avoid fantasy. Try to be as real as possible, in other
words. Try to present what amounts to a creative interpretation of
actuality.
The screen-play writer of semi-documentaries can refer to his full
arsenal of camera shots. But he should pay particular attention to
the full shot because the documentary quality can only be fully
realized by presenting real individuals in their real milieus. The
moving, panning camera is especially called for, as witness its ex-
cellent use in Rossellini's Germany— Year Zero. Trucking shots,
however, and obviously in exterior scenes, should be limited to a
minimum. As for angles: try for the startling ones when the action
borders on the pedestrian, and especially in montages of manufac-
turing methods, technical techniques, repetitive actions, and the
like.
Try to avoid too many optical wipes and dissolves. Such filmic
DRAMATURGY 83
conventions— although they are completely acceptable to most audi-

ences—tend to dull the edge of realism because, in themselves, they
are fundamentally unrealistic. Cut away for short time-lapse but use
time-lapses for unconscionably long hiati of time. But above all, do
not resort to the time-lapse cliches. Try to integrate the time-lapse
with character.
Transitions especially should be carefully attended to. Because of
its nature, the semi-documentary can use a limited Cook's-Tour
transition to establish or re-establish the all-important locale details.
Avoid, though, where possible, match-dissolve transitions, stock-shot
transitions, and title-card transitions. The simple, deviceless tran-
sition is a must.
Most of the material in the section under "Writing the Screen
Play" applies to the writing of semi-documentary films. Especial note
should be made of the discussions under "Building." The use of
props for amateur actors is definitely called for. Subjective-camera
techniques can be applied quite successfully to semi-documentaries.
Sound and its use are subjects that cannot be stressed too much
in the writing of semi-documentaries. For real people, living in real
places, create certain realistic sounds. Realistically portrayed, these
sound-effects can add tremendously to the effect of realism to be
desired. Exteriors especially call for a realistic sound-treatment.
And where the scenes are shot silent so that appropriate sound-
effects must be dubbed in later, make sure that these sounds are care-
fully included in your scene descriptions, and even integrated with
the action and dialogue, so that they cannot be sloughed off.
It can be stated that, with the semi-documentary film, the script-
writer possesses a means of overcoming many of the prejudices held

against current motion-picture making. For with it he can bow to
the dictates of the money-minded producer, who insists that only
entertainment can sell. At the same time, however, the screen-play
writer can serve as an honest medium of public information and
education.
Fantasy
Strangely enough, what passes for realism in most Hollywood pic-

tures is actually fantasy. Take Here Comes Mr. Jordan, for ex-
ample. This picture was supposed to be a combination of realism
and fantasy. But was it? Fantasy it had, yes. But realism?
What realism can there be, for instance, in the average film por-
trayal of a poor working-girl's cold-water, walk-up flat in the East
Fifties as a plushy, modernly furnished suite of rooms which, under
realistic conditions, would have been too rich, even, for her em-
ployer's blood? The average heroine's hair is never permitted to
be mussed, not even after she has engaged in a drag-'em-out tussle
with the villain's henchmen; her fingernails are always long and im-
peccably manicured, although she may have been scrabbling in
rocks for hours; her make-up is always ultracorrect, even in the
steaming African jungles. Only with a few rare exceptions— as in
The Snakepit, where Olivia De Havilland was permitted to look like
a deranged mental case— are American heroines permitted to appear
like anything but American heroines.
The emphasis is ever on the false trappings of the rich— the elu-
sive bluebird of happiness. It is all part of a grandiose fantasy de-
liberately foisted on Everyman to appeal to his escapist wishes. It is
no wonder, then, that pictures which blend fantasy with supposed

realism succeed in entertaining audiences when what they are actu-
ally getting are varying degrees of pure fantasy.
This does not mean that there is no room for motion pictures
other than those that are realistic. Basically, the motion picture,
with its artificial shadows-for-people, is make-believe. The audi-
ence, therefore, does not demand that what it sees be always true
to life. They can be entertained in many other ways— by farce, by
out-of-reality adventures, by musical comedy, by murder mysteries,
by any of the varied classifications of motion-picture fare.
They can even be entertained by pictures that are pure fantasy.
Cocteau's Beauty and the Beast is laid in a country in which no
sign is ever given as to its actual identity. Nor is the time identified
except for a vague suggestion established by the medieval costumes.
The characters are prototypes of the fairy-tale people of Grimm.
And their actions are all the dreamy, insubstantial, ephemeral kind
of which only fairy tales tell. Disembodied arms act as candelabra;
slow-motion, fluttering, wraith-like curtains endow the heroine's
walk through grim castle corridors with a floating, dreamy quality;
and the Beast, with a human body but with a brutish cat's head-
whiskers and all— is the stuff of which fairy tales and fantasy are
DRAMATURGY »5
fashioned. It all made for a good adult motion picture, one that was
enjoyed by millions. But itwas frankly designed as fantasy and
made no pretense of being anything else.
When Hollywood hands at fantasy, however, it does not

tries its
always fare so successfully. In the picturization of Sutton Vane's

Outward Bound, it introduced quite the wrong note by tacking on
a realistic scene after the dead hero's modernized version of the
Styx journey. The original play sustained the mood of fantasy by
keeping the action confined strictly to the heaven-bound boat. The
Hollywood version shattered the tenuous illusion of fantasy—in
which the audience had become steeped and had accepted fully—
by wrenching them out of it at the end and bringing its hero, and
the audience, back to what was at best a matter-of-fact, squalid
existence.
On the other hand, Hollywood's version of Beggar on Horseback
was pure fantasy, and was accepted by audiences as such and en-
joyed by them because it pretended to be nothing else.
To succeed as entertainment, a picture must possess unity of
content and form. There is no place in the accepted Western pic-
ture, for example, for realism. Audiences demand the old West, not
thenew one. And when they are given the new West— as in The
Oxbow Incident, where the entire film was saturated with realism
that was not emasculated by overdoses of violent gunfights and fast-
paced horseplay— they will not accept it because they have become
set in their beliefs as to what the West is supposed to be.
When realism is injected into a sophisticated farce-comedy, for

example, the result is a hodgepodge that is neither sophisticated,
nor comical. The action and dialogue in farce-comedy
farcical,
should be believed by no one, particularly by the actors who per-
form in it. Its plot and development are deliberately artificial,
brittle, and unrealistic. And it is just that artificiality and trans-
parency that make for audience enjoyment. For if farce is presented
manner, the audience will accept it only
in a dry, crackling, stylistic
for what and will join in the fun. To inject realism in the form
it is
of believable comedy is to destroy the fragile artificiality necessary

to sustaining what is, at best, a very difficult job of tightrope walk-
ing. Imbalance created by combining realism and farce negates both
and makes for neither.
Expressionism in pictures is another matter. Because the film
shadows of motion pictures are expressionistic— as distinct from the
realism of the stage where actual flesh and blood appears— expres-
sionism, in certain limited amounts, can be very effective, even in
a so-called realistic film. The conventions of film editing, and of
such filmic devices as fades, dissolves, montages, and superimposures,
have already been accepted by audiences as means of effecting time
lapses and transitions. Dream sequences— such as were presented
in Lady in the Lake and other films— add to the general effect of
expressionism. They are, in fact, legitimate filmic material and
should be used whenever needed; and the more inventive and ex-
pressionistic they are the more entertaining can they be.
The motion-picture camera is peculiarly adaptable for expres-
sionism, and its it should not be strangulated.
inherent capacity for
The having the whisky bottles in Lost Weekend become
tricks of
magnified in Milland's alcoholic eyes served to bring the audience
into his drunken psyche.
The
stream-of-consciousness flash backs in Best Years of Our Lives,
in which one of the returned GFs re-experiences his war years in
a fighter plane, were an ideal method of putting the audience into
his mind to show what made it tick.
The avant-garde picture makers of the '2o's and '30's, in Germany
and France, brought expressionism to its peak, especially with such
films as The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. Used for certain prescribed
purposes— such as a sequence to portray a dream, or a phantas-
magoric confusion during unconsciousness, or a febrile hallucina-
tion, or a flash back in time— the expressionistic treatment can work
very well into a realistic picture. Such creative resourcefulness is par-
ticularly germane to the art of the screen-play writer. But, at the
same time, the writer should not forget that selectivity is one of his
prime literary tools. His choice of scenes to be produced expression-
istically should be appropriate in time, in place, and in subject
matter.
More important, for expressionism to operate at peak efficiency,
it should be used sparingly. should never be dragged in by the
It
heels, for effect only. Its length must be timed so that it will not in-
terfere with the over-all pacing of the story. Its content matter should
flow naturally from what has gone on before into what happens
afterward. And it should be motivated so as to make it completely
credible and acceptable to the audience. For, because of expression-
DRAMATURGY 87
ism's unrealistic nature, if it loses content credibility it will become

only so much dead footage that will slow down action, destroy unity,
disturb mood, disrupt pacing, and alienate the audience from a com-
plete enjoyment of the picture.
Story holes
There is still another fault common in motion-picture stories that

may have deleterious effects— story holes. These are the result of lazi-
ness on the part of the writer. They are those unexplained errors in
action or dialogue that are illogical and untrue. Especially in mur-
der mysteries the audience is often left at the end of the picture
wondering "What on earth ever happened to that funny little man
who sold Joe the rabbit" or "But I thought the copper was outside
all the time, so how could Mamie have gotten out without being
seen?"
These story holes are to be found in stories other than those of
the murder-mystery genre. They are errors in plotting that somehow
escaped the writer and all who were involved in making the picture.
Some of them are not mere holes— some are big enough, as the say-
ing goes, "to drive a truck through."
In the otherwise splendid picture The Winslow Boy, for example,
the audience is never quite clear about how such a tremendous
amount of apparently incontestable evidence could have been
amassed against the boy.
Such errors are attributable only to bad plotting— which is bad
writing. The expert author who outlines everything his characters
will be and say and do rarely falls into these holes. This shoddy
writing results from a writer's saying to himself, "no one's going to
remember Johnny's losing his gun in the last reel— so why worry
about the fact that he uses it again at the end of the picture?"
Such story holes engender vague dissatisfaction in the audience
with the story as a whole. A well planned, well plotted, holeless
story leaves the audience with the feeling that they have witnessed
a completely unified, satisfying tale of events that could have hap-
pened to anyone, even to themselves.
Everything in any story must be completely understandable to
the audience, at least after the denouement. There is only one way
to avoid falling into these holes: check and double check the actions
and dialogue of every character in the story. They must all jibe with
one another. Care must be taken that every hole is plugged; that
every loose string is tied together; that every absence is fully ex-
plained; that every entrance and exit is fully motivated, and that
they are not made for some obviously contrived reason; that every
coincidence is motivated to make it credible; that there
sufficiently
is no between what has gone on before, what is going on
conflict
currently, and what will happen in the future; that there is com-
plete consistency between present dialogue and past action— that no
baffling question marks are left over at the end of the picture to
detract from the audience's appreciation of it.
Happy ending vs. unhappy ending
A serious fault intrinsic in the happy ending is that it must, of neces-

sity, be telegraphed because the audience knows beforehand that
the hero will overcome the obstacles that beset him, with the girl,
and obtain the papers. This fault is intensified by the obnoxious
"star system," where the hero must always win through to success.
Rarely, if ever, is he permitted to lose out. When he does it is only
in a situation where, by losing his seemingly main objective, he at-
tains another more worthy objective, of heaven on earth or in the
far beyond. Although the hero may lose the rich girl, for example,
he wins the love of the poor girl who, we know, will make him a
better wife and thus make for an eventually happier life.
As Fred Zinnemann stated, "It spoils the illusion for them (the
audience) if your actor is Gregory Peck. They know all the time that
he isn't Pfc. Quass (the name of the hero in Zinnemann's excellent
picture Teresa) ."
Television films can partially overcome this fault. Because they

must be economically made, they cannot afford to pay for high-
salaried stars who must be kept alive, in the film shadows, so that
they can "live to fight another day."
The happy ending will always be with us, though, because audi-
ences want it. This is no mere conjecture. Box-office statistics prove
DRAMATURGY 89
that no matter how happy-ending picture may be, it will

inartistic a
always get a better box than a more artistic unhappy-ending
office
picture. That is because the average person wants desperately to

have the good guy win over the bad guy. He always associates him-
self broadly with the good guy, naturally— with virtue rather than
vice. He wants to see the bad guy get his just deserts because he
believes that crime does not pay, that evil must be overcome, that
the means does not justify the end, that virtue is its own reward,
and so on.
It is this triumph of good over evil, then, that makes for the happy
ending. If the triumph, however, is left entirely up to Fate, if it is
the result of inept and convenient contriving, then the happy end-
ing will be telegraphed and suspense and dramatic impact will go
down the drain. But the defeat of evil and the triumph of good
must be brought out in a well developed struggle between the hero
and the protagonist of evil; their characters must be naturally de-
veloped; their actions and reactions must flow smoothly out of their
separate characters; and the forces of evil must be stronger than
those of the good or, at least, its equal. If these conditions exist,
then the expected happy ending will be welcomed by the audience
as being in the natural order of things, as being something they
would have wanted to happen to themselves were they to have been
put in similar adverse circumstances. The unhappy ending, tacked
on as a concluding sequence in The Third Man, was a mistake since
the audience felt that in the end Cotten should inevitably have got
the girl.
In the picture The Best Years of Our Lives, a happy ending was
achieved by all three GI heroes solely because of forces that oper-
ated outside their own spheres of influence. Fate was given the job
of deciding that their picture lives should all have happy endings.
Thus the dramatic impact was considerably weakened. Had at least
one of them been permitted not to succeed, then the negative effect
would not have been so noticeable. Or, better still, had the three
heroes been permitted to work out their own lives, struggled them-
selves to achieve their own happy endings, the effect would have
been far more realistic, far more credible and, therefore, immeas-
urably more entertaining to the audience.
But it is an onerous task, indeed, to overcome this tendency to
telegraph the happy ending. One way is to cover up the denoue-
go A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWRITING
ment as much as possible— by holding it off to the very end of the
picture, if theme not too
necessary; by introducing the poor-girl
soon in the story; by permitting the hero to fail almost up to the
climax and then by a sudden but well motivated switch, throw-
ing him back into the happy-ending pattern again. If the certainty
of a happy ending is withheld almost to the very end, if the hero
becomes engulfed in enough situations that are seemingly impos-
sible to overcome, and if the happy ending is so fashioned that it
flows naturally out of the series of catastrophes that have befallen
the hero, then it is quite possible to defer the telegraphing and re-
tain audience absorption. Then the expected happy ending will
have been forgotten, temporarily at least, so that while the hero is
in the throes of his soul-searing troubles the audience will suffer
with him without being bothered with the knowledge that some-
how, somewhere, at some time, he is certainly going to extricate
himself from his woes and win the girl.
Treatment
These, then, are the elements that must be considered when elab-
orating your idea into a synopsis and eventually into a treatment.
If they are not considered for the synopsis they will be forgotten
and will never get into the treatment, which is the next step after
the synopsis has been completed.
Actually, the treatment is nothing more than a long short story,
told in the present tense. Its length may vary from ten pages to as
many as one hundred pages. It must contain only certain elements
of dialogue— not all the dialogue extensively treated, but just the
dramatic highspots, enough to carry the story forward and to sug-
gest the style in which all the dialogue will be handled.
Quite often screen-play writers include directions for some of the
master shots, or for dissolves and fades. But these are not essential.
Trick shots and effects are also suggested but they, too, can be left
out.
THE FILMIC COMPONENTS
SECTION
2
The shots ™*L *! Up to this point we have dealt only
with literary aspects of the motion-picture story as they relate to the
writing of screen plays.
The writer who is interested only in producing master-scene
scriptsdenuded of all camera directions can cease reading from here
on in and can settle down to writing only what is expected of him,
and no more.
But if he aspires to being more than merely a screen-writing
journalist, if he believes that the screen-play writer should be ex-
actly what the title signifies— a screen-play writer— then he will read
further.
For in the following material he will find the vital substance of
the screen play. He will find detailed discussions of almost every
element necessary to the fashioning of a shooting script— a scenario
a film editor may use as a basic outline with which to put together
the bits of film shot by the director, who may well have followed the
script word for word in its entirety.
The writers of television films will find themselves confronted
with a number of problems that do not ordinarily concern the
writers of films for theater presentation. These problems will all
be discussed in their proper places. But a general discussion of the
television film in relation to live television production and theater
feature-film production might be appropriate at this time.
There is no doubt that televised film plays can be far superior to
live television dramas. This is so for the following reasons:
1. Whereas the live show is transitory, the film is a concrete rec-
ord that can be shown again and again. Although live show defini-
tion is superior to that of filmed shows, at the present time, the
93
94 A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWRITINC
kinescoped version o£ live shows— that is, photography off the tele-
vision screen— is far inferior to both. With a film, a sponsor can
present his entertainment in whatever locale he chooses and at
whatever time he desires, since he is not forced to present a live
show on the coaxial cable, at arbitrary times which vary across the
country.
2. Because television films can be edited, they are free of the ac-
cidents to which the live drama is prone, as when actors blow their
lines; cameras go out; directors signal for the wrong camera; sound
booms fall into the camera's view; a grip is caught on the set;
drawers stick, actors trip.
3. The scope of live television, as compared with the filmed va-

riety, is almost negligible. It cannot include the all-important chase,
for example. While a filmed drama can roam at will— across moors,
through a maze of tunnels, across roof tops— the live television
drama is confined to the four or five sets the average television stage
can accommodate. And when filmed inserts of a chase are included,

they merely highlight the obvious disadvantage under which live
television suffers.
4. To offset these patent disadvantages, live television does pos-
sess one major advantage— immediacy. Like plays produced on the
stage, live television dramas project a sense of actuality few films
have ever achieved. Despite this film lack, audiences have accepted
motion pictures without reservation, including those not worthy of
esthetic consideration, primarily because of their technical excel-
lence. Hence there is every reason to believe that audiences will
eventually prefer the more perfect filmed versions of dramatic en-
tertainment to the more imperfect and more restricted live versions.
To conform budget of the adver-
to the comparatively limited
tising sponsor, television filmsmust be made considerably cheaper
per reel than their movie-house prototypes. These economies can be
effected only by making drastic changes in customs and techniques.
Since the average "B" picture produced by Hollywood costs from
about $150,000 to $400,000, and runs for about 90 minutes, it is ob-
vious that, to produce a half-hour film for television, using the same
production techniques, would cost about one third of the B feature
film, or from about $50,000 to $130,000. Sponsors cannot and will
not pay more than $20,000 for a television film of this length. It is
quite apparent that feature-film producers must revamp their pro-
THE FILMIC COMPONENTS 95
duction setups completely if they expect to compete with the tele-
vision film companies that are currently turning out films at costs
within the advertising budgets available.
To make television films cheaply enough, these producers have
resorted to every cost-cutting dodge and device available. They have
limited the number of sets; reduced the size of the casts; refrained
from using high-salaried stars; resorted to P. P.P. P. (pre-production
planned preparation) so that the casts are perfectly rehearsed be-
fore they come onto the set, thus reducing the time and money
spent on the set for actual production.
They have methods as the "multicam"
also devised such shooting
system, which shoots each scene with three cameras instead of one,
so that a medium-long shot, a medium shot, and a close shot can be
photographed simultaneously, thus making for obvious shooting
economies. When such a system is used, the detailed shooting script
must give way to the master-scene script. But, like all stopgaps, the
multicam system has its faults. No one will contend that it is pos-
sible for a cameraman to light a set that will be photogenic for a
variety of shots. Extreme close-ups, and inserts, for instance, will
have to be shot in the conventional manner. Pans and other camera
movements will, of necessity, be restricted by the presence of other
cameras which can obtrude in the "take" and thus "n.g." it.
So far, the films produced by this method have been found want-
ing in many respects. The all-important chase has been studiously
avoided; in the main, action has been confined to interior sets; pac-
ing and tempo have suffered because film editors have not been
furnished with sufficient shot material, with varying angles and
image sizes to make for effective montage and building effects; and
what would have ordinarily been n.g. takes from one camera have
been cut into the film because no more satisfactory shot was avail-
able. Also, it is difficult enough to dress a set for a single camera
with the actors and props in their right places so as to obtain the
most felicitous composition possible; to expect to obtain esthetically
satisfying composition from three cameras, while the actors are in
motion, is to expect the impossible. The only way to accomplish it
is to limit the action of the actors, which is tantamount to obstruct-
ing the flow of action necessary to a motion picture.

Therefore, it can be seen that for television films to be produced
both economically and esthetically, the traditional methods of pro-
duction are indicated. Savings must be effected in ways that are al-
ready available to the screen writer of television films. These ways

will be discussed in the following sections.
The average feature film for theaters is composed of a length of
35 millimeter film that runs from between 7000 to 8000 feet. For a
half-hour television drama, it would run for about 2500 feet if
presented on 35 millimeter film and correspondingly less on 16
millimeter film.It is about 30 per cent cheaper to shoot pictures on
16 millimeter film than on 35 millimeter, although the results— both

aurally and visually— are considerably less in quality than pictures
shot on 35 millimeter film. Television films will be shot on 16 mil-
limeter film, but, for the purpose of clarity, from now on all refer-
ences to film footage will be based on 35 millimeter.

This footage is composed of a number of "clips" of film cut down
from the original footage of "take" shots, which usually average
about six feet for every foot of film used in the picture.
Each film clip consists of a number
of "frames," which run sixteen
to every foot of film. These individual frames are exposed in the
camera twenty-four frames to the second, and they are projected on
the screen at the same rate of speed.
It is the job of the screen-play writer, then, to indicate exactly
what image is to be exposed on ever)' frame of the picture.
After listing certain details in the opening lines of the screen
play— to be found in the section under FORMAT— the writer de-
scribes the first shot of the script as follows:
EXT. MERIWETHER HOSPITAL-DAY
This is a generalization which indicates— to the assistant director,
whose job it is to break down the script for shooting purposes— but
more particularly to the director— that the scene is set in exterior
surroundings, as distinct from an INT. (interior) , which is set in-
side a house, a vehicle, or any other edifice or covered place.
Following this comes the specific place, in this case the MERI-
WETHER HOSPITAL. It could be the ROBERTS' DINING
ROOM, LOBBY OF WEST HOTEL, or PRISON CELL, but it
must which the action is to be played.
specify the exact place in
Then comes the time of day in which the action of the shot oc-
curs. In most cases— and especially in television films— DAY or
NIGHT will suffice. But for the more important pictures, and es-
THE EILMIC COMPONENTS 97
pecially for those made at the larger studios, a more definite desig-
nation of time can be made— on the order of TWILIGHT or
EARLY MORNING— because there is more money available in the
budget to cover the time the cameraman must devote to achieving
more subtle lighting gradations.
That done, the screen-play writer indicates, on the next line,
something on the order of:
med. shot on jane, as she lifts her baby from the crib, hugs it
to her breast, and looks around frightenedly.
Now, how does the writer know that a medium shot would be best
suited for this action? What
can he accomplish, visually, with it?
Would Should the camera pan
a close shot suit the purpose better?
Jane from the crib to the door, when she exits, or should she simply
walk out of the frame, to be picked up a second later as she enters
the frame with the camera focused on the door? Or should a cut-
away shot be indicated, to someone else either in the same room or
in a different locale?
These and many other plaguy questions will come up to bother
The answers to them will be attempted in
the screen-play writer.
the following pages.
Let us look into the business of shots, then, discussing first the
proper distances between the camera and the subject being photo-
graphed. Unfortunately, despite the hundreds of thousands of mo-
tion pictures that have been produced, no accepted standards of
exact measurements have been evolved. A medium shot, to one
director, may be a shot resulting in an image that will include the
subject's knees. To another director it may mean an image in
which everything from the hips up is to be seen.
The cinematographic societies have tried to formulate exact
measurements, but to date there has been no strict conformance to
any of them by the entire industry.
The following material, then, should not be interpreted as the
final word in such matters. It merely represents one writer-director's
interpretation of the many conflicting dicta gathered from research
and experience. The principles have worked for him. There is no
reason why they cannot work for anyone else. At least it is an honest
attempt to establish standards, a task which has heretofore been
sadly neglected and almost studiously avoided.
The full shot
When it is necessary to show all the action in an entire scene, the

full shot is resorted to.Thus, if an entire room is to be shown, or
the complete action on a wide street, the full shot would be indi-
cated.
The full shot is also referred to as an "establishing shot," which
term should indicate its use: to establish in the audience, as a sort
of frame of reference, the locale and the action in which closer,
more detailed shots take place.
Every new set must be represented, either at the opening of the
sequence of shots or very early in it, with an establishing, full shot.
This is so because unless the audience is fully oriented to the place
in which the action occurs, the full significance of the closer shots
may not be realized.
In traditional film editing it is almost axiomatic to return to a
full shot after a series of medium shots, close shots, and close-ups
have been used, in order to re-establish the entire scene for the
audience so that once again they may obtain a fuller understanding
of what they have been seeing in detail when compared with the
general action in the frame-of-reference, re-establishing shot.
The scenic full shot is peculiarly adaptable to Westerns, where it
is often necessary to show violent action— as, for example, a chase

on horseback— against a background of scenic beauty, such as a
distant range of mountains, or a closer formation of foothills, tow-
ering rocks, gullies, and gulches.
The same effect can be gotten when a violent fight is in progress:
by establishing first with a full shot of the room— if it is an interior
fight— or the street; then by going in for closer shots of the fight for
revelatory details such as chins being hit by fists, knockdowns, etc.;
and then by re-establishing toward the end of the scene with a

medium shot or another full shot.
Ordinarily— and especially in the cheaper-budgeted pictures— the
full shots are taken at one angle, from only one camera setup, so
that closer shots can be cut in by the film editor. But varying
angles should be used, if time and money are not of the essence,
because the entire action must be repeated for each new camera
setup.
It is suggested that the single-setup method be indicated for tele-
vision screen plays. At the same must not be

time, the full shot clut-
tered up with too many people or things. Television's small screen

militates against the practice.
In pictures with urban backgrounds, the full shot can be used to
achieve an effect of mass and multitudinous activity. In the British
film ItAlways Rains on Sunday an excellent impression of the
market in London's Petticoat Lane was obtained with a full shot.
With the camera on a boom, so that it was able to move in from
the general effect of the full shot to the specific details revealed
gradually in a fluid succession of uncut long shots, medium shots,
and close shots, the effect of dynamic violence was heightened be-
cause it was contrasted with the static quality of the background
scenics.
The full shot has tremendous dramatic possibilities in urban
when it is made from an extremely high angle, as
scenes, especially
from the top of a building. In Rossellini's Germany —Y ear Zero,
and in Carol Reed's The Fallen Idol, full shots— taken from high
balconies— of a small boy crossing the street served to emphasize
the helplessness of each lad when contrasted with the engulfing
vastness of the city's streets.
When suggesting such high-angle shots for a television script, the
screen writer should keep in mind the fact that the figure of the
person seen on the street must be large enough to be identified.
This identification can be assured by giving the person some easily
discernible prop— a white scarf, a large picture hat, or the like.
Because the quality of scenic backgrounds is usually static, it is
often more desirable to obtain a sense of movement by moving the
camera in a slow, panning sweep, to follow the action taking place
in the foreground or middleground. This is often resorted to in
Westerns. The same sense of movement was obtained in the afore-
mentioned Petticoat Lane shot, not by panning, but by dollying in
to more detailed, closer shots.
lOO A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWRITING
The long shot
The long shot is not necessarily a full shot, although, with it, the
camera lens is also set at infinity and the angle is widened. It has
effects similar to those of the full shot. It is used to show the subject
or subjects in full length, but not necessarily in relation to the sur-
rounding background locale.
When the subject held in a long shot, the angle of the lens
is
remains constant. But when the subject comes closer to the camera,
it is necessary for the camera operator to "follow focus" so that the
subject will continue in sharp focus on the screen.

Thus, when a subject is in a long shot, but when there is action
in the foreground, much depends upon what is to be highlighted.
If the foreground action is more important, then it will be in focus,
while the background, long-shot action will go out of focus. It may
be necessary to open a scene with the long-shot subject in focus at
first, and then to change focus to bring out the reaction of a subject
in the foreground.
This can be done by the operator's adjusting his focal length in
the lens. Orson Welles has used this effect advantageously, espe-
cially by having the foreground subject come into the shot in an
extreme close-up, while the background long-shot subject remains
in focus, so that the action in both planes is also in focus. This is
done by using a wide-angle lens— and with judicious lighting, at
which Gregg Toland was a master— so that both the action up close
and in the extreme background remain in sharp focus simultane-
ously. With this kind of "forced focus" or "shooting in depth" it is
quite possible to see objects that are both 18 inches and 200 feet
from the camera.
Here again the television screen-play writer should be extremely
cautious. In the early days of television, when the ten-inch screen
was the rule, the long shot was completely restricted. Nowadays,
with home TV screens running to twenty inches or more, and with
larger screens promised, the long shot has lost many of its pariah
qualities. A
few long shots— preferably of a medium-long quality-
can be injected into a half-hour script provided the action it covers
is not too important to the story line. Also, screen definition in
them is considerably better than in the closer shots. This superior

definition carries over from the long shots to the closer shots, a
psychological effect known as "apparent definition."
The medium shot
The most commonly used shot in motion-picture shooting is the

medium shot, usually condensed to MED. Instead of showing a full
figure, as in the long shot, the medium shot presents the figure only
from the knees up. In this shot, the vertical planes are such that the
action in both the foreground and background can be carried in
focus without focal adjustments.
The medium shot is ideal for carrying movement. Unlike the full
shot, the action of its central characters is not lost in the vastness
of the background panorama. Nor does it lose a certain amount
of its centering action to its surrounding locale, as in the long shot.
Instead, it concentrates the action and contains it. In addition,
the medium shot presents the action within the reference frame-
work of action or scene in the immediate vicinity of the central
action.
Thus, with the medium shot, it is possible to evoke from a scene
its full content of dramatic conflict. For the medium shot manages
to retain facial expressions and physical gestures— partially lost in
the long shot— and relates these, dramatically, to the action in-
volved, which can also be included in the scope of the medium
shot. The medium shot is virtually the work horse of all the shots
available.
The medium shot can also be used as a re-establishing shot, to
reorient the audience to the scene as a whole after they have been
subjected to the detailed scrutiny of a series of close shots. At the
same time, if a return is made to a re-establishing full shot, it is
almost obligatory to use a medium shot as an intermediary phase,
to avoid the sudden change in camera distance and image size.
Use of the medium shot for orienting and reorienting purposes
is particularly necessary for television scripts, where a preponder-
ance of the shots used are close shots or close-ups, all of which must
be fully established for the audience to avoid confusion.
The medium-close shot
At times it may be necessary to show what is known as a "tight
two-shot"— the heads and shoulders of two people. This would be

done in a medium-close shot, which places the camera in a position
between that of a medium shot and that of a close shot, enough to
accommodate the two heads. This is another "must" shot for tele-
vision scripts which, together with the closer shots, comprise a
majority of the total shots in a TV script.
The close shot
The close shot is often confused with the close-up. In the former,
the camera distance is such that the figure shown includes only
everything from the shoulders up. However, it is still possible to
include in the picture a few details, such as props or set dressing,
which can be used either for pictorial, for compositional, or for
thematic or story purposes.
Thus, although the close shot has a tendency to slow up the for-
ward movement and impede dramatic action, it carries with it
other advantages that compensate for the loss.
For the close shot can particularize. It can say to the audience,
in effect, "Look here! See what's happening now. It's really
important!"
The close shot should be to the television script what the me-
dium shot is to the theater feature-film screen play. It should be
used again and again, but do not forget to re-establish, after a series
of close shots, with a reorienting medium shot.

Up have been, to a cer-
to this point, the various shots discussed
tain degree, only slightly different from those obtained in a stage
play. In fact, when motion pictures were first made, these shots
were used exclusively, especially the medium shot. But when Grif-
fith adopted and perfected the close shot and close-up, motion pic-
tures took their first step out of their swaddling clothes.
For it was with these cinematic devices that the screen writer and
director became cinematic creators.
THE FILMIC COMPONENTS 10g
The close-up
This was so especially with the close-up, which goes even closer to
the subject and shows only full-screen heads, faces, hands, feet—
in fact, any significant detail that can point out and point up, for
the audience, and thus heighten the dramatic impact.
With the close-up at his disposal, the writer has a tool that is
unique, in so far as contrast with the stage play is concerned. For

in the theater, the size of the actor or his props remains constant,
and allows only for a size variant limited by the depth of the stage
and by artful spot lighting which was the stage forerunner of the
cinematic close-up.
In the motion picture, however, the audience's attention can be
drawn to, and centered on, any revelatory or significant detail.
Thus, the screen-play writer's opportunity for selectivity is in-
creased tremendously.
It is the close-up that has made the motion picture the singular
art it is today, and that can make it the supreme expres-
form that
sion of art in the future. For dramatic impact to top off a scene,
there is nothing so effective in the entire lexicon of cinematic de-
vices. In David Lean's British picture Great Expectations, the boy,
Pip, is shown running wildly through marshes, past gibbets and
into a churchyard cemetery, the camera traveling with him. It holds
on him when he gets to one of the tombstones. Then suddenly it
pans around from Pip to an abrupt close-up on the leering, menac-
ing, distorted features of the escaped convict. The result is an elec-
tric shock to the audience and a high spot in a film replete with
high spots.
Although the close-up results in a larger screen image, for tele-
vision it is it be used only when added particulariza-
suggested that
tion— more than could be obtained from a close shot— is called for.
Here, also, remember to re-establish with a medium or medium
close shot for an orienting frame of reference.
Inserts
But that is only one use of the close-up. Others will be discussed in
other sections. Here, though, it might be appropriate to add that
the close-up is an "insert." The insert is a cut-in of a

also used as
close-up of a letter, a newspaper headline, a sign— any written or
printed legend— which it is obligatory to show in large-size detail,
for plot requirements.
Unless the insert is to be used at the tag end of a shot, as a transi-
tion device to dissolve into another scene, it is always best to cut
back from the insert to a re-establishing shot of the full scene in
which the material of the insert was only a detail, in order to
reorient the audience to the situation which called for the close-up.
The television screen-play writer must be wary with the printed
insert. Remember, the small television screen reduces such print-
ing to an almost unreadable size. If a sign is used, be sure it is
printed in large type, with only a few words as the legend. Use
every dodge you can to avoid showing an insert of a letter, a page
of type, a newspaper item, or a telegram. Allow one of the charac-
ters to read it, or parts of it. If it is absolutely essential to show it
in print, be sure it is brief.

If a telegram is part of the plot, for example, have the person
sending the telegram read it over the phone to the telegraph opera-
tor, or reverse the process and have the operator read it to the
person receiving it.
The can also be a close-up shot of any prop which must

insert
be shown in full-screen detail for plot purposes. Ordinarily, such
inserts are not photographed on the regular sound stages while
shooting of the picture is in operation. Instead, they are photo-
graphed on "special effects" stages.
Extreme close-ups
At times the writer may find it necessary to particularize even

more than the conventional close-up will permit. For example, he
THE FILMIC COMPONENTS IO5
may want to indicate a fleeting expression in the eyes, or point up

a wart on the nose, or a mystery-story clue, or even show a thumb-
print. In such cases, he would resort to the extreme close-up.
This device was used in an amazingly effective manner in the
Czech film Ecstasy. By means of an extreme close-up of the girl's
lips as she entered her lover's cottage, the audience was able to
sense the heat of her passions by the manner in which the skin of
her upper and lower lips adhered to each other and then separated
almost reluctantly.
Care must be taken, however, that such shots be used sparingly.
If overused, they will lose their shock value and thus lose dramatic
impact. The same injunction should be applied to the use of ordi-
nary close-ups. Their use should be timed, and they should be
integrated into the script as a whole so that, with building, the full
effect of their dramatic possibilities can be realized. When such
extreme close-ups are used in television pictures, they should always
be followed by a re-establishing larger shot to reorient the audience.
Moving shots
So far, the discussion of camera usage has been confined to static

shots, in which the camera holds on a subject which is at varying
distances from the camera, to obtain varying effects on the screen.
These static shots, however, can be combined with certain camera
movements to obtain even more effective results. But before going
into detail about these moving shots, it is necessary to giwG the fol-
lowing warning, which will be repeated again and again:
The camera should be moved only when there is a definite reason
for doing so!
One of the most frequent faults found in live television pro-
grams is the overuse of unmotivated pan and dolly shots. This
occurs because the basic scenes have not been previsualized by the
writers for intrinsic action. With this conception of action lacking,
back on the surface action of
television directors are forced to fall
unmotivated pan and dolly shots. A study of the following mate-
rial should show how this error can be avoided in television films.
With these words of caution, we shall go on to what is perhaps
106 A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWRIT1NG
the meat and substance of camera technique as it pertains to the

screen-play writer.
The pan shot
The word "pan" is a contraction of the word "panoramic," which
was used in the early days of motion-picture making to describe

the swiveled action of the camera, as it was swung slowly from one
side to another to obtain a complete view of a distant scenic vista,
usually a mountain range or closer foothills.
sidewise motion of the camera, to obtain a continuous,
It is this
moving, panoramic image, that is now known as a "pan shot."

But the present-day use of the pan shot is not confined strictly
to scenic panorama, for which purpose, incidentally, it is still ideally
suited. Nor is it confined to any other type of panorama. The pan
shot, nowadays, is any shot in which the camera moves from one
side to another in order to follow the action taking place in front
of it.
Follow action only. Note well the italicized words: follow the
action. They tie in with the rule given at the opening of this section.
For no pan shot is justified unless there is a definite reason for using
it. And one of the most important reasons for using a pan shot is
to follow significant action. Note now the italicized word signifi-

cant. Not all actions are significant. Their importance depends on
the nature of the action and its place in the screen play. But only
when the action is significant should the pan shot be used.
The pan shot is used considerably in Western pictures to follow
the action of cowboys on horseback as they chase each other over
the floor of a valley, or as the stagecoach goes hurtling down a nar-
row mountain road or hangs precipitously over the edges of hair-
pin turns.
An extraordinarily effective pan shot is the one in which a speed-
ing vehicle advances to the camera, which holds on it until it is
almost head on. Then, as the vehicle passes by, the camera is
pivoted quickly and follows the speeding vehicle as it continues

down the road. The effect here— of catching the vehicle first when
it is small, of having it gradually increase in size until soon it as-
sumes full screen proportions as it seemingly hurtles pell-mell into

the audience and then of moving with it as it rushes by head-
itself,
long to decrease gradually in size— is one that can be breath-taking

when done well, for it has all of the elements of dramatic build-up
interwoven into a continuous flow of violent, moving action.
Exit and entrance pans. The pan shot is also used to follow indi-
vidual actions, such as entrances or exits from one room into
another. It goes without saying that the exit or entrance pan
should be used only where such movement is essential to the de-
velopment of the story. There is no sense in wasting a pan shot on
an exit or entrance that does not add to the story's development.
It is best, then, simply to cut away from the action and cut to the
next scene. But if it is necessary to follow a character from one

room to another, then a direct cut would be confusing, because the
audience would have been given no indication of the character's
intention of leaving the room. Thus, if they see him in one scene
standing at the window of the kitchen as a direct cut is made from
the scene, only to find him in the next scene entering the living
room, the audience would be puzzled by this abrupt "jump cut,"
as it is called, and the flow of continuity would be considerably
impaired. If, however, the cut is made to a scene in which the
character at the window does not appear, it is not necessary to pan
him away from the window to the door, even though in a succeeding
scene he is shown entering the dining room.
Pan motivated movement. The pan shot is also used to follow an

actor although he makes neither an exit nor entrance. It can take
him across the room or yard, or from the fireplace to the window.
But always remember, there must be a definite reason for the move-
ment of the actor to warrant the camera movement. When such
pans are used simply to have the camera move, and for no other
movement created will tend to coun-
reason, the illusory sense of
genuine movement obtained from other shots,
teract the effect of
in which the camera movement was justified by completely moti-
vated character movement.
That accounts for the failure of Hitchcock's The Rope to realize
its full potentialities as a great picture. The picture was shot as a
series of continuous pan shots, long shots, medium shots, close shots
and close-ups, so that cut-ins and cutaways were avoided. This
called for an inordinate amount of camera movement, from side
to side in pan shots, up and down in tilt shots, up and back in dolly
shots, and again from side to side in trucking shots. As a matter of
fact, each individual shot was a long trucking shot, with the camera
off the tracks.

Hitchcock's purpose in shooting his picture with this radical
technique was, perhaps, to obtain a continuous fluidity of move-
ment never before achieved by the camera. And in motion pic-
tures, where the smooth flow of continuity is extremely desirable,
such a technique may, in theory, seem promising. But in actual
practice, if we are to judge from the results of The Rope, it is ob-
vious that in trying to achieve this much desired fluidity, Hitch-
cock was forced to overwork his camera. He was forced to move it
in order to get from one significant detail to another at times when
camera movement was completely unjustified because it was un-
motivated. The result was that a great deal of the extraordinary
camera movement that was legitimate was negated by the camera
movement that was superfluous.
In one scene, for example, the camera was forced to dolly in
from a medium shot of James Stewart to an extreme close-up. With
that done, the camera pulled back again to a medium shot and
then panned away from Stewart to additional, continuing action.
In a normally shot picture, Hitchcock would never have dol-
lied in for a close-up and then out at the same time, because he
would have been aware of the jerkiness that such camera action
creates. Instead, as always, he would have cut away from the
close-up to, perhaps, a re-establishing shot, or to a cutaway for a
reaction shot of another character. But because he was forced to
use unmotivated camera movements, he spoiled what was, in many
other respects, a vitally important picture.
Revelation pan. One of the most electrifying uses of the pan

comes when it concludes with a startling revelation. The stock
example, used in murder-mystery stories, is to have the camera pan
slowly across an empty room and then suddenly reach and hold on
a corpse. The use of contrast— as between the quiet, static room
THE FILMIC COMPONENTS log
and the revelation of violent death— is what makes for the dra-
matic impact. Usually the camera then dollies in to the corpse and
holds on a close-up of the blunt instrument, or whatever instru-
ment of death has been used, or on some other significant detail
necessary to the development of the plot. This method of capping
one dramatic impact (the pan revelation) with still another (the
close-up particularization) can have an exceedingly dramatic effect
on the audience. Here again the device should be used only spar-
ingly, so as not to weaken its effectiveness.
It is with the pan revelation device that the screen-play writer
can assure himself that his camera direction will be followed by
the director. No director would dare to discard a fresh approach to
the device, for he would realize that, to the average audience, he,
and not the writer, would be accredited with its creation. The pan
revelation, like the pay-off pan, is another means by which the
writer can assert himself creatively.
Pay-off pan. Another type of revelatory pan begins with the cam-
era panning with a person without holding on him completely.
Instead, it holds momentarily on some significant detail and per-
mits the person being panned to walk out of the frame, centering
the new item of interest for dramatic particularization. To cap this
impact, immediately after holding on the new item, the camera
often dollies in for a close shot, or a close-up, of what has inter-
rupted the pan. The effect here is of endowing the camera with
the human trait of curiosity. And when that curiosity results in a
dramatic pay-off, the impact is made even more effective.
A splendid example of was found in Miracle on 34th Street
this
where, after the lawyer has proved in court that Santa Claus does
not exist, the audience discovers, by means of a pan, the old gentle-
man's cane standing in a corner of the room.
Medium to close pan. The pan shot is also an excellent device for
taking the audience from the general to the particular, and for
connecting the two. Thus the camera can hold on one action in the
medium shot, and wind up holding on a close-up of, say, a letter
lying on a desk. This method avoids the dollying in, which is a
time-consuming device as far as production is concerned.
HO A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAY WRITING
Reaction pan. The pan can also be used quite effectively to pre-
sent a collective reaction to a speech or an action. In The Magnificent
Ambersons, while some dialogue was being conducted, the camera
panned from the speakers' heads across the hallway and along the
staircase, revealing various eavesdroppers to the conversation.
Subjective pan. Another spectacular use of the pan is to make it

appear to be the eyes of one of the characters. When he enters a J
room, for instance, if he is searching for something, the camera can

be panned slowly around the room, as though the camera lens were
the character's eyes. This creates the illusion in the audience that
the camera is also their eyes.
This effect was perfectly presented in the French picture The
Grand Illusion, when the prison searchlight, piercing the darkness
and falling on the ground in a blazing white pool of light, slowly
panned the prison yard, searching out each nook and cranny for the
escaped prisoners, as the panning camera followed the light around.
Limit the pan. Don't go overboard in using the pan. Remember

this: The pan not a true representation of the human eye in
is
operation, as it moves from one place to another. For actually, in-

stead of moving smoothly across an expanse of space like the cam-
era's eye, the human eye skips from one point of interest to another.
This means that there are a great many details lost to the human
eye because of inattention and blurring.
Camera pans tend down tempo. This was obvious in Lady
to slow
in the Lake, where the camera was supposed to be the eye of Robert
Montgomery, the detective protagonist. Instead of skipping about
the room as the human eye would do, the camera eye always panned
slowly from place to place. A plethora of disturbing nonessentials
cluttered up the audience's vision and slowed the tempo to a pedes-
trian crawl, unfortunately quite often in spots where the reverse
tempo was desirable. The subjective camera technique is faulty
because of this.
Flash pan. The pan can also be used to simulate the human eye
in its place-skipping proclivity. When it is essential toshow two or
more vital actions taking place simultaneously in the same vicinity,
the flash pan (also called the "blur pan") can be used as an ideal
link. This device is the result of having the camera operator jerk
his camera around violently from one action to another, so that
the connecting link between the action appears on the screen as a
blurred flash. It will be necessary, in order to produce this linkage,
to flash-pan into the succeeding scene so that, when the two shots are
put together, it will appear as though the camera zips from one
object in sharp focus to another object also in sharp focus.
Transition flash pan. The

flash pan can also be used as a transi-
tional device to connect two shots of actions which are simultaneous
in time, but geographically separated. The effect is achieved by
flash-panning away from the first shot, flash-panning into the suc-
ceeding shot, and then linking together the two flash pans optically,
so that the effect is of a flash pan from one shot into another. This
device should be used infrequently in any one film. And it should
be used only to indicate simultaneity, to take the place of a direct
cut, which indicates continuity of action in time.
The flash pan can also be used as a connecting device for dra-
matic contrast. In the documentary The City, the camera held on
a long shot of an old city, then flash-panned across the river to hold
on a long shot of a new city. A direct cut here would not have been
so effective in pointing up the contrast.
Avoid reverse pan. A final injunction about the use of the pan:
avoid reversing the pan too often in the same shot. A single pan
works enough strain on the audience's eyes without having them
jerked to and fro to cover the same territory. The result is a choppi-
ness that destroys the smooth flow of continuity.
The reverse pan should be used only at certain times, and then
quite cautiously. If it is absolutely essential that two separate ac-
tions in the same vicinity be tied together to indicate simultaneity,
contrast, or revelation, the camera can pan from one action to the
other and then flash-pan back to the first action again for a revela-
tory reaction. It can also be used in fight scenes, or in any scenes
of violent action in which the contestants shuttle from side to side.
In such cases the jerky effect is permissible because it suggests the
seesawing results of the fight and matches the filmic tempo with
the story tempo.
Although a good director will do it automatically, it is advisable
to indicate,whenever making a long pan, that the "CAMERA

HOLDS" on various important elements included in the pan shot's
purview. This will give the film cutter definite places in which to
cut in particularizing close shots or close-ups without being forced
to do so in a moving shot— a virtual impossibility. The same applies
to any and all moving-camera shots.
The pan shot is more time-consuming than the straight shot be-
cause it may require a number of n.g. takes, resulting from the
operator's inability to follow the action and hold it centered. For
that reason, there should be far fewer of them in a television film
screen play than in a screen play for theater presentation. The tele-
vision script writer should not avoid them completely but resort to
them only when they are absolutely necessary.
The tilt shot
In addition to being able to pan horizontally, the camera can also

pan perpendicularly, both up and down, in what are termed "tilt
shots." Thus, the tilt is an ideal device for catching important fall-
ing or rising action.

If it is important to reveal a prop falling from a table to the
floor, for instance, to show it rolling under a chair and being hidden,
indicate a close shot on the prop on the table, then, "as Joe's arm
nudges the brass ring off the table, the CAMERA TILTS DOWN
to catch the falling ring." The roll of the ring under the chair may
have to be shot separately and cut in, to make certain it will be
photographed exactly where it is required.
The tilting-up shot is often used to photograph a person getting
up from a chair, or from any sitting position, provided it is neces-
sary to show the action in a continuous flow. When this isn't
necessary, the action is often shot in two parts, the first showing the
person starting to get up from one angle, and the second showing
him completing the action. The entire action, though, is taken in
each shot, but the film editor will trim off the tail end of the first
shot and the opening frames of the second, and splice together the
two shots, thus getting the whole action from two different angles.
The tilt-up shot an excellent means of emphasizing height.

is also
Tall buildings, high cliffs, anything of imposing height, can be
made to appear higher than they actually are simply by placing the
camera near the base of the edifice and then tilting it up slowly.
This is especially effective when the action taking place on top of
the building or cliff is an important story point.
In the German film Berlin, the camera emphasized the height of
the wall of a bomb-wrecked building up which the boy climbed
and from the top of which he fell to his death. The same effect was
achieved by Rossellini in his Germany— Year Zero, when he empha-
sized the height of the bomb-wrecked building from which his boy
leaped to his death.
The tilt-up can also be used as thetail end of a transition. This
device starts in a panning close-up of a person walking. The camera

then tilts down to a shot of the feet treading along. The shot of
these feet is then dissolved through, either to a close shot of the
iarae person's feet, or to another person's feet, depending on which
the story line calls for. Then, still panning, the camera starts to tilt
up from the feet to a close-up of the person walking.
Remember, though, that motion-picture cameras are not confined
:o straight horizontal or verticalmovements. They are designed so
is be able to combine the pan, the tilt-up, and the tilt-down all
to
in one operation. Thus it is possible for the camera operator to pan
1 subject diagonally, down a flight of stairs, while he tilts down
with it to keep it centered, or reverse the process if the subject is

yoing up a flight of stairs. In Hitchcock's Stage Fright, the camera
opened with a close shot on a man (the camera being on a boom,
ao doubt) as the man exited from a door, went down stairs, and
,
opened a door. In the meantime the camera, tilted down to his feet
:n a close-up, traveled down to the door as it opened, and then
.ilted up to catch a close shot of Marlene Dietrich.
In addition, the vertical axis of the camera can be set at an angle

o the vertical axis of the subject being photographed. The result
s that the image on the film will be shown as being tilted forward
:>r backward, an effect experimented with in many of the German
ind French avant-garde films. It should be used rarely and only

vhen it actually contributes something definite. In the British
Brief Encounter, the grieving heroine was photographed so that she
appeared to be leaning forward when the train passed the station
in which she was standing, in order to give a visual representation
of her intention of throwing herself under the train wheels. Then,
when the suicide thoughts subsided, the camera was tilted back to
normal.
In the German film Wozzeck, a succession of tilted camera shots
aided in building up to the climax of Wozzeck's delirium scene.
And in Duvivier's Cartiet du Bal, the sequence with the epileptic
doctor was shot with tilted-camera angles to symbolize his lack of
equilibrium. The same tilted-camera angles were employed in Eisen-
stein's October when the workers marched up the ramp, to empha-
size the weight of their labors.
Dolly shots
The modern motion-picture camera is a flexible and mobile instru-

ment. In addition to being able to pan and tilt simultaneously, it
can also "dolly in" or "dolly out"— that is, move in closer to the
subject or back away from it at the same time that it is panning
and tilting.
What is more, while panning and tilting, the camera can also
"dolly"— move along parallel with the subject, keeping the subject
centered. This type of dolly shot is called the "traveling" shot.
Slower action can be shot with the camera on a regulation dolly
carriage. Faster action requires that the camera be placed on a
vehicle, the speed of which is equal to the speed of the vehicle or
person being photographed.
Trucking shots. Dolly shots, often also called "trucking" shots (or
"tracking" shots in England) or described simply as "The camera
moves in," or "the camera pulls away," or "the camera trucks
along with," are almost always made on a "dolly" (a rubber-
wheeled camera carriage) which rolls on a set of aluminum tracks
nailed down to the stage floor and sometimes kept rigid by means
of wooden-bar "spacers." These precautions are necessary in order
to insure absolute rigidity to the camera, which will make for
smooth-flowing, jerk-free film images.
In writing screen plays for cheap-budget movie-house pictures, or

for television films, thenumber of dolly shots should be cut to a
minimum. They are difficult to set up for lighting, and difficult to
shoot, especially if a number of involved camera movements are to
be used. They are time-consuming and therefore expensive.

At the same time, however, they are extremely useful in many
ways. Some have already been mentioned in discussing other shots.
As useful as they may be, though, it is best to explore other possible
means of obtaining the same effect before resorting to the dolly shot.
Dolly or cut-in? Significant detail revelation, for instance, can be

achieved by means of a cut-in close-up. Instead of dollying in to
show what a character sees, the cut-in close-up can accomplish the
same purpose. In some cases, where it is essential to speed up the
tempo, the cut-in is preferable. For the dolly in or dolly out are slow,
time-consuming devices. The forward movement of a film is always
deterred by either. And unless the dolly shot can be fitted into a
slow-moving sequence, or can be used to open a sequence that builds
to a climax, it should be avoided.
Fullback dolly. The pullback dolly shot is especially suitable for

a certain type of revelation. Where the dolly in can reveal a startling
detail in the small, as it were, the pullback dolly shot can reveal
startling information in the large.A shot can open with a close-up
of something which in itself has no particular significance. But the
camera can then pull back and reveal something in the immediate
vicinity which can furnish a startling revelation.
In the British picture The Night Has Eyes, James Mason is made
to believe that he is insane. His housekeeper and houseman dope
him, and then arrange to have him awaken in a stupor with his
hands wrapped around a freshly killed animal whose neck had been
twisted. In the final sequence, his girl friend returns to his cottage
at night and, at the gate, sees something startling taking place in
the cottage driveway. A direct cut in a close-up to the doorway
shows what she sees— a rabbit in somebody's hands with its neck
being twisted. The reason for the girl's reaction is slowly revealed
to the audience,when the camera pulls back and shows that the
hands around the rabbit's neck are not Mason's, as the audience is
momentarily led to believe, but those of the housekeeper. In this
6

way, the facts revealed to the audience are thatMason is not mad,
but that the housekeeper has been plotting to make him think he is.
The camera could have flash-panned from the girl at the gate to
the housekeeper at the doorway. But it would have frittered away
the full suspense possibilities of the scene, which were completely
realized by the pullback dolly. The cut-in was more advisable too,
because a flash pan would have had to be shot a number of times
before a satisfactory in-focus and centered take would be possible.
In those shots where it is especially apropos for what is shown in
the close-up to be seen in relation to what is revealed in the pull-
back, the pullback dolly is obligatory. If, however, the relationship
is not essential— if contrast, relativity, parallelism, or interrelated
reactions are not vital considerations, and if the shock of revelation
is the only requirement— then a simple pan can be used instead of
the pullback dolly.
The pullback dolly is an excellent device for establishing and
re-establishing "place"— that is, for orienting the audience to the
exact location in which the action is occurring.
Although there may be any number of track lengths available
for a pullback dolly, only a limited amount can be used. For at a
certain point the camera, if it is pulled back far enough, will reveal
the tracks on the floor. This has been overcome, though, when
longer pullbacks were found necessary, by resorting to special
"breakaway" tracks, which could be pulled away by ropes before
appearing in camera view. It is obvious, however, that such prepara-
tion requires time and money and is inadvisable for budget theater
or television films.
Transition dolly shot. One type of transition device uses a close-up

of a subject at the tail end of a
shot, which is dissolved into a similar
subject to open the succeeding shot. For example, a final close-up
could show a hand pounding a clay figure. This would be dissolved
into a hand pounding bread dough. In order to establish the place
and the surrounding details of the scene in which the dough is
being pounded, it would be necessary for the camera to pull back
from the close-up of the hands to a medium shot showing the person
who is pounding the dough, together with certain establishing de-
tails of his surroundings. Thus the audience is made aware of
complete identification of what is occurring.
17
Re-establishing dolly shot. In the same way, if a scene ends on a

revelation close-up which is the last of a series of close-ups, and
which not to be dissolved through to the succeeding scene as a
is
transition device, it is essential to reorient the audience to the place

in which the close-up occurs, and to the general action, of which
the subject in the close-upwas only a small detail. It is therefore
obligatory for the camera to pull back from the close-up to a
medium shot to re-establish the scene with the audience.
"Obligatory" iswhat is meant, for to end a scene, it
if the shot is
is best to use a moving device, such which would carry

as a dolly,
the action forward with the succeeding scene, rather than a static,
movement-interrupting device, such as a direct cut. This type of
shot is ideal for television film use in which reorientation after a
close-up is so vitally important.
Travel vs. pan. One reason for using a traveling dolly shot instead
of a pan is that, in the latter, the subject's size grows progressively
smaller or larger, depending on whether the subject
is coming to,
f
or going away from, the camera. It may be essential, though, to
i
carry the subject large-size for some time, in order to obtain certain
physical details, such as realistic expressions or gestures. Then,
1 again, it may be necessary to record certain lines of speech from
j
the subject while he is in motion, in which case the sound level
would have to diminish in direct ratio to the subject's diminution
in size.
Therefore, a traveling dolly shot would be required so that the
image size and the voice volume would remain constant. Even then,
if the movie-house or television picture is to be cheaply produced,
it might be possible to avoid the dolly shot simply by resorting to
the use of a long focal-length lens pan, providing only a few feet of
footage of the action are required, and no sound is to be recorded.
For, with a long, focal-length lens pan, it is possible to set up the
camera some distance from the subject and still get an enlarged
image, because of lens magnification. Sound would not be possible
because the sound boom, on which the microphone is installed,
would be in camera range. This is definite: If the photographed
action requires a considerable amount of footage andif sound is
absolutely necessary, then a traveling dolly shot is in order.

Crowd scenes on a city sidewalk, in which a certain character is
Il8 A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWRITING
supposed to be centered by the camera, call for a traveling dolly
shot.
Traveling dolly shots are used when photographing action in, or
on, a moving vehicle, to catch the expression or action of someone
in the vehicle. They are especially needed in such instances as cut-in
shots, when vehicle interior shots are made, usually with a process,
or rear-projection screen, in order to establish a definite place of
action. Even these, though, can be avoided in cheap pictures by
using an extreme long shot, or even with a long, focal-length lens.
And if the scenery cannot be filmed on location, rear-screen projec-
tion can be resorted to to obtain the desired effect.
Chinese dolly. Another combination pullback and pan shot is the

Chinese dolly, so called because it is executed with the dolly tracks
laid at a slant to the subject being photographed. With this com-
bination it is camera to start with a front view of
possible for the
the subject andwith a rear view; it can, for example, look
finish
down over the shoulder to see what the subject is reading, or show
a reverse angle of what the subject is looking at.
The shot opens with a front view, usually on a close shot. Then,
as the dolly is pulled back, the camera continues to hold the subject
centered by panning slowly so that, by the time the dolly has
reached its end position, the camera has made almost a 180 degree
pan. This shot illustrates the fact that rules can be broken. The
rule forbidding a 180 degree reverse shot does not apply because
the continuousness of the shot subject matter sustains audience
orientation.
One of these Chinese dolly shots in a picture— or two, at the most
—is all that should be used, because of its unusual nature. The first
time this technique is employed the audience will be aware of it.
The best use of it is as a revelation device at, or near, the story's
climax.
A word of caution for the writer of television films: to avoid tele-
vision screen distortion when reproducing a television film, indicate
in your script that all pans, travel shots, and
tilts be performed at
a slower speed than is customary in shooting motion pictures for

theater showing.
The angles
To write a complete shooting script, the screen-play writer must not

only be able to call the shots, but he must, in addition, know all
the angles.
A motion-picture camera can show the audience not only what
to see but also how to see it. In the main, it is the angle at which
the camera photographs the shot that determines how the shot is to
be viewed.
At the same time, though, the camera angle is determined by
certain factors implicit in the screen play.These factors must be
taken into consideration by the writer. For, with them, he is able
to add to the general mood of the picture, increase or decrease the
tempo, affect the rhythm, and intensify the dramatic impact.
One important rule must be noted here in the use of camera
angles: Always change the camera angle or image size when moving
from one shot to another.
Eye-level angle. One of the angles at which most scenes are viewed
in real life from head-on eye level. To reproduce this effect,
is
the camera should be from four to six feet from the ground.
Because it is a normal viewpoint, it is comparatively lacking in dra-
matic qualities. In spite of this, it is often used as a frame of
reference angle in order to serve as a contrast to the other unusual
angles.
When building for montage, where it is necessary to have some-
thing from which to build, the eye-level angle is ideal. These shots
would, of necessity, occur in scenes that serve as transitions between
more dramatic scenes. Expository scenes can be shot at eye level. In
fact, any shot in which the general premise of mood and dramatic
quality are more or less static can be carried by the camera set at
sye level.
When the eye-level angle is used in a head-on shot, in which
speeding action advances a vehicle or person head on into the cam-
era,the effect can be electrifyingly dramatic— as when a train rushes
headlong into the camera, or when a character hurtles into the
camera as though lunging for an opponent.
The problems now are: What are the angles to change to, and
how can they be best used to suit the purposes of the screen play?
Low angle. The low angle is a perfect camera position for shots
that require extreme dramatic effects. The image caught by the
camera in this position is one with figures that loom exaggeratedly
large.
When the subject is in a medium shot and coming into a close
is
shot or close-up, the low angle tends to speed up the action. Thus,
in murder-mystery stories, or in stories calling for physical violence,
the low-angle shot can be used to good advantage. Under ordinary
conditions, the camera is taken and set up on a small
off the dolly
but sturdy tripod.

At times, though, it may be necessary to obtain action that takes
place on the floor and relate it to action occurring at a higher level.
Thus, if it were necessary to show a boy feeding a dog under the
dining room table and, at the same time, show the byplay of action
and reaction between the boy and his parents seated at the table,
the entire set would be built on a raised platform, about four feet
high. Then, with the camera set at ordinary floor level, and shoot-
ing up, the floor action would be shot while the higher-level action
continues.
Low-angle shots were used advantageously in Welles's Citizen
Kane. Deliberate planning of the sets, so that actual ceilings were
built in, enabled Welles to use this angle for purposes other than
dramatic effect. The central character was depicted as a financial
and journalistic titan, who towered above his fellow men. Welles
himself, who is short, could hardly tower unless his fellow actors
were shorter than he. It was decided, therefore, to shoot low-
all
angle to get this towering, overbearing effect into his characteriza-

tion.
Murnau was the forerunner in this use of the low-angle shot. In
his The Last Laugh, Jannings was shot from an extremely low angle
when he was a proud, important doorman. Conversely, when he
was dejected, he was photographed from a high angle, to convey
the opposite effect.
But it is an expensive job to build complete ceilings into sets.
Usually only corners are built in whenever the effect is necessary.

The use of complete ceilings cuts out the use of catwalks on which
the set lights are fixed. This calls for other means of lighting— hid-
den lighting, side lighting, and specially devised overhead lighting
—all time-consuming to set up and therefore quite expensive. But
the results, as are to be noted in Citizen Kane, are worth the
trouble and money.
Low-angle shooting can be a money-saving device for cheap-
budget movie-house pictures and television films. To obviate build-
ing sets for exterior close shots, it is the common practice to set the
camera low, shooting upward at the subject, with the sky as a back-
drop. These shots can be made in the studio against a sky "eye"
(cyclorama) , or on location, when the background does not match
the action being photographed. This device is often resorted to for
"pick-up" shots, required by the film editor to fill in certain sections
of his cut film after the entire film has been shot.
In shooting special-effects miniature shots, a low-angle close-up
can give what is actually a toy life-size proportions and feeling.
Moving objects are made even more real by increasing the speed of
the camera to thirty-two, forty-eight, or sixty-four frames per second.
High angle. The high-angle shot, conversely to the low-angle shot,

reduces the height of the subject by foreshortening, and also slows
down the action. In doing this, it subordinates the subject's im-
portance and heightens that of his surroundings.
At the same time, the high angle plays a psychological trick on
the audience. It gives them an illusion of godlike transcendence— of
enjoying the spectacle of human beings making fools of themselves.
Therefore, the action portrayed, which is to take precedence over
the characters involved, must be important enough to warrant such
treatment.
Although the high-angle shot loses in dramatic values because it
de-emphasizes the subject, should be indicated occasionally in a
it
screen play, to give the film editor material for change-of-viewpoint

cutting, and thus furnish him with the means of adding pleasing
variety and pacing to shot sequences.
Side angle. Both the high- and low-angle shots have a common
deficiency— they tend to flatten out the picture so that it loses third
dimensional roundness. This lack, however, can be supplemented
by a judicious interweaving of side-angle shots which do possess a
122 A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWR1TING
third dimensional quality. Not only is the subject well rounded, but
he remains in a constant relation to his background and surround-
ings and gains depth and perspective.
A good side angle can frame two or more subjects or actions so
that they can be visible at the same time although actually they are
some distance apart.
In addition, with careful framing on the part of the operator,
extraneous material can be excluded in a side-angle shot, and only
the pertinent, relevant material need be chosen for inclusion in the
shot.
The side-angle shot is also invaluable in building. The speed of
a subject as it hurtles toward the camera— and thus toward the audi
ence— can be carefully controlled by the angle at which the camera
lens photographs the shot. Action is practically stopped by the head
on shot. But as the angle is changed— either to the right or left, but
preferably to the right, because it follows the natural left-to-right
action of the human eye— the speed of the subject can be increased
until it reaches a 180 degree variation from center.
Boom shots. The high-angle shot can also be achieved by means

of a boom. The boom is simply a weight-balanced steel arm. One
end can be raised or lowered smoothly, almost at the touch of a
finger.
It is possible, with the camera on a boom, to get extreme long
high shots that can zoom down into low close shots and even close-
ups— shots that start high at one corner of the set and wind up lou
in the extreme opposite corner.
Thus, with a boom shot, an entire sequence can be photographed
all in one shot, using the whole gamut of shots and angles. It was
with specially designed mobile booms that Hitchcock got many of

his long sequences in The Rope.
When the boom shot is to end with an extreme close-up on a
critically focused subject— a difficult shot to obtain— directors resort
to an excellent subterfuge. They start the shot in the close-up—
which can be sharply focused in advance— and reverse the action to
finish with the full shot. This scene is then cut into the film in
reverse so that the sequence in the finished picture will open with
a full shot and end with the desired close-up.
The fluidity achieved with such a mobile camera is obvious. But
THE FILMIC COMPONENTS 12$
the boom shot is time-consuming, requires a special boom crew, a

vast amount of planning, intricate lighting arrangements, many and
long rehearsals, and a number of n.g. takes in order to obtain an
acceptable one.
Even in a picture in which the budget can afford the boom (unless
it is a musical extravaganza, in which a plethora of boom shots is
the accepted mode) it is advisable to keep these shots down to an
absolute minimum. One or two, at the most, can supply sufficient
visual high spots to serve as toppers for a group of sequences;
repetition waters down their effectiveness. In television films, the
boom is an unfortunate casualty.
The high spot in the British film The Girl Was Young came
when the camera, on a boom, searched out the dinner club after
the heroine entered to look for the missing drummer. After skim-
ming over the heads of dancers, going on to diners at their tables,
and taking in the orchestra, it finally went in for a close-up on the
missing drummer. The effect was almost breath-taking; the audi-
ence was made to feel with the heroine, to experience the same
same hopelessness and,
indecision, the finally, the same joy at finding
the missing man.
Avoid too many unusual angles. It is with unusual angles that a

cameraman can really go to town, photographically speaking. At
the same time, a succession of unusual angles can be proportion-
ately stultifying. For, as in all the arts, and in motion-picture work
especially, the techniques must never be permitted to become obvi-
ous. Unusual camera angles have a way of calling attention to
themselves almost stridently, because of their unusual, off-the-
beaten-track nature.
The camera angle must not be so unusual in itself as to become
an attention focal point. Instead, it should flow smoothly from a
previous build-up of camera angles, and just as smoothly flow into
a following sequence of camera angles.
There must always be an understandable reason for using an
unusual camera angle. The tilted-angle shot in Brief Encounter is
a case in point. Also, the camera angle must stem out of the mood
and nature of the shot and scene. A good camera angle should call
attention not to the angle itself, but to the action which it is pre-
senting.
Point-of-view angles. Camera angle is also invaluable in establish-

ing and directing the audience's point of view. Just as a high
overhead angle can endow them with a feeling of transcendence, a
low angle can give them the point of view of a child looking up at
a much taller person. This effect was successfully achieved in the
British film The Fallen Idol when the adults were photographed at
a low angle— from the boy's viewpoint— in order to stress the differ-
ence in size and, hence, the differences in thought process.
Conversely, a high angle shot of the child staring up into the
camera can give the audience a sense of the adult's point of view.
This effect was also used to advantage in the above-mentioned film.
It is with this adjustable point of view that the screen-play writer
can subtly incise character identification into the audience, and pre-
pare them, physically at least, for an emotional identification.
Murnau's Variety was a forerunner in presenting startling and
unusual angles. Previously, in circus pictures, the viewpoint of only
the audience had been given. But Murnau shot his scenes from the
viewpoint of the performer, so that the audience was enabled to
identify itself with the performer by means of extremely distorted
camera angles.
He accomplished this because he was aware of the properties of
the human eye which automatically compensate for distortion by
rectifying it to a permanent eye level. Things viewed from an un-
natural angle automatically adjust for normality. Thus, the eye can
adjust for foreshortening when one part of a person— his feet, say-
is in the foreground while another part is in the background. A
camera shot could present an unusual effect by showing enormously

large feet in the foreground with a smaller torso behind. The eye,
however, automatically adjusts so that no such distortion is present.
But distortion is eye-catching, Murnau reasoned, and as a result
he shot many of his scenes with deliberately distorted effects, not
only to achieve shock, but also to give the shots new meanings.
Change angles. Finally, the writer should realize that the camera
lens should be treated as though were the eyes of the audience, as
it
far as angles are concerned. Normal eyes scanning any scene see
that scene and its various elements from a number of ever changing,
self-adjusting points of view. They may start to view a room and
see, first, a mirror hanging over a fireplace, from a head-on, eye-level
angle. Then, in turning— panning the room, as it were— they may

see a rip in the rug from a high angle; and then, because a buzzing
sound attracts the ear, the eyes may turn up to the ceiling to watch
a fly, in a low angle; and finally, because of the odor of flowers
attracting the nose, the eyes may continue to turn, for a side-angle
look outside the window, and see a bush of blooming roses.
It is just such variety of angles that the screen-play writer must
write into his camera directions. But instead of being literal in his
presentation, he must be artistically selective, so as to present the
angles as dramatically as possible, with a judicious interlarding of
cutaways and cut-ins.
Reverse-angle shots. In re-establishing from a close shot or a close-

up it is often more feasible to do so with what is known as a "reverse-
angle shot." This requires that the camera be turned 180 degrees
and faced in an opposite direction from its original position.
Reverse-angle revelations. Reverse-angle shots can also be revela-

tion shots— that is, they can be used to reveal a startling fact sud-
denly with dramatic shock.
In the picture The Show Off, when the hero refers to his note-
book while he taunts his girl with the supposed fact that he is over-
loaded with dates, a reverse-angle close-up on the notebook reveals
an empty page.
In the documentary picture Passport to Nowhere, after showing
a camp war-ravaged DP's, a shot of two boys is introduced,
full of
showing them happily playing a game of billiards. This relief from
horror, however, is short-lived when the succeeding shot, a reverse
angle, reveals that each boy is moving about on only one leg be-
cause the other has been amputated.
Dialogue reverse angles. The most commonly used reverse angle

shot is the series of intermittent close-ups made of two people con-
ducting a dialogue. Here, a close shot or close-up (depending on
the importance of the lines of dialogue) is shot of one person over
the right shoulder of the other. This shot is then followed by a
close-up or close shot (usually one to match the previous shot) of
the other person, shooting over the left shoulder of the first person.
These pairs are then continued, being intercut with close two-shots,
—
126 A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PL AY WRITING

or medium shots of the pair in conversation, significant close-ups
of eyes, mouths, hands, etc., or cutaways to props or reaction shots
of others in the vicinity. There may also be a combination of these
various shots.
Such reverse angles, with the terseness they engender because of
the nervous cutting involved, are ideally suited for scenes which
must be presented with a staccatobeat. In Wyler's The Heiress, for
example, the long-running scene between Dr. Sloper and Morris
dragged considerably because it was played as a long-running take
in a medium shot. Alternate, reverse-angle intercutting could have
given this dramatic scene the proper tempo.
It may be enlightening to explain how these reverse angles are
shot. Although they will be indicated in the screen play in sequence,
actually, on the stage, they will be shot out of sequence. Each person
will run through all his lines while the other character feeds him
his cue lines. Then the second character will be shot in a close-up
for all his lines, while the first person feeds the cues. These are then
sent to the film editor, who cuts up the shots and reassembles them
alternately, and intercuts with medium shots and cutaways.
Regardless of how the reverse-angle close-ups are shot, the screen-
play writer should indicate how he believes they should be edited.
He may example, that certain lines from one character
desire, for
be heard as an overlap— that is, while we see the close-up of the
first character, we hear the second character's voice.
Such voice overlaps, however, should be indicated only when it

is necessary to show the reaction of the first person to what the
second person is saying. And if that reaction is highly important to
the story— to develop character, to advance the plot, to top a scene
that has been deliberately built to a climax— it is advisable to indi-
cate that a close-up be used, so as to exact its full significance.
Reverse-angle action. Except for the above ruse, though, reverse-

angle shots are frowned upon in most studios. The belief is— and
often justifiably so— that such shots, necessitating a sudden wrench
in point of view, disorient the audience from the locale of the action.
This may be true, especially when the action is static. But when
the scene is replete with action— action that is identifiable in itself
locale orientation can be retained. When there are identifiable
props in the scene, orientation can also be retained, despite a sudden
reversal of camera angle, because the easily recognizable prop would

serve as a guidepost to immediate orientation. A medium shot of a
person signing a paper could be followed by a reverse-angle close-up,
shot over the person's shoulder, of the paper being signed; the
paper, the pen, and the signing action would combine to establish
identification and orientation.
Cutaways
The close-up, as has been explained, is a shot that focuses the au-
dience's attention on a significant detail of the main action. The
cutaway, however, takes the attention from the main action and
focuses on a secondary action that can be related to the main
it
action, seemingly separate from it, or used as a commentary on it

as a sort of visual, editorial aside. But no matter what kind it may
be, the cutaway must always be related to the main action in some
way or other— in paralleling action, in repetitive character move-
ment, in similarity of mood, or in contrasting action, movement,
or mood.
Establish cutaways. It is essential, in most cases, that the subject

of the cutaway shot be established, either visually or verbally, be-
fore the actual cutaway is introduced. This will serve to orient the
audience to it so that unnecessary surprise and awkward confusion
will be avoided. This can be accomplished by indicating that a
full or medium (for television) shot be used, usually in the estab-
lishing shot for the scene, which will include the subject of the
forthcoming cutaway in the background, and not necessarily in too
great prominence.
Related cutaways. Ordinarily, the cutaway shot should be a close

shot or, if is important, a close-up. It
the subject's facial reaction
could also be of some minor action in the same scene, as for exam-
ple, the reaction ofan onlooker hidden in a closet to something he
seesgoing on in the major action outside the closet. Then, again,
the scene of the cutaway action could be different from that in the
main action. For example, a bored taxi driver could be indicated
as waiting at the curb for the people involved in the main action,
inside a house, to make up their minds about leaving with the taxi.
In the film The Mudlark the director, Jean Negulescu, photo-
graphed a reaction cutaway shot of the servants observing the antics
of John Brown, who is trying to teach Wheeler how to open his
mouth when feeding himself with a spoon. He shot the servants
merely staring down amusedly at the boy. A knowing screen-play
writer— and especially one who had observed a mother feeding her
infant— would have indicated that the servants' mouths would have
opened expectantly, unconsciously aping the boy. This would have
been a perfectly natural and humorous reaction.
Unrelated cutaways. When the cutaway is made to an action that

isnot definitely related to the main action, it is usually on the ac-
tion of the minor characters in the subplot, in a sort of "in the
meantime" Thus, while the audience's attention has been
position.
concentrated on the main action at the dock, let us say, where the
heroine is arriving from Europe, the cutaway— after she is seen
embracing her husband— could be to the office of her father-in-law,
who may be concocting one of those dastardly schemes inimical
in-laws are supposed to inflict on innocent heroines. With this fore-
shadowing and suspenseful plot line established, the audience's
attention could then be returned to the happy lovers at dockside,
who are blissfully unconscious of the in-law trouble hovering over
them.
It is obvious, then, that the cutaway could be an ideal means of
building up suspense. It has been used for this purpose since the
beginning of picture making, and is continually resorted to, even
today, especially in Westerns and murder mysteries.
Cutaway action-direction. In these pictures, a series of interlocked

cutaways is used to climax a chase. In Westerns, for instance, pre-
ceding the inevitable clash between the posse and the cattle rustlers,
a sequence of short cutaways is inserted. These show first, a shot
of the posse, on horse, thundering from left screen to right, across
the frame. Immediately following this shot is one showing the
rustlers, on horse, riding hell-bent for leather from right screen to

left. Another pair of similar cutaway shots— in different locations,
of course— follows the first These may be changed in the angle

pair.
of shooting or in the size of the image. Then, still another pair of

similar cutaway shots is used, the number of pairs depending on
the amount of footage to be allocated to the sequence. The final
scene will cap this series of contrasting screen-direction shots with

a re-establishing shot showing the baddies eventually meeting up
in mortal combat with the goodies.
The same technique of successive cutaway shots can be adapted
to the murder-mystery story in which the murderer stalks his victim.
Here both subjects may be traveling in the same direction— as is
always the case in the chase, in which the chaser catches up with
the chased or loses him— and suspense can be built up with a series
of cutaways, first of the murderer, and then of the prospective
victim.
When indicating such cutaway sequences, it can be of invaluable
aid to the director for the screen-play writer to write in all screen
directions the subjects take— from R (right) to L (left) or from
L to R.
Cutaway comment. The cutaway can be used in other ways. It is

an ideal vehicle for permitting the writer to comment editorially
on the action. In Pudovkin's picture End of St. Petersburg, imme-
diately after a shot showing soldiers fighting and dying in the mud,
came a cutaway showing financiers bidding in the stock market, in
a visual, mordant, and ironic aside.
Humorous comment can be furnished by placing a cutaway of,
say, a cat licking its fur clean, immediately following a girl primp-
ing in front of her mirror. Animals can be used in paralleling action

cutaways in many such ways, dramatically and symbolically, as well
as humorously. In the Czech picture Ecstasy, for instance, a number
of cutaways were made to the mating antics of a stallion and a
mare, not only to symbolize the passion of the hero and heroine,
but also to parallel their action in alternating scenes.
Another sexually symbolic cutaway from Ecstasy showed an ex-
treme close-up of a flower outside the lovers' cottage, as a drop of
dew splashed from the stamen onto the pistil. The picture was over-
loaded with so many similar cutaways that much of the symbolism
was lost.
Cutaway to relieve tension. The cutaway can also be used as a
means of relieving tension. In the picture M, starring Peter Lorre,
the tension created by the build-up to Lorre's murder of the little
girl was relieved by a cutaway shot of the girl's rubber ball as it
rolled from behind the hedge and stopped near by. At the same
time, the balloon that Lorre had given the girl was released by her
dead hand and floated up to be caught in the telephone wires over-
head, which action was also shown in a cutaway shot. That these
cutaways were effective is attested to by the fact that in the 1951
remake of the older version most of the effective cutaway shots
were duplicated.
In his novel Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce
used this type of relief perfectly in the scene in which the boy,
Stephen, witnesses a violent quarrel between his uncle and aunt.
As the aunt gets up to leave, she knocks over her napkin ring
which falls to the floor, rolls around, and comes to rest under the
boy's chair. By switching the reader's attention from the peak of
the quarrel to a seemingly insignificant detail, Joyce was able to
relieve what could have been almost unbearable tension.
Carol Reed is a master in the art of cutting away to details that
appear to be visual non sequiturs. In The Fallen Idol, he height-
ened the psychological drama of the boy's flight by cutting away
to a hose spraying the glistening cobblestone street. At another
time, he used a ladder leaning against a wall for a similar purpose.
This oblique use of significant detail, however, can be dangerously
confusing if it is not done at the psychologically correct time, and
if it is the least bit out of line with the locale, the action, or the
emotional mood of the scene.
Scene-capping cutaways. Cutaways within the scene can serve as

perfect scene cappers.Although not strictly a cutaway, the trucking
shot in the French picture Devil in the Flesh is a good example.
It started with the camera on the boy and girl embracing in bed.
Then the camera trucked behind the bedstead, so that intermittent

glimpses of the amorous pair were seen. Then the camera panned
over to the roaring log fire in the fireplace, to symbolize the paral-
leling action taking place near by and to cap the scene significantly.
It was not done in the picture, but a perfect way of coming back
to the same scene, after the boy and girl had spent their emotion,
would have been with a time lapse dissolved through from the
roaring fire to a shot of the same fire in glowing embers. This
would be followed by a pan across to the bedstead again, and then

a reverse trucking shot across the head of the bed, as was done
previously, to end on a shot of the pair lying in the bed, weary but
happy.
Lapse-of-time cutaways. Film editors find cutaway shots lifesavers

when they are confronted with shots that, because of inept direct-
ing,cannot be spliced together satisfactorily.
In cases where, for example, the error results in a so-called
"jump cut"— in which continuous action is broken up by a violent
jump— a cutaway shot showing an onlooker's reaction, or any other
subject, can bridge the jump in the cut. Although this is strictly a
director-cutter problem, the screen-play writer can use the cutaway
in a somewhat similar manner.
It would be far too time-consuming and boring, for example, to
show the entire action of a telephone linesman as he puts on his
paraphernalia of tool belt and pole-grappling hooks. The action is
too unimportant to be shown in its entirety, and not long enough

in time to warrant a dissolve. In such a case, the linesman could
be shown starting to don his belt. Then a cutaway to someone
watching the act, or to some other scene, could be inserted to cover
the time needed by the linesman to finish his preparations, so that
when he is next seen he is ready for work.
Such cutaways indicated in the screen play are almost always shot
by directors who are aware of the film editor's most common di-
lemma. When such cutaways are not indicated in the script, the
knowing director improvises— with props or minor characters avail-
able to him on the set— to photograph for cutaways, not only to
provide his film editor with a scene cover in an emergency, but also
to be used for build-up purposes.
Indirection
In the following section on time lapses the suggestion is made that

the audience be given an opportunity to figure out some things for
themselves. It is not necessary to put everything down in black and
white to make certain they'll "get it!" In other words, it is psycho-
logically sound to achieve audience acceptance by flattering your
audience with the idea that they can be depended upon to make apt
deductions by associating certain facts with other facts.
Reaction cutaways. Thus, when writing a murder scene, it is not

necessary to show the bullet entering the body in order to indicate
it was hit. In the first place, the currently reigning Morals Commit-
tee in Hollywood would not permit it. But at the same time, it is
possible to indicate what happens in the main action by showing,
in a reaction cutaway, what some person's reaction to that action is
—by indirection, in other words.
In the picture Payment Deferred, for example, indirection was
resorted to when Laughton's nephew was being poisoned. The
camera lingered on a shot of Laughton, standing across from his
nephew and watching him fascinatedly as he drank the poisoned
liquor. In addition, a close-up cut-in of Laughton's own liquor glass,
quivering in his shaking hands until its contents spilled over the
sides of the glass, heightened the power of the shot. At no time was
it necessary for the audience to see the nephew going through the
throes of poisoning. Instead, they saw an oblique reflection of his

suffering in the suffering of the poisoner.
Hitchcock is a master of the indirection shot, which he uses to
build suspense. Simply by photographing a cutaway shot of a door
swinging gently, he suggests that a trapped person has succeeded in
escaping through the door, without actually showing him going
through This effect was used in The Maltese Falcon, when a shot
it.
of the open door informed the audience that the trapped killer
had escaped while his captors were arguing between themselves.
In the picture Miracle on 34th Street, Edmund Gwenn (Santa
Claus) is seen showing a little girl how he can handle a wad of
bubble gum. A close-up shows him starting to blow up the bubble.
Then a cutaway to a close-up of the little girl's face shows her re-
acting to the bubble she sees being blown up. From her widening
eyes, the audience can almost see the bubble increasing in size until
finally it is heard to burst with a pop. In the next shot, Gwenn is
seen in a close-up trying to remove the bubble gum from his beard.
This bit of oblique visualizing by means of an indirection cutaway
shot was used not only as a cutaway shot but also, first, because it
was not thought advisable to waste footage by showing the entire
process of blowing up a balloon; second, because Gwenn was prob-
ably unable to blow a bubble balloon; and third, because even if
he were capable, the uncertainty of obtaining a large-sized bubble
that would burst with a pop would make trying to photograph it a
Quixotic adventure. All of these objections were overcome, and the
dramatic effect was heightened, simply by resorting to a reaction
cutaway that indicated the whole business by indirection.
Cutaway from death. But it is with murder that indirection finds

its most fruitful source of inspiration. Because, according to the
Morals Code, the murderer cannot be seen pulling the trigger or
slashing the knife in the same scene with the victim, the resources
of implication, indirection, and suggestion must be tapped by the
creative screen-play writer.
A close-upon curtain rings being torn away from a curtain rod
as the murdered victim grabs the curtain on his way down to the
floor has become a favorite since its introduction a few years ago.
In The Informer, where the escaping Sinn Feiner leaped out of
the window and was then shot by a British soldier outside, a close-up
on the Sinn Feiner's hand, with the nails clawing and scraping on
the window ledge, before the body started to fall, was sufficient to
suggest that he had been mortally wounded.
Foreshadowing cutaways. Death can also be suggested by a sort of

reverse indirection. That is, instead of implying death by using a
cutaway after the deed has been perpetrated, it can be suggested
before it takes place. In Chaplin's Monsieur Verdoux, as Chaplin
takes his last drink of rum in the death cell, he throws his head far
back and displays a long, living expanse of throat pulsing as the
rum goes down— the same throat the audience knows is going to be
slit soon by Madame Guillotine's razor-edged blade.
The same type of foreshadowing technique can be used to build

suspense and heighten dramatic intensity. Cutaway shots to a bridge
wrecked by a flood, a loosened wheel, a booby-trap bomb waiting
passively, a highway torn up by storm, a rail torn loose from its tie
—all intimations of impending disaster, natural or concocted— can
be indicated before the accident occurs. These will foreshadow the
imminent catastrophe by indirection so that, when the accident does
occur, it is quite often unnecessary even to show it taking place.
As a matter of cheap-budget movie-house pictures, and in
fact, in
television films where cost is of the essence, such inexpensive catas-

trophes, suggested by indirection, are welcome stand-bys. The catas-
trophe is usually suggested only in sound, while the camera is
focused on a subject to get his reaction to the catastrophe which

has been previously foreshadowed by indirection. Costly fires can
be suggested by this treatment, simply by flickering arc shadows
over peoples' faces.
In Chaplin's A Woman of Paris, because a real French train was
unavailable, or because made building a complete
the budget
mock-up Chaplin shot a sequence on a French depot set
infeasible,
without actually showing a train. Instead, he photographed the lights
of the train flickering across a close-up of Edna Purviance's face.
A fun can be had with indirection shots. Van Dyke once
lot of
showed a shot of a dog on a leash about to do his business. Being
unable to photograph the real thing, the director took a close-up
of the dog's leash tightening in its master's hand, as the hand pulled
back. Then the hand remained still dog had
until later, after the
obviously sprayed a tree, and the
the leash was seen to tauten again,
master's hand was drawn forward, indicating that the dog was on
his way once more.
Time lapses
What are they. One of the most effective devices available to the
screen-play writer is mechanism
the time lapse. It was with this
that early motion pictures were able to break away from the con-
fines of the "four-wall" technique adapted from the stage.
For, with the time lapse, it was possible to leave the immediate
scene of action and traverse a period of time essential to the devel-
opment of the story but not important enough to be completely
dramatized.
The early pictures paid little attention to this new device. They
had already established the direct cut as indicating a paralleling
action or actions immediately following the action of the preceding

shot; the dissolve as connecting two shots and indicating a lapse of
a certain amount of time; and the fade-out and fade-in as indicating
the lapsing of a still longer period of time. But the actual ingredi-
ents of the lapse were ignored.
How they are used. Present-day pictures, however, make full use
of the potentialities of the time lapse. Quite often, as in matched

time lapses, they have made too full use of it, and the technique
has jutted out conspicuously, to the detriment of realism. The be-
ginning screen-play writer, especially, succumbs to the innate bril-
liance of matched time lapses and overloads his script with them.
A time lapse is a filmic device which indicates pictorially a hiatus
of seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, or years.
In the early days of movie making, they were achieved, photo-
graphically, in anumber of different ways. All were optical effects,
performed manually, in the camera first, and later, chemically, in
photographic labs. Today most optical effects are created mechani-
cally in machines especially designed for the purpose.
Dissolve time lapse. The dissolve, which is the basis of all pictorial
time lapses, is a method of fading out the image at the tail end of
a shot and then, about halfway between full image and complete
fade-out, jading in the introductory frames of the succeeding shot,
in reverse density from that of the frames in the previous shot.
This results in a smooth transition of dark to medium of the last
frames of the first shot, blended with medium to dark of the first
frames of the succeeding shot.

Dissolves can vary in actual screen time. They can be slow, me-
dium, or quick, depending on the pacing required by the mood or
action, as determined by the writer and carried out by the film
editor.
Wipe time Another technical method of achieving this effect

lapse.
is The purpose of both methods, however,
with the use of the wipe.
is the same— to indicate a lapse of time. When both were first intro-
duced, motion-picture makers went overboard in their use and

loaded pictures with dissolves and wipes. But a leveling-out process
followed, and today dissolves, matched dissolves, and wipes (espe-
cially the last) have been relegated to their proper place and im-
portance.
Time lapses impede action. Time lapses tend to slow down the
forward action of a picture. Actually, action stops when a time
lapse is introduced. Because a time lapse is nothing but a symbol—
a motion-picture convention accepted by the audience only by force
of habit— it veers tangentially away from realism and, thus, away
from action continuity.
The ideal motion picture would be one that uses no time lapse
whatsoever. Hitchcock attempted just that in The Rope, where the
length of time consumed in showing the film was identical with the
length of time covered by the action of the story. But obviously it
would be inadvisable, as far as story diversification is concerned, to
write all stories within such strict time limits. Hence the need for
time-lapse devices.
Telescope story time. This fact must be stressed, though: Try to

telescope the time limits of the story. A time-sprawling story saps
dramatic intensity because time is a vital dramatic factor. It de-
mands time lapses to cover inordinately long periods of time, such
as are encountered in most stories of epic proportions.
Long time lapses destroy continuity by breaking up into two
separate stories the two sequences joined by the time lapse. When
this is repeated a number of times in the same picture, the result is a
series of separate storieswith damaged coherence and integration.
In the light of the success of such pictures as Maugham's Quartet
and Trio, in which separate and distinct stories with no connective
elements of unification were presented as one picture, such advice
may seem ill-founded. But these made no pretense of being unified
motion pictures. They were frankly presented as separate, short
motion pictures to be seen at one sitting, much like a presentation
of a group of one-act plays in the theater. It was not necessary to
tie up the last story with the opening story, as is essential in the
standard motion picture, where the opening sequences must be care-

fully integrated not only with the closing sequence, but with all the
other sequences in the finished picture.
Avoid time-lapse cliches. Because time lapses can be brilliantly

effective, and because truly original ones are difficult to come by
without resorting to intensive creative thought, the screen-play
and time-worn devices.
writer has been guilty of resorting to hoary
The oldest and perhaps the most widely used (even today) is the
clock. It is the most obvious, because it is directly related to the
passage of time. This is especially so when the time lapse to be in-
dicated is a matter of minutes or hours. The simplest use of this
device has the clock face faded out at the early time, and then faded
in to the later time, the passage of time being indicated by the
change in clock hands. Another variant still being used calls for a
specially rigged prop clock, manually operated behind a set flat,
in which the hands are seen to spin around and then stop at the
time at which the lapse ends. Usually a pan is used to get to the
clock. Then, if the clock is not in an extreme close-up, the camera
will dolly in to one, to be followed by a match dissolve through to
the clock face with the new time on it. The same technique is used
on wrist watches, desk clocks, wall clocks, and in clock reflections
in mirrors. A considerable amount of effort is spent in trying to
freshen up what is, at best, a hoary, frayed device.
When the elapsed timeis more than a matter of hours, and runs
into days and months, the calendar gimmick is resorted to. This
ancient wheeze uses an optical effect of leaves of the calendar being
torn off in slow motion and floating away until the date required
by the story is reached. This sort of calendar art has become so
trite that writers have completely run out of refurbishing tricks. To
fall back on the calendar is to confess to a paucity of inventiveness.
When the spread of time can be indicated by seasonal changes,

Nature is often called into play, with a montage of spring, summer,
fall, and winter scenes. These scenes, usually from stock, are often
of varying locales. Sometimes though, special production shots are

made of a single scene from the picture, and are re-dressed with
birds for spring, flowers for summer, leaves blowing in the wind for
fall, and boughs covered with snow for winter.
Now this sort of thing has in it the seeds of creative variation.

Nature is so varied in all its aspects, and landscapes can be affected
in so many ways by
Nature, that variations of this time lapse should
be possible with not too much thought.
The same can be said of the many other time lapse cliches: the
piled-up milk bottles or newspapers left by canny, though undiscern-
ing, vendors; the waves washing interminably against a seashore;
the same waves washing away footprints in the sands of time; the
roast turkey dissolving through to a gleaming turkey skeleton; the
"you can't do this to me!" last line dissolving to "look what they
done to me!"; the window darkening from day to night and vice
versa; the hourglass with the sands trickling down; the new pair
of shoes dissolved through to the same shoes worn out— these and a
multitude of variations on the same theme. They were once fresh
conceptions invented by adroit writers, which, through overuse, have
since bred contempt. They have all had their day in pictures.
Use cliches as springboard. In avoiding these trite but true de-

vices, however, the screen-play writer should not ignore them com-
pletely. Rather, he should use them as springboards suggesting
other, fresher versions.
In On the Town, for example, time lapses were indicated by
superimposing a running light-bulb sign across the bottom of the
frame— like the Times Building sign at Times Square in New York—
which flashed on the time of day at those intervals where it was
necessary to establish it. This superimposure was daring but it was
effective because it stemmed from the spirit of the picture's locale.
This subject will be discussed shortly.
In the British picture The Seventh Veil, the girl's visits to the
cabaret were shown to take place over an extended period of time
by the simple device of opening each scene in the sequence of
cabaret shots with a close-up of a different liquor bottle on the
table, beginning with soda pop, then going through "cyder," wine,
champagne and, finally, an impish and surprising carafe of water.
In The House on 92nd St., the passing of the girl's stay in jail—
a year—was shown by superimposing the shadow of a pendulum
swinging across a continual change of newspaper headlines, these
shots being interspersed with shots of the girl languishing in her
cell.
Integrate time lapse with cliaracter. For time lapses to be most

effective, it is absolutely essential that they grow out of the character
of the action, the locale, the characters, or all three. It is quite sim-
pie, of course, to ignore these and to throw in a time lapse without

considering them. But the result will always defeat the purpose of
time lapse as a vehicle of transition, for, instead of flowing smoothly
from one scene to another, the audience's attention will be broken
by the introduction of a foreign element.
An hourglass time lapse in a slum sequence, for instance, would
be as out of place as a grandfather clock in a preclock historical
sequence. Here, a flickering candle inserted in a beer bottle would
be more in keeping with the locale.
This does not mean that the writer should confine himself to a
literal interpretation of the injunction. The character in the slum
sequence may be in a situation in which he is being inundated with
woes that engulf him sporadically, much
would the waves of the
as
ocean. The use of ocean waves as a time lapse would be an entirely
legitimate poetic extension, provided, of course, there were some
indication in the dialogue or action of the symbolism of the waves.
The mosteffective type of integrated time lapse can come in a
situation in which the manufacture of a certain product is seen to
be started and then completed. Here the dissolve can come im-
mediately after the product— say, a model boat— has been begun.
The dissolve through would be to the model boat completed. This
would avoid the tedious details required to show the various steps
taken and, at the same time, would carry forward the action.
Use cutaways for short time lapse. In certain situations where the
time lapse is only a matter of a minute or so, and where the con-
tinuing action is not interesting enough to warrant showing it in its

entirety, a time-lapse device is inadvisable. Thus, when a longish
letter is to be written or read, or when a new costume is to be
doffed and another donned, or when a narrow river is to be swum,
a more effective filmic device to use would be the cutaway. Here a
reaction shot of an onlooker would be intercut immediately after
the uninteresting action is begun. Then, when the action has been
supposedly completed, can be brought back just as it
off screen, it
is being completed. This cutaway need not be a reaction shot of
someone on the scene. It could be a cutaway to some action— related,
of course— in some other locale.
When a time-lapse device is essential to establish the exact period
of elapsed time, as when a manufacturing action is to be shown,.
then it shows the finished product,

will be necessary, in the shot that
to bring out the exact time in the dialogue, as for example, "You've
wasted a whole week on that toy!" from the builder's wife or mother.
This problem of establishing the exact elapsed time is vital to
the audience's appreciation of what is going on. When a time lapse
occurs, they must always be given to understand exactly how long
a period of time "some time later" is.
Dialogue time lapse. The calendar gimmick does it with dates, the
clock with clock hands and numerals, and the newspaper headline
series with publishing dates or well-known events. But there are
many time-lapse devices which do not have these aids. In such cases
the exact time must be given in dialogue, either before the time
lapse begins, or after it has taken place.
For example, the dialogue can say: "I'll see her after I do the
dishes." Now, if we dissolve through from the woman at the kitchen
sink to the same woman in the bedroom talking with her sister, the
audience will know that the time elapsed was the amount necessary
for the woman to have washed her dishes.
Another example: if a character is to travel from New York to
Bombay, and if the audience is given some idea as to how that trip
is to be made by means of a montage of planes, trains, autos, etc.,
they will also be given an intimation of the amount of time that has
elapsed when they next see the traveler, in Bombay. Some time
before the time-lapse montage begins, the character should be per-
mitted to say something on the order of, "I'll be writing you my first
letter from Bombay."
Exact time-lapse realism. This business of establishing the exact

time in a time lapse can become quite important in creating a sense
of realism, or in destroying it entirely. In Panic, a French picture,
the hero was seen dangling by one hand from the roof of a high
building. Following this shot came a close-up of a neighbor tele-
phoning the fire department for help. Then came a dissolve and,
immediately on its heels, the arrival of the fire department's hook-
and-ladder brigade, clanging fire bells and all.
Because no exact time had been established, it appeared to the

audience that the arrival of the hook-and-ladder crew was most
fortuitously accelerated— and the result was a loud, collective guffaw
at a place where there should have been intense suspense and ex-
citement. To avoid this uncalled-for outburst, it would have been
easy to plant the fact, either visually or verbally, that the fire station
was In that way, the audience would have been prepared
close by.
for the hook and ladder's almost immediate entrance, and the un-
designated time lapse would have been given a specific period of
time.
Transitions
Time lapses constitute only one phase of the problem of motion-

picture transitions, a problem which, by the way, concerns itself
with the most vital of subjects— continuity.
Continuity with transitions. For one of the most important in-

gredients of continuity is Without smooth transitions,
transition.
there would be no continuity. Without adequate transitions there
would be no forward flow of movement, no shot, scene, and sequence
interlocking, no establishment of shot interrelationships, no perva-
sive sense of wholeness and completion, no balance and counter-
balance between the individual components— in other words, there
would be no motion picture.
This is so because of the peculiar nature of the motion picture,
which is a compilation of hundreds of pieces of film, each varying
from the other in many respects, spliced together so that the result,
a motion picture, will depict a story with smooth-flowing, unified,
coherent and dramatic continuity.
Shot-to-shot continuity. This continuity between individual shots

can be brought about by the judicious use of camera distance and
angle, lighting, sound, character action, mood, and dialogue.
From shot to shot, a sustained mood will serve as an efficient
example. Matched lighting can serve the same pur-
carry-over, for
pose. A barred shadow from a Venetian blind can connect a long
shot with a medium shot and a close-up, if the same barred shadow
is seen on all three. A close-up of a person as he starts to get up from
a chair can be cut in as the person reaches a halfway-up position,
142 A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWR1TING
to be followed by a medium shot of the same person completing the
action and continuing with his next piece of business. The sound of
a typewriter heard in a long shot can be carried over a succeeding
medium shot and a close-up to act as a connecting sound link. Direct
cuts from person to person can be tied together by means of their
lines of dialogue, provided the dialogue is written so that each line
follows the other in natural sequence— hooked together, in other
words— as, for instance, a series of questions and answers. And if
the camera distance and angles flow in natural order, or with pleas-
ing symmetry and rhythm— with the traditional long shot, medium
shot, and close shot sequence, or with a series of staccato close-ups,
or the like— continuity is a natural result.
Sequence transition. It is the job of transitions, however, to con-

nect each individual sequence of shots with its succeeding sequence
so as to achieve this all-important flow of continuity.
Strangely, although there is an abundance of raw material for
the screen-play writer to work with— both visual and oral— transi-
tions are either neglected completely, so that a break in the con-
tinuity ensues, or old, hackneyed cliches are resorted to, such as the
chestnuts in the time-lapse transitions on the order of falling cal-
endar leaves and the "you can't do this to me" protest.
It is with the transition that the writer can really create artistically
and justify the film makers' belief in their medium as a truly unique
art form.
We have already discussed the time-lapse transition, one of the
many visual transitions available to the screen-play writer. Suppose,
then, we examine the other visual transitions that can be put to use.
Direct-cut transitions. The simplest, of course, is the direct cut, as,
for example, when a character is seen to leave through a door from

one angle, and then, by a direct cut, is shown entering an adjoining
room on the other side of the door from another angle. That is a
perfect transition. But suppose the character is obliged to go
through a number of doors or across a number of rooms in order to
get to his destination— what then?
Direct cut for suspense. The handling of this problem would de-
pend on a number of considerations. If, for example, it were nee-
Fig. 1 CLOSE-UP. The dramatizing potentialities of the close-up can
be seen in this striking shot. The slight low-angle contributed to the
shot's sensational quality.
All photographs Courtesy U.S. Army Signal Corps.

Fig. 2 MEDIUM SHOT. A very pleasing arrangement of the three
heads in an effective medium shot.
Fig. 3 CLOSE TWO-SHOT. The same scene as in Fig. 2 but with the
interest nowfocused on the two foreground heads. Better filmic com-
position could have been obtained by cutting out the woman's shoulder.
Because this still picture is an enlargement of a single frame, the
shoulder remained.
Fig. 4 CLOSE SHOT. The same scene as in Figs. 2 and 3. Now the
interest concentrated on the central character. All of his expressions
is
are strikingly obvious. In an especially-shot close-shot, the woman's

shoulder would have been cut out, to concentrate attention on the
big head even more.
J
Fig. 5 CLOSE-UP. The same scene as in Figs. 2, 3 and 4. This close-up
concentrates on the expression in the central character's eyes. This type
of close-up is more desirable than the kind which features the eyes
alone because of the fact that three heads were seen in the medium shot
and two in the close shot. To have followed them with a close-up of the
eyes alone would have been confusing because the audience would not
be certain which character's eyes were being featured. A close-up of the
eyes alone, however, could have followed a close-shot of the single head
of Fig. 4.
Fig. 6 MEDIUM SHOT. The war poster should have given an indi-
cation as to the photographic treatment this shot deserved. Shot from a
low angle — instead of the eye-level angle used in the illustration —with
the figure heads in a big, dramatic close shot, the shot could have been
much more effective than the ordinary, routine shot shown here.
Fig. 7 MEDIUM CLOSE SHOT. What could have been an excellent
medium was spoiled by the presence of the cluttered table in
close shot
the foreground. Actually, the important elements in the shot were the
torn up bits of snapshot on the table and in the girl's hands. Were they
to have been at the bottom of the frame, alone, the meaning of the
shot would have been much clearer.
Fig. 8 MEDIUM LONG SHOT. A fairly good example of the use of
a medium long shot. The jerry-built set, however, showing an obviously
studio-fabricated staircase and sidewalk spoil the realism. Semi-docu-
mentaries, photographed on location, obviate this fault. See Fig. 9.
Fig. 9 FULL SHOT. This scene, showing a camera crew photograph-
ing a picture on location, shows how only the real thing can make for
absolute realism. It was shot without sound, which was dubbed in later.
Suitable live-sound, dialogue close-ups were also shot later, in the
studio, against studio-built sets duplicating smaller segments of the
real location set.
Fig. 10 MIRROR SHOT. This interesting mirror shot was used in a
subjective camera picture in order to show the main character —who
—
was the camera in most cases to establish his physical lineaments so
that the audience could have some idea as to who they were "rooting
for."
Fig. 11 LOW-ANGLE SHOT. The imposing stature of the fore-
ground cadets is obviously enhanced by the low angle used to photo-
graph this shot. The heavy black oblique sections at the top and bottom
are part of the basement superstructure used as an excellent foreground
framing device.
Fig. 12 HIGH-ANGLE LONG SHOT. This production still demon-
strates what can be done with a high-angle shot. It also shows a sound,
camera crew in operation. In the picture being photographed, the
—
camera was supposed to represent the main character seated at the
—
lower left corner in the subjective camera technique.
essary for plot purposes to establish suspense— if the character were

a murderer stalking an unwitting victim— then an ideal means of
creating suspense would be to show the murderer going through
a number of doors and across a number of rooms and even up or
down some creaking stairs— with an occasional cutaway shot to the
victim intercut— until the murderer finally arrives at his place of
nefarious business.
Wipe transitions. On the other hand, if suspense is unwanted, and
if the journey through the various rooms has no particular point

in the story, it would be enough merely to show the character
entering the first door, and then wipe him into his final destination
in the midst of performing the action he supposed to be doing.
is
If he is picked up entering the room, from the door, immediately

after the wipe, it may leave the erroneous impression with the
audience that he has gone through only one door in getting to his
objective.
Detailed transitions. Remember,

it is not always necessary to show
all going from one place to another in

the details of a character's
successive scenes. As a matter of fact, only in special cases, when the
details of the change of place are essential to the story— to establish
a story point, or to sustain a certain mood— is it necessary to go
through a step-by-step procedure.
It is not necessary, for example, to show a character leaving a
room, going down a long flight of stairs, opening the street door,
closing the street door, walking down the stairs to the street, ambling
down the street to a subway station, meandering down the stairs of
the subway station, riding on a subway train, getting off the train,
climbing upstairs to the street, sauntering down the street to his
destination, ascending the street stairs to the door, ringing the door-
bell, entering, climbing up another flight of stairs, going down the
hallway, knocking at a door, opening it, entering through it, and
finally advancing to his girl friend to say, "How about a movie

tonight, honey?"
Yes, this is an exaggeration. But something like it can be seen
too often in a great many motion pictures. Even Hitchcock, who
is a master of transition, falters occasionally in this respect, as in
the picture Notorious, in which he photographed Bergman and
Grant taking an interminable auto drive in Brazil to do their spy-
ing. Welles's Lady From Shanghai was similarly overloaded with
overlong scenic transitions that did nothing but pad low spots in
the shooting script.
Detailed transitions for pay-off. Such a detailed excursion, how-

ever, has its place occasionally, especially when it pays off in some
way or other, as in the Charles Laughton sequence of // / Had a
Million. There, Laughton, a harassed office clerk who had just re-
ceived word of his million-dollar inheritance, is seen to get up from
his desk, leave his cubbyhole go through a hall, climb a long
office,
flight of stairs, cross a hallway, enter a reception room, cross it, enter
the president's office, walk up to the president's desk, rasp out a
loud Bronx cheer directly at his disconcerted boss, turn, exit, and
retrace his victorious journey down the stairs and back to his office.
Cook's tour unnecessary. Ordinarily, though, it is not necessary to

go to such extremes in order to create an effective transition. The
slightest of visual hooks is usually sufficient to carry the audience
attention and orientation from one scene to another. No matter
what the IQ of the average audience is supposed to be, they can be
depended upon to bridge a minor time gap without resorting to a
major Cook's tour.
Dialogue transitions. If there is nothing in a scene that can be

used as a transitional hook, the writer can always fall back on
dialogue, as was explained in the section on time lapses. The ways
of effecting this type of transition are many, and range from the
simplest, "Well, I'll be getting along to the office, now" followed
by a dissolve and a shot of the character seated in his office, to "I
wonder what Stinky's up to?" to be followed by a direct cut to
Stinky, at home, spreading glue on his grandfather's toupee.
Match-dissolve transition. Then there is the overworked but highly

effective "match dissolve." With this transition device, the action
in the closing frames of a shot, usually a close-up, matches the action
These
of the opening frames of the next shot, also usually a close-up.
matching actions are connected by means of an optical dissolve so
that, as the closing frames of the first shot fade out, the opening
frames of the succeeding shot fade in, thus linking up the two in
a smooth flow of visual action. Wheels of all sorts are thus inter-
related, so that an entire journey across the world can be depicted
simply by dissolving auto wheels, train wheels, plane propellers,
steamship propellers, more train wheels, rickshaw wheels, and so
forth until the character's final destination is reached.
The match dissolve can also be used to interrelate characters
separated by space. In Carol Reed's Bank Holiday, as Margaret
Lockwood stared down ocean surf on the beach where she
at the
stood, the camera tilted down to her feet to show the sea washing
away the pebbles. A dissolve through to water from the River
Thames, and a tilt-up from it, revealed John Loder, of whose tragic
life Margaret Lockwood had been thinking, standing on the Em-
bankment, also deep in thought.
Motivate match dissolve. One reason why the match dissolve tran-
sition has been so overworked is that, in addition to being visually
satisfying and startling, it can be universally applied. Hands per-
forming a certain task can be dissolved into hands performing
another task; feet running can be dissolved into other feet walking
or running; toast popping up in a toaster can be dissolved through
to a high jumper clearing the bar; ocean waves pounding a rocky
shore can be dissolved through to a person knocking desperately at
a door. The possibilities are limitless. But special attention should
be given by the screen-play writer to avoid the cliche— such as the
wheel match dissolve— and to try for a less obvious, more poetic, more
symbolic transition, something on the order of the last named in
the above examples— of the ocean waves pounding and followed by
the knocking on a door. But he should make certain that the sub-
stance of the device stems from the action or the locale. If the ocean-
wave device is used, for instance, be sure the action revolves around
a locale that is near the ocean, so that the physical proximity of the
ocean can be planted beforehand.
Another word of caution regarding the match dissolve— use it
sparingly. To overuse it in one picture is to dissipate its efficacy. A
surfeit of match dissolves will negate their powers of transition,
because they will stand out as technical devices instead of remaining
as anonymous continuity sustainers.
Instead of resorting to a match dissolve, it is often better to use a
dissolvefrom a close shot to a close-up. For example, if it is necessary

to dissolvethrough from a chocolate bar in the hands of a person
in one locale to a chocolate bar in the hands of the same person,
or another person, in a different locale, the first shot can be a close
shot of the person eating the chocolate bar, dissolved into a close-
up of the chocolate bar in the succeeding shot with the camera pull-
ing back to a close shot or a medium shot to reveal the new locale.
In this way you would be taking advantage of the natural flow
from the close shot to the close-up, thus creating an undercurrent
of movement in the dissolve.
The term "match dissolve" is given to another type of dissolve
transition. This kind adheres strictly to the literal meaning of the
phrase in that it through from one subject to
consists of dissolving
its exact counterpart in another shot. This requires that both sub-
jects be exactly the same in image size and angle and be in exactly
the same position in the frame. For the purpose is to establish some
sort of paralleling comparison between the two subjects as, for
example, dissolving through from a close-up of a rich child to a
poor slum kid, or from a tramp to the same man dressed in soup-
and-fish. The dissolve serves as a connecting and transitional
element.
Sign-insert transitions.Another visual transition device is almost

as old asmotion pictures— the sign insert. This is especially useful
when the locale of the second half of the dissolve is an institution.
Hospitals, laboratories, factories, office buildings, hotels, inns, town-
limit boundaries, store fronts, numbered houses— these and hundreds
of other similar locales can all furnish the material for a sign tran-
sition. They are especially useful in a time-lapse sequence when a
character issupposed to be shown making the rounds of advertising
offices, for example, in search of a job. Here the entire search can
be covered simply by using a dissolve sequence of firm names on

office doors, lobby directories, name plates, and so on. The creative
screen-play writer could suggest, for example, showing the firm

names on stationery or in other likely places.
Stock-shot transition. Still another means of obtaining a visual

transition, one that is also almost as old as motion-picture making,
is the "stock shot" scenic view used as a symbol. Paris' Eiffel Tower,
London's Tower Bridge and Trafalgar Square, New York's Times

Square— these and thousands of other similar scenes have been used
so often in pictures that they establish audience identification the
moment they are flashed on the screen.
Title-card transitions. To make

doubly certain that this identifica-
tion identifies, many makers insist on superimposing a title
film
card over the scenic shot, with the word "London" or "Paris" on it.
Just why this should be necessary, especially in such easily identi-
fiable shots, is incomprehensible. At best, title cards are crutches
that should have gone out when sound came in. The more creative
old-time film producers realized their shortcomings and tried to
avoid them, as did Chaplin in his Woman of Paris. In present-day
picture making, title cards serve only to betray the writer's lack of
ingenuity.
Gratuitous title cards. Title cards are especially gratuitous when

used to furnish introductory comments just before the picture starts,
especially the rolling title card superimposed over a scenic shot

from the picture.
In the original script of Gaslight, for example, Scene 3 read:
"We SUPERIMPOSE the following words:
PIMLICO SQUARE, LONDON,
1865
The words FADE OUT and we:

CUT TO:"
In the finished picture, however, Scene 2 ended with a dissolve
through to a close-up of a sampler being embroidered with the
words "Alice Barlow, 1865." Then came a cut to Scene 4 of the
original script, of a close-up on the old lady at work on the sampler.
Evidently someone realized the static quality of the suggested title
card and insisted on the more graphic, more cinematic version

instead.
With apt writing, with creative know-how, there is absolutely no
reason why the ideas and information usually given in the foreword
cannot be made implicit in the picture itself. Such forewords are
usually added after the picture has been completed, when doubts
begin to beset the producer as to whether certain important points
have been overlooked. Had these points been covered originally in

the shooting script, the title cards would have been unnecessary.
Audiences attend theaters to see pictures, not to read words. One
picture shot can depict more than a dozen rolling titles. It is the
screen writer's task to make certain that missing information will
not have to be covered, as an afterthought, by a foreword.
Fade-out fade-in transition. A very effective transitional device,

that uses the momentary black screen of the fade-out as it reaches
its darkest point, can be accomplished by means of camera dollies.
example, to follow a dock scene with a scene
If it is necessary, for
in a shipping office, the transition can be effected by having the
camera dolly in to a crate or a barrel, for example, so that the
entire frame will be blacked out. The concluding frames of this
black image are then dissolved through to the blackness of the
opening frames of the succeeding office scene, where the camera
may open on, perhaps, an extreme close-up of a character's back, so
that the frame is again blacked out. Then either the camera can
pull back or the character can move forward, to start the action and
reveal the new scene and its occupants.
A
somewhat similar transition device was used in The 39 Steps
during the chase scene, in which Robert Donat was seen to run in a
head-on shot into the camera and black it out completely. This was
dissolved through to another blackened screen, which turned out
to be Donat's back as he ran away from the camera in a tail-end
shot, thusexposing the new locale.
This type of transition obviated the use of a number of repeti-
tious "run throughs," which are transition pan or trucking shots
of a character, or characters, in a chase sequence, as they crash
through dense forest underbrush, stumble through murky slum
streets,or run through interminable corridor mazes. Such run-
through transitions can be invaluable to connect various chase
sequences, but they can become boringly repetitive, hence the need
for creative variation.
Run-through transitions. In the same way, to connect a scene in

which someone is seen entering a car, with a succeeding scene in
which he is seen arriving at his destination, it is quite often nec-
essary to indicate auto run throughs, in which the car is seen tooling
up a road from a number of angles and camera distances, especially

when the destination is some distance from the place of leave-taking.
Also, if it is essential that suspense be built, such auto run throughs
are extremely effective. The same applies to any means of convey-
ance, especially trains. In scenes where much of the action takes
place in the interior of the train, exterior shots of the train hurtling
through the night (it's always night in these sequences) are essential
to re-establish the fact that the action is taking place on a moving
train. They are also invaluable for purposes of transition. It would
be impossible to leave the impression with the audience that a
certain amount of distance had been covered by the train if all the
shots were of train interiors.
Perhaps this might be a good place to explain why most interior
train sequences are shot with NIGHT indicated, especially in cheap-
budgeted movie-house pictures and television films. DAY shots re-
quire that rear-screen projection be used to suggest that there is real
scenic landscape whizzing by the train windows. This calls for an
involved setup, in which telephone poles and tree shadows must be
shown flickering across the faces of the characters, and where grips
must shake the mock-up train set to simulate train movement. Most
of this can be eliminated, however— especially the rear-screen proc-
ess shots and the telephone pole and tree flickerings— simply by
indicating that the time be night.
Sound-effect transitions. To this point, we have considered only

visual transition techniques. There are others which can be used
separately, or in combination with the visual. The sound transition
devices are, perhaps, the most important of these. One method was
suggested in the section devoted to "within the shot" transition
techniques. There are many, many others the screen-play writer
can use.
The most obvious and therefore most often used is the continua-
tion of the sound of the vehicle being photographed in a series of
run throughs, intercut with interior shots, as in the afore-mentioned
train sequences. Here the clackety-clack of the wheels and the shriek
of the siren can be carried through under both the exterior and
interior shots, with the sounds being diminished in volume for
the interiors, to indicate they are being muffled by intervening
walls.
Dissimilar scene transitions. The problem in connecting totally
dissimilar scenes, however, is How, for example, with
not so simple.
sound, could a quiet library scene be connected with an immediately
following county fair scene? This problem was ideally solved in the
British picture Storm in a Teacup. The two leads were first seen in
the hushed confines of some library stacks, whispering their dia-
logue. But they were overheard by the typically sensitive though
untypically burly librarian, who, upon being disturbed by their
talk, boomed out, "Silence in this room," attenuating the last word
in a bass but petulant whine. The attenuated "00" sound of the
librarian's bass voice was then carried over, and "segued" (blended)
into the loud, bovine "moooo" of a cow in the succeeding scene,
which showed the animal penned up in a county fair cattle en-
closure.The visual transition was accomplished by dissolving
through from a close-up of the bovine librarian to a close-up of
the petulant cow.
The screen writer may often find it necessary to cut from a day
scene to a night scene. Because the human
eye does not immediately
adapt to such a sudden change, it is essential to dissolve through
slowly, to allow the eye to compensate gradually. The change from
night to day, however, does not require a slow dissolve, because the
eye can take the quick night-to-day change quite readily.
Night-to-day and day-to-night dissolves should be avoided in
television pictures. Technicians monitoring the broadcast film at the
television studio will have a difficult time "riding gain" on these
quick changes— that is, adjusting their controls to accommodate the
varying light densities.
Parallel-sound transitions. One of the most effective and widely

known sound was heard in Hitchcock's The 39 Steps, in
transitions
which the scream of the charlady, when she discovered the dead
body, was cross-faded into the shriek of a near-by train siren. Here,
the fact was established that the room in which the woman lived
adjoined a railroad switchyard. This gave the transition added
effectiveness because it became endowed with credibility. Other pic-
tures have adapted this technique so that human shrieks have been
segued into such other similar sounds as sea gulls croaking {The Girl
Was Young) wild birds fluting, babies crying, factory sirens screech-
,
ing, musical instruments caterwauling and, in fact, into almost any

mechanical device or living thing that emits a high, piping shriek

or sound.
Exterior scenes can be connected with adjacent interior scenes by
the use of street noises, heard in volume over the exterior scene
and then, in the succeeding interior scene, heard with diminished
volume, the exact volume depending on whether the windows are
open or closed.
Sound and visual transitions. Sound can

also be used in connec-
tion with visual transitions. A
dock scene, for example, could be
enhanced with the sounds of distant ship sirens and buoys laid into
the background of the introductory scene, and then carried behind
succeeding shots, to connect them up. Ruttman's first use of the
varied Hamburg dockside sounds, at the opening of his experi-
mental The Melody of the World, made for immediate audience
identification. In the same director's The Sounding Wave, he intro-
duced the blare of trumpets and the boom of drums at various
intervals in the picture, and even as a background sound, in order
to give the picture the flow of continuity.
Ford, in his The Informer, used the sound of the tap-tap-tap of
the blind beggar's cane as a transitional device, even when the beg-
gar was not seen. James Joyce's blind beggar's cane tap-tapping
through his book Ulysses may have been Ford's inspiration.
Letter transitions. Still another sight-sound transition can be ef-
fected when a letter is being read by a character. After holding for

a while on him as he starts to read his letter, the voice of the person
who wrote the letter is superimposed, reading the letter he has
written. This is followed by a dissolve to that person, usually in
a close-up, as he gives voice to the written words.
A variation starts with the person writing the letter, cuts to an
extreme close-up of the letter, superimposes the voice of the person
receiving the letter, and then dissolves through to the person who
has received it, reading it.
Simple deviceless transitions. Finally, scene transitions can be

effected without the use of any definite device, with a simple dissolve
that uses neither the matched visual elements nor the matched
sound elements.
Transition from scene to scene can be accomplished by the sheer
impetus of action, from one scene to another, or even from the
inexorable forward flow of continuity of previous scenes, provided,
of course, that the change from scene to scene is not too sharp. Thus,
it would be impossible to bridge a summer scene with a winter
scene merely by using a simple dissolve. Nor would it be feasible to

connect the bucolic calm of a countryside scene with the frenetic
activity of a factory scene, without resorting to some sort of tran-
sitional contrivance.
But in the main, there are many scenes that can rely solely on a
simple dissolve for transition. In fact, it is suggested that the screen-
play writer strive to do this.For in overloading a script with tran-
sitional devices, the desired effects will be lost completely, and the
devices will begin to creak mechanically by the time the picture is
half done. But if the devices are interlarded judiciously in the
script, they will gain from the absence of unnecessary, cluttering,
and transition-sapping devices. In addition, the simple dissolve tran-
sitions will gain added transition value because of the impetus de-
rived from the devices.
In other words, the transition device can be a most effective tool
in the hands of an expert screen-play writer. Misused and overused
by an inept muddler, it can defeat the purpose for which it is so
ideally suited. Used sparingly but effectively, transitions can make
motion pictures move with a flow of uninterrupted continuity.
Montage
In the United States, the word "montage" has an entirely different

meaning than in Europe (seepage 186) Here it is used to designate
.
a single sequence of quick flash shots used to condense time, or to

contrast space.
Montages of this sort are photographed on the production stage,
on location, on the special-effects stage, or on all three. The actual
splicing with dissolves and superimposures, though, is done in the
optical effects department.
There are three general types of montage: 1. the direct-cut
montage 2. the dissolve or wipe montage and 3. the superimposed

montage.
Direct-cut montage. The direct-cut montage is simply a series of

quick shots spliced together which, because of their relation in the
number of frames used for each, convey a single impression to the
audience. It is used when neither a lapse of time nor a geographical
and spatial movement is to be indicated.
Thus, in order to impress the audience with the simultaneous
group reaction of a number of people to a certain dramatic scene,
a montage of a series of staccato, individual close-ups of their reac-
tions can be spliced together to give a sort of sum total, mass
reaction.
Where it is necessary to give the impression of fast action taking
place in one geographical location and over a short period of time,
the direct-cut montage is also suggested. In Kramer's The Champion,
a series of quick direct cuts, showing gloved fists flying, heads reeling
from blows, powerful lunges, and the like, were strung together to
give the impression of what took place in an entire prize fight.
Dissolve montage. The wipe montage is used, in the

dissolve or
main, to connect a an actual change
series of action shots to indicate
from place to place and over an extended period of time.
An interrelationship is achieved because, as the frames of the
preceding shot fade out, the opening frames of the succeeding shot
are blended in.
Using possible, for example, to show how a cer-
this device, it is
tain character traveledfrom Chicago to New York by bus, from

New York to London by boat, from London to Paris by plane, and
from Le Bourget airport, in Paris, by taxi, and then by foot to a
bistro in a Montmartre cul-de-sac.
Montages save money. In modestly budgeted pictures, it is possible

to show the characters as actually being in each means of convey-
ance. In writing such montages for cheap-budget movie-house and
television films, however, it is possible to resort to the use of stock
shots of vehicular exteriors without showing the character in the
conveyances. One or two of the shots may be photographed with
the character in a cheaply erected mock-up of a small corner of the
plane or train coach, interiors which are often stored on the scene
dock.
Historical montage. Montages are frequently used in historical

pictures to indicate the passing of a number of historical events,
and at times to summarize an entire epoch.
Wipe montage. The wipe montage resorts to wipes instead of

dissolves, and usually connects a series of quick shots to indicate the
movement of people or vehicles into various localities. Because
the nature of the wipe is such that it carries action with it across the
frame, it is especially suited to conveying movement from place to
place.
Superimposed montage. The superimposed montage is used mostly

to present a pictorialized stream of consciousness. An extreme
close-up of the subject is photographed first. Then, various quick
shots illustrating the thoughts in the subject's mind are photo-
graphed separately and spliced together, using either direct cuts or
dissolves for connective purposes. These two strips are then printed
simultaneously and the result is a double image.
This type of montage is also used to illustrate a geographical
change, usually one performed on foot. The character making the
journey is photographed first as he walks, runs, or stumbles on a
treadmill in front of a black velvet curtain. Here the shot does not
necessarily have to be a close-up, but can vary from a close-up to
a medium shot. Then the various locale shots are photographed or
drawn from stock, spliced, connected with dissolves, and superim-
posed on the shots of the character in motion.
Time-lapse montage. Montages are the stock in trade as time-

lapse devices. They have been used in many traditional ways. One
method uses a series of varyingnewspaper headlines dissolving
through each other to cover the time lapse. Another uses calendar
leaves falling, or being blown away, in consecutive order. Still an-
other splices together seasonal shots of spring, summer, winter, and
fall, each season being identified by the condition of the landscape.
Procedure montage. Montages can be made of mechanical pro-

cedures. If a character is manufacturing a certain item, the passage
of time required can be indicated by photographing the item in

various stages of completion, splicing the strips and connecting them
with dissolves.
Date montage. Another type of time-lapse montage uses a sequence

of dates that zoom in from a dot to full screen, or in reverse, all
performed in the optical effects department.
Symbolic montage. The most creative type of montage is the sub-

jective symbol, used to illustrate a psychological state ofmind. The
montage used to symbolize Robert Montgomery's becoming uncon-
scious after being hit on the head, in Lady in the Lake, was one in
which he was seen to be falling through vast space. In The Snakepit,
the symbolizing of the mental institution as a snakepit was presented
with an actual snakepit production scene, with the camera pulling
away from the inmates so that, as they waved their hands and arms,
they appeared to be a nest of snakes in a deep hole. The montage
sequences of ocean waves were apt symbols of the constant wash
of the mental aberrations that caused the crack-ups.
Do not overuse montages. Montages are convenient devices. They

can serve certain useful purposes. As pure cinema, they have a
definite place in motion pictures. But they must not be overused.
When too many are found to be necessary, it is because the story
line is episodic. Too many gaps in time must be accounted for, and
the result is not flowing, continuous action but a series of static
visual symbols. The picture Mission to Moscow used more than
three thousand feet of montage footage because the story line was
episodic, because there were too many geographical jumps, and also
because location shooting in Moscow was impossible, which made
stock montages necessary.
Avoid the hackneyed time-lapse montages, such as those involving
pulling calendar leaves and changes of season. If there is a place
in screen-play writing for creative imagination, it is in the devising
of appropriate effective time-lapse montages. Reject the trite for-
mula that comes first to mind, and try to work out fresh versions.
For there is nothing like a newly minted, originally conceived

montage to enliven what could be a creaking, dull, technical device.
Opticals
Although the processing of optical effects is a purely mechanical

operation, performed automatically by machines especially devised
for the purpose, by technicians trained for the job, the screen-play
writer should have some knowledge, not only of their use in a script,
but also of the manner of their manufacture.
Technically speaking, an optical is a device for connecting shots,
scenes, or sequences so as to leave a certain impression with the
audience, the exact impression depending on the type of optical
used.
Dissolves. The first opticals encountered in a film are normally

the lap dissolves which separate the various title cards on which
the film credits flashed onto the screen. This series of dissolves
always ends with the name of the director on a separate title card,
a courtesy which is extended because of a clause in the Screen
Directors' Guild contract with the studios. A lap dissolve is a slow
fusing of one shot with another, effected by gradually darkening
the last frames of the first shot and blending them in with the
gradually lightened opening frames of the succeeding shot. The lap
dissolve was so named because one shot was said to have been over-
lapped onto another. The trend is to elide the word "lap" and to
refer to it simply as a dissolve.
Time-lapse dissolve. The dissolve effect is also used to connect two

scenes that are separated by a lapse of time. Here, the purpose is
to indicate to the audience that some time has gone by between

scenes, as distinct from a direct cut, which indicates that the suc-
ceeding action seen is concurrent. When the time hiatus is com-
paratively short— a matter of minutes or hours— the simple dissolve
can be used. But when days, weeks, months, and years are involved,
it would be more advantageous, in orienting the audience to the

exact length of the time lapse, to resort to a montage sequence con-
nected with a series of dissolves.
From six to ten feet of extra film must be shot to furnish the
optical department with sufficient footage with which to effect a dis-
solve. The length of the dissolve depends entirely on the action in-
volved. If a long period of time is to be indicated, a slow dissolve
would be suggested by the writer; a shorter space of time would be
indicated by a quick dissolve.
Do not dissolve out on one scene and dissolve in to the same scene
at the same angle later. The practice is frowned upon. Try to dis-
solve in on an entirely different scene or angle. If you cannot,
dissolve out with a time-lapse dissolve on the order of a close-up
of the moving hands of a clock, or night-and-day windows and the
like, and you will accomplish your purpose.
Out-of-focus dissolve. There is still another type of dissolve which

isused mainly for match dissolves. Instead of diminishing the light
content of the last frames of film, they are thrown out of focus first
—with a blurred effect— and are then dissolved into the opening
frames of the succeeding scene which have been similarly blurred.
This type of blur, by the way, can be used quite effectively in
other situations and not necessarily for dissolve purposes. It can
be used subjectively— for example, to indicate a blacking out by a
wounded or dying character. What he sees—a person hovering over
his bed, or a scene (shot usually from his viewpoint, at a low angle)
—is blurred out on the screen, thus creating the illusion of what is
going on in the character's mind. In Lady in the Lake this device
was used whenever the detective was conked on the bean, to indi-
cate his journey to nowhere.
Very slow dissolves should not be used in television films. When
viewed on a home television screen, such slow dissolves become mag-
nified and tend to slow up the forward flow. They are also mislead-
ing in that they may leave the viewer with the mistaken notion that
his television set has blanked out.
Wipes. Shorter time intervals can be taken care of with what is
known as a "wipe." With this effect, a transition is made by means

of having the last frames of the scene pushed off the screen as they
are being simultaneously replaced by the first frames of the suc-
ceeding scene.
The trend is to avoid the wipe— especially the more complex
ones, which will be dealt with later— because it calls attention to
itself as a technical device, and thus detracts from the main action.
It would and
be acceptable practice to use a dissolve for time lapses
to resort to the wipe only for purposes of getting a character from
one place to another. In this way, if the direction of the wipe—
from right to left or from left to right— coincides with the direc-
tion of the subject's movement, the wipe will lose most of its ob-
viousness because have been integrated into the action of
it will
the picture. Thus, were necessary to show a person entering a
if it
house, without being forced by the exigencies of the plot to show

him traversing the number of rooms he will have to cross in reach-
ing his final destination, the use of a wipe to get him, while still in
motion, from the door to his destination, would be entirely justified.
Push-off wipes. Another type of wipe used more in commercial

and documentary films than in feature pictures is the "push-off"
wipe. In this device, which is actually a combination of a wipe on
and a wipe off, the first few frames of the scene actually push off
the last few frames of the first scene, with an actual line of de-
marcation being shown, as though a windshield wiper were being
drawn perpendicularly across the screen. The trickiness obvious in
this effect should militate against its being used in a serious feature
picture, and accounts for its having been dropped almost uni-
versally after having had a long run in pictures because of its atten-
tion-calling novelty.
Special-effect wipes. There are hundreds of variations of this type

of wipe available to the picture maker who likes to play with toys.
Special-effects technicians can furnish wipes that simulate rain, so
that the last frames of the preceding scene are pushed down and
offby what appears to be a jagged line of raindrops. In the same
way they can supply flame wipes, lightning wipes, smoke wipes,
and whirling wipes.
Although, for most purposes, the wipe is virtually proscribed for
the feature-film screen play, it has its place in other types of screen
play— in educational, business, and training films.
Fade-in, fade-out. There are two other optical effects used in pic-
tures—the fade-in and the fade-out. Once again the names are amply
descriptive of the uses to which they are put. In the fade-in, the first
few frames of a shot are printed very darkly and become progres-
sively lighter until the standard density is obtained. In the fade-
out, the reverse effect is achieved by darkening the last few frames
of a shot progressively until a black density results.
The fade-in is used in the opening shot of almost every screen
play. It says, in effect, "All right— let's start!" It leaves the impres-
sion with the audience that they are to be slowly acquainted with
an action that does not necessarily begin with the beginning of the
film, but has been going on for some time.
The fade-out, on the other hand, is used to suggest to the audi-
ence that the sequence of action they have just seen has been
brought to a halt, and that a considerable amount of time— plot
time, not running time— will elapse before the next action starts.
The next action, however, must always start with a fade-in, in
which the blackness of the opening few frames of the first shot in
the second sequence are dissolved in with the closing few frames
of the last shot of the first sequence. The succeeding frames are
then lightened in density until the desired normal lighting is ob-
tained. The word "dissolve," however, need not be indicated. It is
enough merely to write in FADE OUT, and then, under it, three
or four spaces down, FADE IN.
This fade combination should be used only infrequently in a
screen play. For a fade-out definitely stops action. And action picks
up again only when the fade-in is fully realized. Overused, it will
have a choppy effect and will tend to give the finished picture the
unintegrated quality of most pictures that have been adapted from
long, time-leaping novels.
Actually, the screen play for movie-house pictures should be de-
signed so that it can fall into three or four definite act separations.
And these act separations can be indicated in the script with a fade-
out, fade-in combination.
Finally, the screen play and the picture should end with a fade-out
l6o A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWRITING
in which the action is gradually faded out, to leave the impression
with the audience that here is not an abrupt ending to the action
they have seen, but rather only an interlude in a series of larger
actions which took place before the picture started and which will
continue to take place after the picture is over.
The fade-out or fade-in is to be discouraged for television films.
In the first place, the television screen cannot picture the complete
blackness required by them. Secondly, such blackness on film tends
to cause a disturbing edge-flare on the television screen. Finally,
long, dark fades on a television screen slow up the action which,
in television productions, is highly undesirable because of the need
for overriding possible audience boredom with constant movement.
Audiences have become habituated to these opticals as screen con-
ventions. And it is have made motion
just these conventions that
form they have been and can continue to
pictures the distinct art
be. Only by using them sensibly, by making certain that technical
excellence does not detract from creative art, can the screen-play
writer fulfill his obligations to his craft.
At the same time, the writer should realize that these are not
inflexible conventions. If they can be supplanted with more in-
ventive substitutes, by all means suggest them.
Special effects
The close-up photograph necessary to the shooting of sign inserts,

extreme close-ups of eyes, lips, and other particularizing shots, re-
quires the work of and uses specially
specially trained technicians,
designed cameras and camera equipment. would therefore be too
It
time-consuming to try to shoot this type of close-up on regular sound

stages during actual production, where a great many people would
be tied up while the special effect was being photographed.
Trick In addition to inserts, the special-effects technicians

effects.
prepare and shoot certain trick sequences. Model sets, for example,
are done in special effects. Shipwrecks, train wrecks, volcanic erup-
tions, the Dead Sea waters, catastrophes of all sorts,
parting of the
would be too and too difficult to reproduce in life size but
costly
can be photographed as special effects, often with amazing results.
THE FILMIC COMPONENTS l6l
Special effects are almost invaluable in shooting fantasy films, in

which people seem to disappear, or walk through solid walls, and
so on.
But special effects is a costly procedure and the screen writer
should confer with his producer before indicating them in his script.
They should seldom be used in cheap-budget movie-house pictures
or in television films where, in addition to an absence of inclement
weather, there are seldom any violent catastrophes— unless they
can be obtained from stock footage.
Such effects as lightning flashes, storm clouds, moon and cloud
combinations, shipwrecks, auto crashes, lava flow, earthquakes,
floods, and train wrecks— together with the multitude of other catas-
trophes with which a story character can be bedeviled— can usually
be found in stock film libraries. With clever work, a film editor can
intercut them with production shots so that the desired effect can be
obtained. Unless you can screen this stock footage, and thus become
acquainted with what is available, it is best merely to indicate that
stock footage is to be used without going into too much detail as to
how should be intercut with the production shots you write in.
it
Television films can use a great deal of stock footage to lower

production costs. The writer of this type of picture could make him-
selfquite desirable and appreciated were he to acquaint himself
with the types and sources of available and appropriate stock foot-
age and indicate them in his screen play.
Camera tricks. The motion-picture camera can be called upon to

play any number of tricks for the screen-play writer— tricks that
may solve writing problems that would otherwise cause a good idea
to be discarded. It is well to assume, then, that the camera— manned,
of course, by a highly versatile crew of skilled technicians— can do
anything. It practically turned somersaults when it was locked, up-
side down, to a revolving floor, to record the effect of Fred Astaire's

dancing on the ceiling.
The camera can be made to photograph supposed underwater
scenes (for budget pictures) simply by sliding a pair of specially
lighted gauze screens in front of its lens.
Image distortion can be achieved by pouring a thin film of oil

down over a piece of glass placed in front of the lens.
Multiple exposure or process-screen photography can make it
possible for an actor playing twin parts not only to talk with him-
self but to cross his own image.
"Matte'* (masking) shots permit a budget-conscious producer to
photograph an imposing edifice simply by building the lower part
as an actual set while the upper section is painted on a frame of
glass placed in front of the lens. More expensively produced "trav-
eling matte" shots call for a highly involved system of matte cut-
outs graduated in size to accommodate human action in the scene.
By means of false perspective, an actor can appear to be walking
a tightrope, although he actually is walking a plank to the edge of
which a rope has been nailed. The camera is placed in such a posi-
tion as to photograph only the rope without catching the plank.
Things can be made to appear or disappear simply by stopping
the camera and then putting in or taking off whatever is involved
in the "magical" effect.
In the picture Beyond Tomorrow, a ghost was seen to appear
and then walk in the midst of a crowd of people. Yes, it was done
with mirrors, as is the trick of photographing a single ship so that
it becomes a whole fleet of ships which, when photographed with a
split screen, could become the fleets of two opposing forces.
These are but a few of the tricks the camera can perform. There
are many, many more. But most of them are carefully guarded
secrets. Studios do not want competitors to profit from them and
they also fear that by informing the general public of them au-
diences will not accept them as real, and thus lose interest.
Process screen shots
It would be appropriate, at this point, to discuss the manner in

which the process (or rear-projection) screen can be integrated
into motion picture production, and into screen-play writing
considerations.
The process screen is a large, single piece of translucent plastic
material, averaging about i2'xi6', with brass grommets around
its four edges, which are used for lashing the screen onto a huge
wooden frame.
A motion-picture scenic shot— or even an action shot— called a

"plate," and about two hundred feet long to avoid repeated re-
winds for additional takes— is projected on the rear of this screen.

In front of it, actors play their parts on a set that is integrated with
the scene being projected on the screen. The speed of the plate
projection machine is interlocked with the speed of the camera,
so that the flickering in the projected picture will be compensated
for in the camera,frame by frame.
The which a camera in front of the screen records, is a
result,
composite of live action, enacted in the foreground, and a film
image, projected on the screen in the background.
It should be obvious, then, that with this extremely valuable
device, it is possible to photograph, say, a Hollywood actor against
an action background that is authentically British, or African, or
one that shows any locale of which a sufficiently long plate is
available.
The Berlin scenes in Foreign Affair were photographed against
process-screen plates, as were the Holy Land backgrounds for
Samso?i and Delilah, Naples, Venice, and Florence backgrounds
for September Affair, Persian and Italian Tyrol backgrounds for
Under My Skin and Tyrolean backgrounds for the skiing shots for
Tell It to the Judge.
The process screen can also supply, in addition to scenic exte-
riors, interior backgrounds for shots photographed in the interior
of a sound stage. Thus, for example, to avoid taking out a sound
crew and equipment to shoot subjects in the interior of a taxicab
as it cruises up a downtown street, it is possible to place a mock-up,
manually shaken taxicab in front of a process screen, and then
rear-project a downtown street-scene plate on the process screen.
Shadows of passing trees or telephone poles are flickered across the
faces of the actors by a revolving cyclodrum, off scene; or lights are
flashed on intermittently to simulate passing street lamps. After
dubbing in typical downtown street sounds, together with the
sounds of a running auto, the result is a shot that could give the
impression of having been photographed outdoors, dialogue and all.
Process-screen photography is not cheaply produced. A special
crew of technicians is required to operate the projector. Interlock-
ing of the projector with the camera is a difficult job, sometimes
164 A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWRIT1NG
calling for hours of meticulous preparation. Lighting the set in the
foreground so that it matches the density of the lighting in the
background filmed image is a tricky proposition— as is the avoid-
ance of shadows cast by the foreground players on the background
screen. All of which means that more takes are required in process-
screen work than in standard studio shooting. Complete correlation
must be made between the live action and the projected screen
action. For example, if the rear screen depicts a winding road, it is
necessary for the live action actor, at the wheel of a car, to simulate
manipulating his wheel so that it will match exactly the curve in
the road showing on the screen.
But despite the costs involved in shooting, process-screen shoot-
ing is infinitely cheaper than it would be to transport a camera
crew, actors, and essential material for location shooting.
The screen-play writer, then, should constantly keep in mind the
advantages of process-screen shooting. He should acquaint himself
with the plates available for use. Of course, such oft-used subjects
as "Paris," "London," "Times Square," and the like are obviously
on hand. But a working knowledge of the plate library can furnish
the writer with ideas for less hackneyed backgrounds that can add
variety to what would otherwise be a flat-dimensioned, studio-set
picture.
As far as television films are concerned, rear-screen projection
must remain only a dream tool. Not until the cost of rear-screen
projectionis brought down sufficiently to warrant its inclusion in
an extremely low budget will this device be available to television

screen-play writers.
Studios are loath to divulge the nature and extent of their stock-
shot film libraries because they do not like to let the general public
in on the know, for fear of disillusioning them, because actors'
unions feel such shots deprive their members of jobs and travel
opportunities, and because they are obligated to lend or sell them
to other studios. But as a screen-play writer on the lot, you should
be able to wangle a look at the catalogue. There you will find them
listed not only according to subject, but according to eye-level and
pace as well.
What is more, you can integrate the process-screen plate with the
story line, as was done in Foreign Correspondent. There, while the
was being photographed as it supposedly traveled

interior of a car
along a London street, Van Meers, one of the characters, looked
out of the window, saw some pigeons— on the process screen, of

course— which were also seen by the audience, and commented, "Oh!
look at the birds."
WRITING THE SCREEN PLAY
SECTION
3
Writing the screen play "™L g Now, with all the
preliminaries covered, the screen-play writer should be able to begin
to work on the shooting script. He must understand, though, that
this will not be the final shooting script. After he has completed it,
the brains and hands of many will pick it apart, elide, telescope,
reject, suggest, elaborate— in fact, almost rewrite the entire script
forhim at numerous conferences. The director, for example, will
have made his suggestions after reading the treatment. Certain of
his objections will be based on the claim that he cannot shoot the
scene as indicated, and he will suggest changes. The producer will
expect his ideas to be included. The front-office superiors will all
have definite notions which are to be incorporated into the shoot-
ing script.
The master-scene screen play
Quite often, however, the writer may not even be permitted to

write a shooting script. He maybe assigned to do a "master-scene"
script. He will not be required to write in camera shots and angles.
What will be expected of him is simply a completed treatment.
Where, in the treatment, he merely indicated that certain dialogue
be spoken, now, in the master-scene script, he will write in all the
dialogue. Where the treatment merely suggests, in a literary style,
the action to be taken, this time the writer will indicate the same
action, but in screen-play form.
Scene I for instance would be written as follows:
i6 9
FADE IN
EXT. ENTRANCE MERIWETHER HOSP.-DAY
1. A cab parked at the curb. A nurse is handing a bundled-up
is
baby to mother and father, MR. and MRS. MEADE, sit-

its
ting in the cab. They are a typically American young couple,

both somewhat fearful and still dazed at their new parental
status.
NURSE
(with finality)
There you are, Mrs. Meade.
MRS. MEADE
(fearfully)
Will the ride hurt him, nurse?
NURSE
(smiling reassuringly)
He'll live through it, I'm sure.
MR. MEADE
(hesitantly)
I can hold him, dear.
MRS. MEADE
He's not heavy, darling.
MR. MEADE
Thanks for everything, nurse.
He slips a bill into the nurse's hand.
NURSE
Thank you!
The nurse straightens up from the cab, slams the door shut, and
grins.
NURSE
He's all yours now! Watch out for kidnapers! 'Bye!
WRITING THE SCREEN PLAY 171
The cab pulls away. The nurse watches it for a moment, sighs, and
shrugs her shoulders. Then she turns to the hospital entrance, and
walks to it, passing the sign on the hospital wall reading MERI-
WETHER HOSPITAL, as she disappears into the entrance.
That is a master scene. No camera angles have been indicated.

Only a scene description, character action, and the accompanying
dialogue have been attended to.
The next scene will be in the hospital room of Jane Bedell, the
heroine. The writer will continue with the same method. Only the
dialogue conducted between Jane and the nurse— whom we have
seen in Scene I— will be written, together with the manner in which
it is to be spoken, and the actions of both characters.
The above Scene I may not have been included in the original
example treatment. It is the screen writer's prerogative to deviate
from the treatment which is, after all, only a blueprint for the
screen play. For instance, after making a number of starts, he may
decide to begin with an episode that would set the scene (the ma-
ternity hospital) and a new-baby situation (to serve as a contrast to
the new-baby situation of the main story line) and to plant the baby
kidnaping motif, to be developed later.
The opening scene can then deal with minor characters only, in
the same situation (the new baby) in which our major characters
will soon be seen.
Working in this fashion, with master scenes, the writer will sim-
ply fill in the undetailed segments of the treatment, using as much
of the treatment's material as is feasible. If the treatment has been
well thought out and properly developed, these changes should be
of small consequence.
The finished master-scene screen play will then be gone over by
the producer and various supervisors, for suggested changes and
elisions. The writer will make most of them and resubmit the
script. More suggestions will result in more changes until finally a
finished script, acceptable to all, will result.
When the final-final screen play is "OK for production," it is
mimeographed. Copies are distributed heads of every depart-

to the
ment that will be involved in estimating the costs, designing the
sets, hiring the actors, and so forth. The director will also receive
his copy.
With the master-scene script as a blueprint, the director will then
lay out his camera angles and shots, and correct the action direc-
tions to suit whatever exigencies may have come up, usually those
brought about by changed set plans, or through differences be-
tween the writer's set conception and the finished set as designed
by the art department, developed by the drafting department, and
executed by the construction department.
The average director would rather work from such a master-
scene script. He considers it an encroachment on his directorial
preserves for the average writer to direct him as to how to shoot
his picture. Even when he gets a shooting script, with all the shots
and angles already written in, the director will assert his preroga-
tive of substituting his own camera setups.
But at the same time, if he is given a camera setup that will get
the shot across effectively, the knowing director will not be averse
to using it. For he realizes that, to the average movie-goer, it is sup-
posed to be the director who is responsible for the finished product,
and not the writer.
It is the director who is usually credited in reviews with having
succeeded in "contributing splendid interpretive bits of acting,"
"fashioning marvelous transitions," "contributing a splendid co-
ordination of sound with action," "arranging for a not too ob-
trusive musical background," and so on.
The fact of the matter is that the director is actually what his
name implies— a director, and no more. He is a director of other
craftsmen's talents. He tells the cameraman what camera angle he
wants, as he visualizes it himself or as the writer has indicated it
in the script. The cameraman, then, does the job of getting the
camera set up, the lighting properly adjusted, and so on. It is the
film cutter who, with the help of the director, will put the finished
picture together; the music composer who will write the musical
score; and the actors who, with the directive comments of the direc-
tor, will actually speak the lines and perform the actions. The direc-
tor will direct the various craftsmen in their jobs for the purpose
of making a finished picture that will be unified in all of its varied
elements.
That is why what the audience sees on the screen is not always
the result of the director's creative ability. Given a screen writer
who knows his craft— one who can visualize as well as verbalize,
who can create the appropriate visual symbols and then translate
them into revelatory dialogue and action, who is cognizant of all
the techniques of screen-play writing— the director can receive a

shooting script, with camera directions, which he cannot help
following.
The shooting script
At the same time, the knowing screen writer can write his camera
directions, actions, and dialogue so that the director will be forced
to shoot just what the screen writer has indicated in the way he has
indicated it. In many respects, a professionally written screen play
can be, to all intents and purposes, a predirected screen play.
FADE IN
EXT. ENTRANCE MERIWETHER HOSP.-DAY

1. MED. SHOT on a cab parked at the curb. A nurse is handing
a bundled-up baby to its mother and father in the cab.
NURSE
There you are, Mrs. Meade.
INT. CAB-DAY
2. MED. SHOT on nurse, standing outside cab, as she hands the

baby to Mrs.Meade, shooting past MR. and MRS. MEADE,
a typically American young married couple who are still some-
what dazed and fearful of their new parental status.
MRS. MEADE
(fearfully)
Will the ride hurt him, nurse?
NURSE
(smiling)
He'll live through it, I'm sure.
MR. MEADE
(hesitantly)
I can hold him, dear.
MRS. MEADE
Oh! he's not heavy at all, darling.
EXT.-CAB AT CURB-DAY
3. MED. SHOT on nurse as we see Mr. Meade slip a bill into
her hand.
MR. MEADE
Thanks for everything, nurse.
The nurse slams the cab door shut and grins.
NURSE
Thank you.
The nurse straightens up.
He's all yours now. Watch out for

kidnapers! 'Bye.
4. EXT.-CAB AT CURB-DAY
REVERSE ANGLE
The cab pulls away and out of the frame. The nurse stares after
it moment, sighs, shrugs her shoulders, turns to the hos-
for a
pital entrance and walks to it, the CAMERA TRUCKING IN
to her, as she passes the sign on the hospital wall reading
MERIWETHER HOSPITAL. As she disappears in the en-
trance, the CAMERA CONTINUES TO GO IN for an EXT.
CLOSE-UP on the sign.
DISSOLVE
By holding on and then trucking in with her to the
the nurse
hospital entrance, instead of panning out with the cab, we can indi-
cate that the succeeding action will continue with the nurse, and
not with those in the cab. Were the latter to be necessary, we would
pan out with the cab, holding on it for a while, and then cut di-
rectly into the cab interior. As it is now, we will cut into the hos-
pital interior, on the nurse again, as she enters Jane's room.
Since little time will elapse between the time we last see the nurse
at the hospital entrance and when we next pick her up, a quick
dissolve from the close-up on the sign to, perhaps, a close-up on
Jane's room number, is in order. However, if it were necessary to
indicate a lapse of considerable time, we could tilt the camera down
to the nurse's feet as she walks into the hospital, and then dissolve
through to her feet walking into Jane's room.
When the above shooting-script scene is shot, the director will
shoot the cab exterior from one camera setup, and the cab interior
from another setup. The film editor will then intercut the exterior
shots with the interior shot, as indicated in the script, unless he
and the director have other plans. Then again, the director may
decide to shoot a few close-ups of the baby in the nurse's arms, or
of the anxious parents in the cab. If these are available to the film
editor, he may decide to intercut some of the close-ups into the
other shots. In this case, though, because the close-ups would not
necessarily reveal details that are important enough to require
spot-lighted revelation, would be doubtful that the director
it
would cover himself with extra close-ups. That is why they were not
suggested in the shooting script.
The foregoing discussion should give further indication as to
the qualifications necessary to the screen-play writer and his use of
motion-picture techniques.
In the previous sections, we dealt largely with things literary and
with things technical. The idea, the synopsis, the treatment, and
even the master-scene screen play, were simply literary exercises
that could well have been written by any competent writer with a
specialized knowledge of dramatics— as it pertains to the motion
picture— and with a flair for visualization in addition to ver-
balization.
But the writing of a shooting script calls into play a number of
specialized skills— skills that often are not within the province of
the ordinary writer.
Granted the screen writer should have the psychological insight
to develop character; a sense of story so as to be able to involve his
characters in and extricate them from various situations; the plot
faculty to juggle these situations so that they tell a well-ordered
story; the ability to dramatize these situations so that they can pre-
sent impact; together with the various other literary aptitudes nec-
essary to the equipment of the experienced writer.
as a qualified screen-play writer, he must know the

In addition,
possibilities and the limitations of the motion-picture camera.
At the same time, he should know quite a bit about acting and
its problems, so as to be able to write the necessary action
descriptions.
What is more, he should know something of opticals— the manner
in which they are made so that he may know how they can best be
used.
Then, he must have a considerable knowledge of sound-track
devices and techniques, and be able to co-ordinate sight with sound.
He will be at a considerable advantage if he has, in addition, a
working knowledge, at least, of film cutting, set designing, and
musical background accompaniments.
The screen writer who possesses all of this knowledge is the ideal.
Ordinarily, he would soon be able to step out of the screen-play
writer class, and become a writer-director, a director, or even a pro-
ducer. But it stands to reason that the more specialized knowledge
the writer has of those elements that go into the making of a
motion picture, the more qualified he would be for writing screen
plays.
The problem is how knowledge. Courses in screen-
to obtain that
play writing at colleges and universities attempt to teach it but
with varying success because, obviously, they can teach only the
theories. The best place to learn the practical fundamentals is at a
motion-picture studio. But studios rarely open their doors to begin-
ners. A few of them, sporadically, have tried to institute a system of
using junior writers, in which inexperienced screen-play writers
(though they may have had a great deal of writing experience in
other media) are taken in hand by an experienced supervisor, and
put through a course. For the most part, though, studios seldom
use inexperienced screen writers— which puts the ordinary writer
more or less on the horns of a dilemma. Quite often, however,
because a writer's book or play has been purchased by a studio,
and an arrangement made whereby the author "goes with the deal"
to work on the screen play, he is paired off with an experienced
collaborator whose job it is to supply the technical details of the
screen play.
At other times, if a collaborator is not furnished, the novitiate
screen-play writer is given a cubbyhole office, a typewriter, and a

I
sheaf of clean white paper, and is told to get to work on his treat-
ment and, eventually, his screen play.
Then, by a process that borders on osmosis, if the writer is expe-
rienced in research, he manages to garner a heap of information
regarding the screen writer's craft from other screen writers, from
assistant directors, from producers, even from secretaries who often
know more about screen-play writing than many writers for whom
they are working. Also, he will obtain a pile of old scripts and pore
over them for clues. Then he will arrange for screening of finished
pictures, often of those made from the scripts he has already read.
Gradually, by an extensive series of trial and error attempts, some
of the fundamentals of his newly chosen craft may begin to seep in.
He by going onto a shooting stage
will try to buttress his findings
to watch pictures being shot. If he is genuinely concerned with
learning, he will ask questions of the director— provided he finds
one who is sympathetic and co-operative— the cameraman, the as-
sistant director, and even of the grips, whose knowledge of picture
i making, though circumscribed by the limits of their own craft,
often exceeds that of a great many who are supposedly more expe-
rienced in matters cinematic.
By observing the many rehearsals necessary before a take is made,
and the many retakes before an OK take is shot, the learner should
be able to get an idea of some of the dialogue faults to avoid. He
should be able to learn a little about camera angles and, particu-
larly, he should become aware of the patent advantage of showing
a scene in action, rather than of telling it in dialogue.

he is personable enough, and willing enough, and happens on
If
a camera crew that is co-operative, he may even be permitted to
squint through the camera "finder," which is a sort of square tele-
scope with a ground glass viewer at one end, that will enable him
to see just what the picture frame will contain, and thus discover
the possibilities and limitations of the motion-picture frame, as it
is by varying distances and lenses in order to make a

affected
close-up, a medium shot, or a long shot.
What, then, are the practical details of screen-play writing tech-
niques? From now on, we shall explore and examine all aspects,
define them, give examples, and try to fit them into a pattern which,
when completed, should provide the basis for learning the funda-
mentals of the art of screen-play writing.
In the beginning was . . .?
Where How to begin? These questions have plagued all

to begin?
writers.But the screen-play writer has problems which other writers
never encounter and which put the answers to the plaguy questions
in an entirely different category.
Because a motion picture flashes by continuously, without stop-
as contrasted to the printed story, which can be reread for clarifica-
tion of missed or misinterpreted points— the order in which its
varied elements are shown is highly important.
What should be shown first, for example? Should it be an atmos-
pheric scene designed to set the mood of the picture? Or should it
be an action scene revealing character? Should these introductory

scenes be of a merely expository nature, a sort of static introduction,
as it were, to the action to follow, or should they be those in which
the audience is thrown into the story, without preliminary prepa-
rations?
Actually, there is no set rule to govern the choice of a film's open-
ing. Each picture calls for individual treatment. Certain stories may
lend themselves only to certain types of opening, while others would
be best handled with completely contrasting types.
Open with a bang? Generally speaking, though, it is standard Hol-

lywood practice to leap into the story feet-first, without expository
preliminaries. This sets the pace for the picture, which must then
move along quickly. "Open with a bang!" in other words, is the
oft-spoken injunction of Hollywood producers.
Wyler's The Letter really opens with a bang when, after estab-
lishing the locale— a plantation in Asia— with a long-running pan
shot, a pistol shot suddenly punctuates the scene and a man is seen
running down some bungalow stairs followed by Bette Davis, who
continues to pump bullets into her lover's body.
Opening with a bang— either aurally or visually— is definitely
essential to the television film, in which audience interest should be

instantaneously aroused the moment after the opening commercial
has been given. The station change-over dial is too readily available
to the televiewer to risk losing his patronage. For ordinarily, it is
the opening few seconds of the television film that induce the tele-
viewer to continue viewing or send him off on a wave-length jour-
ney to more promising programs.
Opening with a bang, however, despite its attention-getting vir-
tue of movement, has its drawbacks, drawbacks which European—
and, especially, British— pictures have overcome simply by opening
without a bang.
For opening with a bang can militate against building. It is nec-
essary to keep up the opening pace throughout, to sustain interest.
It is necessary, in order to build, that the pace be continually quick-
ened so as to reach a satisfactory climax. Unfortunately, this is a

difficult procedure. Such paces are seldom sustained. And the results
are sagging scenes and sequences that make for disinterest and
dissatisfaction.
Open slowly? British pictures have been criticized— by Ameri-

cans—as being pedestrian and lacking in action. The reason is that
British screen-play writers and directors deliberately pace their pic-
tures—especially in the opening scenes— to a slower tempo. And
they do it in the belief that, although action is a vital requirement
in motion pictures, it is not to be used to the detriment of other
requirements, which are just as, and sometimes even more, vital.
Opening to build. It is obvious from their pictures that the Brit-

ish believe the gradual— and therefore natural— development of
character is So they begin their pictures with an
vitally important.
over-all visual exposition of the milieu in which the action will take
place, as was done in It Always Rains on Sunday. That done, they
go in from the general to the more specific, by showing the people
who will be involved in the action as they go through their normal
workaday lives. From this they become more specific, and single
out the protagonists and antagonists, so as to set them up in their
proper relation to each other, and to the story line.
Only when these expository preliminaries have been attended to
l8o A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWRITING
do they begin to get into the action itself. But, even then they do
not leap into the action with a bang. Instead, they build to it
slowly— again, naturally— piling incident upon incident, scene upon
scene, until the vital action is reached. That done, the pace is
quickened. But not too fast. The fast tempo is left until the end of
the picture, where it properly belongs, using the most effective
building techniques. For interspersed with the action are bits of
comedy and crisis relief— sometimes seemingly unrelated to the
story line— as were the idle cricket-talk scenes interposed in Hitch-
cock's exciting The Lady Vanishes. Also interspersed are seemingly
incongruous development.
bits of character
This character development is not confined to the principals only.
For the British believe that minor characters should not be
slighted. They are seldom introduced with a single characterizing
line of dialogue, on the order of "Gee! my feet are killing me!"
from a salesgirl; or "I hate driving cabs!" from a philosophical
cab driver. Instead, they linger a little longer on the character, so
as to round him out sufficiently, to make certain he fits in with the
well-rounded character development of the principal characters.
In The 39 Steps, for instance, the minor characters of the Scottish
farmer and his young wife were not only fully developed, but their
dramatic story was injected into the main story line.
The reason for this emphasis on minor character development is
that the British believe that both elements must be completely inte-
grated if they are to be presented successfully. In art, the back-
ground must be integrated with the foreground, to give suitable
and esthetically satisfactory prominence to the foreground material.
If the background material is slighted, the foreground material
will suffer. In the same way, the British believe that if the principal
characters and their story line are not backed up with well-rounded
characters involved in a subplot, then the main story line will not
be presented in its proper perspective.
This method, however, does not always result in felicitous pic-

tures. Sometimes there is an almost robot-like adherence to the
tenets of building. Too often a scene is designed to build with the
traditional medium shot, close shot, close-up, medium shot, long
shot progression. Then it comes to a crisis, with the same process
starting all over again in succeeding scenes. Because of this, a me-
WRITING THE SCREEN PLAY l8l
chanical sameness is bound to appear. Moreover, this defect tends

to make the good sequences stand out from the bad. That is why
so many otherwise excellent British films invariably contain se-
quences that are quite inept.

It is because we have been conditioned by the swifter paced
American films that most of us find British films pedestrian. But the
success of so many excellent British films has changed the situation
somewhat. Our audiences are seeing more and more British films.
And the more they see, the more will they enjoy the slower paced
but more realistic British pictures, and the more opportunities will
there be for the screen writer to present the screen play that opens
more leisurely, with more characterization and, certainly, more
effectively.
This brings up another subject— one of particular interest to tele-
vision screen-play writers. Until recently, most of the better foreign
films were shown at movie theaters that specialized in them. They
were called "sure seaters" because a certain segment of movie-goers
attended them faithfully every week. This segment, however, was
quite small compared to the millions who studiously avoided for-
eign films, and it has remained fairly constant in size so that, even
today, few foreign films achieve the box-office success of many less
deserving Hollywood products.

Television films can change that because they go directly to the
audience, whereas the audience must go to the theater for a non-
television film. Television allows the audience to view its wares,
tosample its entertainment, for no extra charge. This means that,
from now on, millions who would never have crossed the street to
see a foreign film or a more intelligently written home-grown
product with a more limited appeal than the usual Hollywood
fare will have them delivered into their homes. Thus, by making
accessible to a vast new audience those pictures that have heretofore
been shunned, the norm of good taste and appreciation can be
tremendously increased. The television film writer has in his craft
a potential for improving the American standard of visual enter-
tainment.
Building
In addition to having a sense of the visual, the screen-play writer

must possess a film sense. A creative film sense demands of the
writer that he be able to tell his story in strictly visual terms, by
writing in little segments of life, so as to present a complete mosaic.
The filmic sense. In other words, the screen-play writer can, if he

has a filmic sense, give a feeling of life to what are ostensibly dead
images on the screen, regardless of the fact that they are appar-
ently in motion. At the same time, he should be able to convey the
life is artistically created and so has an esthetic
impression that this
entity of own. its
The Russian director Kuleshov proved that he could photograph

a series of entirely disconnected shots and, after assembling them,
present a completely different and entirely whole scene. In the order
of assembling, he spliced together shots of:
1. A young man walking from left to right
2. A young woman walking from right to left
3. Both meeting and shaking hands, as the man points to
something off scene
4. An immense white building fronted with a broad flight of
steps
5. The young man and woman ascending the steps
Regardless of the fact that each of these shots was photographed
in a different place and at different times, when they were assem-
bled the over-all impression was that the action was continuous in
time and spatially at the same locale.
The Russians have tried many experiments of this sort, building
up scenes out of disconnected shots. At one time they assembled
shots of the hands, feet, eyes, and heads of a number of different
women and, after assembling them, gave the impression that they
were all cut-in shots of one woman. At another time, they took
some quiet close-ups of an actor and intercut them with three dif-
ferent kinds of cutaway shots:
1 . A shot of a bowl of soup the actor was supposed to be look-
ing down at
2. A shot of a woman lying dead in a coffin

3. A shot of a little girl playing with a Teddy bear
Although the reaction close-up shots of the man were all the
same, the audience reaction to each of the different cutaways was
such that they associated their own responses with those of the actor.
The Russians also tried an interesting experiment in juggling
varying shots. When the following three shots were assembled in
1, 2, 3 order,
1. shot of a man smiling,
2. shot of a revolver pointing,
3. and a shot of the same man looking frightened,
the effect was that of having the man frightened by someone hold-
ing a gun and ready to shoot. But when the sequence was juggled,
so that the order of shots was 3, 2, 1, he was changed from a coward
into a brave man!
Build dramatically. Thus, it can be seen that a picture can be

endowed with predetermined meaning and with the smooth flow
of continuity if each shot is built up dramatically in the scene, if
each scene is built up dramatically in the sequence, and if each
sequence is built up dramatically in the entire picture.
In the shot, this building of dramatic effect is created by char-
acter action and dialogue, as they are presented by an appropriate
use of camera distance, angle, and movement. These separate ele-
ments have been discussed in their various sections.
In building the shots within the scene, however, it is essential to
be conversant with certain other techniques. These facts must be
remembered first:
1. If the story is to move forward, each shot and scene should

add to the forward movement.
2. As the story progresses, every situation and event must be pre-
sented more interestingly and more attractively.
3. The characters of the people in the story must grow— either
for better or for worse;but some growth must be evident to carry
forward an integrated sense of movement which will tie in with the
flow of filmic continuity.
4. The emotions of all the people involved must grow in inten-
sity, so that the decisions they are forced to make will, in them-
selves, become more important to themselves and hence to the story.
Use cause and effect. To accomplish these necessary adjuncts to
filmic movement, an important physical law must be applied:
the law of cause and effect. First, the cause of the situation must
be presented, to be followed shortly afterward by the effect it
produces.
In the picture Return of Rusty, for instance, the little ref-
ugee boy, Loddy, is still devil-ridden with his memories of the
war. In order to dramatize this, the writers prepared a scene as
follows:
ROOM— DAY
INT.— LIVING
full shot of room as Loddy paces the floor distractedly, on the
qui vive.
EXT.— STREET— DAY
long shot on newsboy pedaling his bicycle up the street.
INT.— LIVING ROOM
med. shot on Loddy as he seats himself at piano and disinterestedly
plays one-finger, obviously at a breaking point.
EXT. —STREET— DA Y
med. long shot on newsboy pedaling up the street. He stops at
house next door to Loddy's house and throws a folded newspaper,
which lands with a thud on the porch.
INT.— LIVING ROOM— DAY
close shot on Loddy as he stops playing and listens intently to the
sound of newspaper thud o.s. (off scene), in distance. Suddenly the
sound of the newspaper thud is heard close up. Loddy's eyes widen.
Then his head falls to the piano keys with a discordant bang. He
starts to cry and, slowly, his body sags as he crawls under the piano
and covers his head with his arms, as though trying to protect him-
self from an imagined missile.
From this it can be seen that cause and effect were taken into
consideration in building the scene to pay off with the boy's terror.
It should be observed that it was not necessary to show again the
newsboy plopping the newspaper on the porch outside of Loddy's

living room, because that action had already been established in
the previous shot. Then, by suggestion, and by using only the sound
of the newspaper's thud off scene, the action was suggested instead
of being repeated, the suggestion heightening the action by indirec-
tion rather than by actual action.
Build with details. In the same way, and for the same purpose of
building the shots within the scene for the most dramatic impact,
scenes should be built up with significant details.
A catastrophe scene, for instance, could be built up so as to de-
velop it to its fullest interest and understanding and to its peak of
dramatic intensity. This is done with cut-ins and cutaways; with
reaction shots of spectators in close-up; with pan shots of whatever
moving vehicles would be racing to the scene; with shots of suffer-
ing; with action shots of valiant rescues; and with shots of the smoke
and flames, or of the flooding waters, or of whatever the catastrophe
may be.
Remember this— first try to build interest and understanding for
the audience. Then go into the main line of the story. In Carol
Reed's picture The Third Man, in order to build to the startling
shock of showing the porter being carted out dead to a sidewalk
ambulance— and also to reveal this fact slowly to Cotten and his
girl friend, who are approaching the scene— Reed inserted a series
of shots of various people looking anxiously out of high windows at
what is going on in the street below, together with shots of other
people running out of doors and houses. So that when the pair
finally come up to the scene of the ambulance, the audience in-
terest and curiosity have been so piqued that the revelation of
the fact that the porter is dead comes with an immense dramatic
impact.
Build-up between scenes and between sequences is achieved by
means of suitable transition devices. Only with an effective build-up
is it possible to present a picture that follows the most important
dictum of motion-picture rite— make it move!
Building the components
You may have observed a peculiar repetition occurring throughout

the preceding material— an insistence on "flowing continuity" and
on "making certain that a shot flows smoothly out of the previous
shot and into the succeeding shot." You will note them even more
frequently in the following material.
Build for continuity. The repetitions were done purposely. For it

is only with this smooth-flowing, moving quality that motion pic-
tures can achieve stature, and it is because of a lack of it that they

become abysmal failures.
This building of shots, scenes, and sequences is what contributes
to make up the motion-picture shooting script. In Europe— and
especially in Russia— this process of assemblage is called "mon-
tage."
The European conception of montage sees its techniques as being
applied not to an individual sequence, as is done in Hollywood, but
to the picture as a whole. It recognizes the fact that uninspired,
orthodox film editing, as performed in most American pictures, is
vacuously mechanical. It also believes that the application of true

montage principles to film editing— and to screen-play writing, if
much of the editing is suggested in the screen play by the writer-

requires creative filmic imagination.
Therefore an attempt will be made here to apply the methods of
European montage to the creation of a shooting screen play, so that
a finished picture, closer to the original concepts of the screen-play
writer, will result.
The European montage are also applied in Holly-
principles of
wood, but under varying and with considerably vary-
classifications,
ing results. The basic reason for the varying results is to be found
in the different audiences. But the fact remains that European audi-
ences attend and appreciate American films, while many European
films— and especially in the past few years— have become quite popu-
lar with American audiences.
Organize for flow. In writing the shooting screen play, and to

make use of all the components already discussed, it is necessary to
organize the filmic material so that it flows smoothly and continu-
ously and results in a picture that is unified, coherent, and enter-
taining.
Organize for scene length. It is necessary that this organization be

done, not only from shot to shot, but from scene to scene and from
sequence to sequence. In this organization, certain adjustments must
be made to achieve maximum results. Attention must be paid to
the length of the shot, the scene, and the sequence so that the tempo
required by the story line will be captured successfully.
Organize for rhythm. Not only must the length of the shots and
scenes and sequences be considered by the screen writer but, in
addition, he must arrange them so that the action flows rhythmically
—and not in a dull, deadly straight line—within the shot, within the
scene, and within the sequence.
Organize for interrelationships. Although a motion picture con-

sists of short, separate bits of film spliced together, there must be
a definite relationship with the other bits written into each bit. In
other words, each shot within a scene must conform to certain build-
ing principles, and each scene within a sequence must conform to
the same principles, so that each sequence within the picture as a
whole will present a conglomerate mass effect of the same basic
building principles.
What are these basic principles?
1. The fact that motion is the prime consideration in a motion
picture demands that there be a continuous sequence of filmic
images moving in orderly progression from beginning to end, in a
coherent, unified flow.
2. Although this continuous flow should connote and depict ac-
tion, it is not necessary that actual physical motion from place to
place be shown to achieve it. The effect of motion can be obtained
by contrast— by, for instance, opposing one quality to another qual-
ity so that, by opposing, a sense of action is suggested rather than
effected.
3. In the same way, motion can be implied, when not actually

depicted, simply by repeating certain qualities, the sense of action
resulting from the mere repetition of those qualities.
Image size
Progression in image size. The primary rule of cinematic photog-

raphy is to shoot all scenes from the long, medium, and close
distances. This is to allow the film editor enough cinematic material
with which to splice the picture together, by using the first basic
principle of orderly progression.
The same progression can be obtained by reversing the order as
is often necessary— in going from close through medium to long shot.
Opposition in image size. When the latter series is followed by, or

follows, a series of the former, the second principle— contrast— can
be achieved. Or, by opposing a close shot and a succeeding long
shot, or the reverse, the same effect of opposition will result.
Repetition of image size. The third principle— repetition of shots

—can be achieved by indicating a series of close-ups or medium
shots. When such a series is put in juxtaposition to a contrasting
series— as a close-up series followed immediately by a series of long
shots— then opposition results and the second principle is achieved.
Image angle
Progression in image angle. These same principles can be followed

in regard to the other aspects of film making. The angles, for ex-
ample, can be varied to follow the three principles. They can
achieve sequential continuity by using a series of angles, each greater
than the other, or a series each smaller than the other. Low, front,
and side angles— or in reverse order— can make up another series of
angles.
Opposition in image angle. The second principle of contrast re-

sults from following a radically low-angle shot with a radically
high-angle shot, or vice versa. Contrast can also be achieved by fol-
lowing a shot photographed from one side, by another photographed
from a change of as much as 180 degrees in angle.
Repetition in image angle. Although practice insists that the angle

be changed in each successive shot, a change in camera distance
permits the use of similar angles to achieve the repetitive principle.
The same three principles should be applied to camera move-
ment, so that the tempo of the individual shots can be integrated

into the over-all tempo of the picture.
Camera movement
In addition, the direction of camera movement should receive simi-
lar montage considerations.
Progression in camera movement. Sequential continuity can be

obtained by having successive shots contain action that moves from
right to left, or vice versa. Or the actions can be tilted up on suc-
cessive shots, or tilted down. Successive camera pans, or trucking
shots, should also be made in the same direction to effect the desired
result.
Opposition in camera movement. The principle of contrast should

be applied in the direction of camera movement by indicating that
successive shots be reversed. A pan or trucking shot from right to
left, for example, can be followed by a pan or trucking shot from
left to right. A tilt-up can be followed by a tilt-down.
Repetition in camera movement. The repetitive principle would

require that the direction of a pan, a trucking shot, or a tilt be
repeated in successive shots.
This principle is used quite often in opticals, when a series of
numerals indicating year dates zooms in from a dot to large size to
suggest a lapse of time.
Tempo
The tempo of a shot can also be regulated by these three principles.

This requires that the screen writer time his action and dialogue
so as to be able to estimate correctly the approximate film footage
that will be required to cover them. A good stop watch, therefore,
.
igO A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWRITING

can become part of the screen-play writer's equipment, especially
one that indicates the film footage together with the elapsed time.
Progressive tempo. Sequential progression can then be attained by

writing in a series of successive shots that are of similar length— for
example, a series of three or four shots, each of which runs about
six feet long.
Opposing tempo. Contrast, obviously, can result from writing in

a series of shots that vary considerably in length— the first shot of
two feet, followed by one of six feet, which is followed by one of
three feet, and then winding up the scene with a shot running thirty
or forty feet.
Repetitive tempo. Repetition, of course, would simply require re-

peating the length of the shots— as a series of two-foot exterior close-
ups (a favorite of the Russian Eisenstein, by the way)
Build with a purpose. This fact, though, must be emphasized:

These principles must be applied not arbitrarily, but methodically.
A series of slow pans, for example, should not be indicated only
because a pattern of sequential progression is desired, but primarily
because it is necessary to induce a suspenseful mood.
In the same way, the organization of shot lengths to obtain results
from the application of the repetitive principle should not be done
solely to achieve these results. The primary reason for using a series
of short-length close-ups, for instance, would be to stimulate a sense
of excitement; the reason for using a series of long-length long shots
would be, primarily, to suggest a sense of relaxation.
All the elements of each shot must be so organized that the same
three principles can be applied to the shots within a scene, and the
scenes within a sequence, so that the sequences themselves can be
organized, using the same three basic principles.
Build for rhythm. The sum total of this organization would result
in a pattern of rhythm that would be most felicitous to the finished
picture. It would be most felicitous because, contrary to the manner
in which most screen plays are written, directed, and produced, the
desired rhythm would have been deliberately and consciously writ-
ten into the screen play.
Tempo and rhythm

There has been a great deal of loose talk thrown around about the
factors of tempo and rhythm. Both are subjects of an evanescent
nature, and have never been postulated, clarified, or standardized.
More often than not, the terms are erroneously used interchange-
ably. Like the word "showmanship," which theatrical entrepreneurs
love to bandy about, "tempo" and "rhythm" are resorted to when
the speaker intends to be as vague as possible, to avoid having his
idea backfire on him. If "There are fifty frames in every
he says,
foot of film," his ignorance can be thrown into his face simply by
referring to any standard book on the subject. But he can take
refuge in generalization by saying, "It's the tempo of that scene I
don't like," and rest assured that nobody can contradict him.
Tempo is one thing, as has been shown. Rhythm is still another.
Both are indispensable to the fashioning of a screen play and to
the eventual making of the resultant picture.
Tempo is Tempo is— as its accepted meaning should indi-

timing.
cate—timing. governed by the length of time— and hence the
It is
number of frames or feet— a shot, a scene, and a sequence should
require in order to present an idea or mood as well as possible.
Certain mood effects can be achieved by certain timing factors.
The illusion of excitement in short-time shots is enhanced, naturally,
by short sections of film, by quick camera movements, by character
movement, by short spurts of dialogue and the like.
Conversely, a sense of calm can be obtained with longer-length
shots, with static or slow camera movements, and so on.
If the tempi in all the shots are so integrated that the combined
tempi can, in turn, be integrated within the sequence, and so that
the combined tempi of the sequences can be integrated into a com-
plete picture, the over-all tempo of the picture can be regulated so
that what finally emerges is exactly what the screen writer put into
the screen play, and what he intended to produce.
Rhythm is flow. Rhythm, on the other hand, is a modulated flow

of filmic and sound patterns that results from following certain basic
principles.
This rhythm can be made intrinsic to the screen play by the
writer— by judiciously manipulating the shots, the angles, the camera
movement, the character movement, and the length within the indi-
vidual shots to conform with the three principles of progression,
contrast, and repetition. At the same time, if the scenes within the
sequence, and the sequences within the picture, are similarly treated
to follow the three principles, the result should be a screen play
that will have that elusive quality of rhythm.
Practically all the factors involved in the use of montage now fall
within the province of the director and the film editor. This is so,
not because they are natural to those offices, but because the screen-
play writer has been universally considered as an inoffensive and
necessary contributor to the making of motion pictures. As a result,
his work has been shorn of many creative details that should ordi-
narily have come within his province, but which have been relegated
to the director and the film editor.
There is no reason why the screen-play writer cannot, and should
not, regain these creative duties. Certainly his creative background
should furnish him with the necessary esthetic wherewithal. That
he can perform these duties has been amply demonstrated by the
success of those pictures that were made by writer-directors. But even
if the writer is unable to direct his own pictures, he can make cer-
tain that his creative ideas are followed by the director and the
film cutter.
Write in detail. Dialogue, for instance, can be written so that it

would be impossible to shoot it in any way other than the one
indicated in the screen play. In the same way, camera angles, camera
movement, and character action can be dictated by the writer so
that the director will be forced to shoot them in the manner indi-
cated in the script. The length of the individual shot, which has
never been considered within the screen-play writer's domain, has
always been, first the director's job, and then the film editor's. But
the screen-play writer, as the prime mover, can dictate. He can,
simply by writing in complete detail the necessary action, and by
writing in detail all dialogue and all character reactions and direc-
tions. He can dictate by timing all the action and the dialogue, with
a stop watch, to make certain that the length of the finished shot will
conform with as little variation as possible to the length he feels

necessary to the shot. This, in turn, he knows should conform to the
inner patterns of pacing, timing, and rhythm that he has tried to
work into the shots within the scene, the scenes within the sequence,
and the sequences within the finished picture.
There is no reason why this cannot be accomplished by the screen-
play writer. It demands knowledge, experience, and the know-how
of filmic techniques. But these can all be learned. And if to this
knowledge are added the ingredients of esthetic discernment and
artistic integrity, the quality of the finished picture will be enhanced
tremendously.
Directors often find themselves in a similar predicament. For any
number of reasons, they may discover that they are directing a pic-
ture in which their ideas are at odds with those of the writer, the
producer, or the film editor. In such cases, the director photographs
his shots so that they can be cut in only one way— his way. One
method at his disposal is with little or
to shoot the individual shots
insufficient overlap, in picture or in sound. Without overlaps— which
are the tag ends and beginnings of each shot, both in picture and
in sound, that can be matched perfectly to continuing action or
sound in a preceding or succeeding shot— the film cutter is forced to
splice the bits of film in the order in which the director originally
shot them, without being able to intercut from long shots to closer
shots in the way and at the time he, the film editor, feels necessary.
By neglecting to shoot cutaways, the director makes certain that his
long-running shots will run as long as he deems necessary. These
methods of assuring themselves of having their finished pictures cut
in their own way are termed by directors "cutting in the can." They
practicethem consistently.
There is nothing to prevent the screen-play writer from "directing
and cutting in the script." To yield more and more to producing
only the bare bones of a picture, with a master-scene screen play, is
tantamount, for the screen-play writer, to relinquishing his inalien-

able esthetic rights. If he is to fulfill all the potentialities of his
he must add the sinews and flesh and surface patinas, so
creativity,
that the finished productis his as he originally created it.
Only in this way can the screen-play writer negate the destructive
influence of "too many cooks," now rife in the motion-picture in-
dustry. Only in this way can the screen-play writer assert his indi-
viduality, assure himself of proper delineation of his work, establish
himself firmly in a manner which truly befits him and his craft.
Dialogue writing
As with all the other elements that go into the making of a motion
picture screen play, motion-picture dialogue must move. If it pauses
to digress, even a trifle, it stops the all-important flow of continuity
so vital to the successful unreeling of a motion picture.
Continuity with dialogue. Motion-picture dialogue must also pos-

sess, an unusual degree, the important filmic quality of continu-
to
ity. It must flow continuously from line to line, from speech to
speech. Fortunately the continuity is aided, in the motion picture,

by visual movement, character movement, and film cutting. The
screen-play writer must always be prepared to take advantage of
these aids. What is more important, he must never err in his dia-
logue, so as to negate the movement these aids furnish.
Visual more important than verbal. This important fact must

always be kept in mind: The visual must always take precedence
over the verbal.
The most common error in a beginner's screen play is usually to
be found in his resorting to dialogue to give essential facts, when
the same facts could have been given visually, and thus more graph-
ically. One of the chief purposes of film dialogue is to give only
those facts that cannot be portrayed by action.

For example, it would not be necessary to have one of the charac-
ters ask of another, "Are you hurt?" when it would be possible to
show, by means of a close-up on a bruise, or of blood, that such was
the case.
The screen-play should always keep in mind August
writer
Thomas' dictum about dialogue: "A line must advance the story,
develop character, or get a laugh."
Film dialogue can be used to establish the facts of the past in
order to bring the audience up to date.

Film dialogue can be used to describe locale.

It can also tell of the movements of various characters not in the
scene.
Andat the same time, it can present the theme of the story.
Film dialogue also possesses the important function of character-
izing the people in the story. For speech is revelatory. In one line,
it can furnish a character's education, social status, occupation,
country or state of origin, temperament, and emotional condition.
Education. The diction to be used for each character must vary

with each character. One of the most difficult tasks of the screen-play
writer is to be able to divorce his own tricks of dictionfrom those

of the character whose speech he is setting down. That done, he
must write their speeches so that his ditchdigger uses only those
words that would be within his educational scope, while the college
professor would do likewise.
Occupation. Also, the speech must be made identifiable with the

character's chief occupation. Because the garage mechanic, for ex-
ample, would be continually working with things mechanical, and
would be talking largely with people in his own occupation, his
speech would be larded with the jargon of his trade. Even his similes
would stem from it. He would say, for instance, ''That guy's as
stubborn as a frozen wing nut!"
Care must be taken, though, to make certain that his allusion
will beunderstood by an audience that is not generally conversant
with automotive speech. Introduction of the word "stubborn" in
the above example would give the uncomprehending a clue to the
otherwise foreign simile.
Care should also be taken not to inject too many strange and
technical expressions into the speech. One or two, in the character's
opening lines, to establish his occupation, and a few following and
interspersed through his succeeding lines are sufficient. The balance
of his similes could be the usual cliches, to befound in the speech
of all people. Source material for various occupations can be found
in a good slang dictionary.
Emotion. All speech is affected by the character's emotional condi-
tion. When composed, he speaks normally; when angry, he speaks

quickly, in sharp, short, jerky sentences; when happy, he speaks
rapidly; when sad, he speaks slowly and hesitantly.
Tempo. A mirrored in the tempo of

person's innate character is
his speech. The stubborn word with clipped determi-

bite off each
nation; the meek meander along with faltering "uh's" and "ah's"
and interjected "ands"; the pedantic use long-winded sentences; the
strong-willed speak with determination; the aged speak slowly, con-
templatively; the young gush out their thoughts like a spring freshet;
poetic folk use high-flown tropes; the dull and unimaginative resort
continually to cliches.
Verbal cliches
The use of cliches in a screen play can make for excellent character-
ization. But at the same time, they can be harmful, when used
indiscriminately.
Avoid the bon mot. For most of us speak, as well as write, in verbal
cliches— even those who decry the cliche in writing. Talking is not
writing. Conversation can be creative, but only for a limited few.
The art of the brilliant conversational bon mot is not commonly
practiced. And one is led to suspect that even in those who are
accredited with its mastery the supposedly freshly concocted verbal
tidbit was actually pretty well predigested before it was sprung on
the listener, as was the case with Oscar Wilde's brilliant quips.
You have only to eavesdrop on the conversation of the people
around you— sophisticates included— to realize that the average per-
son does not talk in original, brilliant aphorisms, smart wisecracks,
or topical jokes. Instead, he confines his sparkling repartee to out-
landish puns and, more often, to hoary cliches. It sometimes re-
quires hours and hours of labored writing for a writer to evolve one
tag-gag for a character. How, then, can it be expected of an average
person— even one who has a flair for humor— to drip quips at the
flip of a lip?
Use cliches to characterize. At the same time, people do not use

a continual procession of cliches in their speech. Some characters,
.
perhaps, may be developed who are addicted to them, strictly for

comedy Frank Sullivan's "The Cliche Expert" in the New
effect.
Yorker is a perfect example of the fun to be had at the expense of

a cliche addict. But even here, it would be out of place for a screen
writer to use a consistent stream of cliches, as does Mr. Sullivan's
cliche expert, despite the fact that some people may talk almost
exclusively in cliches. He must only lightly season his character's
speech with cliches or lose the credibility of the character in an
indigestible welter of words.
Gags choke up character. Which brings up the matter of the overly

gagged-up dialogue used currently in screen writing for almost
comedy (where much
every type of picture, from the brittle, social
of it through the Western (where adapta-
can be used legitimately) ,
tions of old saws and homilies may, perhaps, be suitable) to the ,
small-town, small-boy story (where, certainly, as little as possible of

the smart gag would be warranted)
one thing to entertain an audience with jokes— and lose char-
It is
acter credibility— but an entirely different matter to inject an occa-

sional quip into the dialogue without endangering the character's
status as a living, breathing entity.
One of the most prevalent faults in screen writing is to be found
in the lack of characterization. This is so especially in the gagged-up
script. Characters in these become robots, lacking the individuality
necessary to real people, because all are pallid reflections of the
own psyche— a condition brought about by the uncontrolled
writer's
and often superfluous spreading of the gag and the gagged cliche.
Cliches for comedy. The gagged verbal cliche is a device that may
be used for comedy effect— but again, sparingly. Here the cliche is
used as a hook from which the gag is hung. Quotation cliches are
ideal for this purpose. "The early worm catches the fish," used to
hurry a lagging character to a fishing trip, or "a rat in burro's cloth-
ing, huh!" used when a supposed rat in a basement turns out to be
a burro. These are possible— if somewhat corny— twists to cliched
quotations. But used unsparingly in a script, they would become
completely gratuitous.
The conclusions, then, regarding the use of verbal cliches are:
they can be used, but not overdone, to create effects. They can, for
instance, be inserted to build a humorous character who is addicted
to them; to add naturalness to the dialogue of ordinary folk; or to
serve as springboards for gags, witty repartee, and topical patter.
But the writer must always keep in mind that, at best, cliches are
crutches, jaded short cuts. He must compromise, use moderation,
resort to cliches only for rounding out character, but with the selec-
tivity necessary to the creative craftsman in all the graphic arts.
Dialects
Another potent method of rounding out character is with the use of

dialects. Until recently, the screen-play writer was only someone
who happened to be around to string together a few choice words
into a script. But his emergence as an absolutely essential starting
point for a picture and his belated acceptance as a required entity
have given him the importance he justly deserves. Yet, if he neglects
speech— speech that
his duty as a recorder of accurate is as much a
part of the character portrayal as diction, physical defects, etc.— the
writer neglects his duty as a writer.
For dialect speech is an important adjunct to character delinea-
tion. Itis more than a half-baked medium for slapstick comedy. As
Garson Kanin has put it, "There is tenderness and beauty and
pathos in the attempts of newcomers to express themselves in our
tongue." Authentic dialect speech can spot a character instantly,
unequivocably, in the milieu from which he stems. It can clothe an
otherwise uninteresting character with a distinctive and colorful
personality. It can give three-dimensional qualities to what would
ordinarily be a paper-flat character conception. It is as revelatory as
make-up, as picturesque as costume, as characteristic as gestures,
as identifiable as physical disabilities, and as dramatically effective
as facial expressions. Without a writer to give him the words, the
actor is a gesturing, posturing mute. His artdepends on what the
writer tells him he should say. And if the words are deficient in
character identification, then the actor's performance suffers because
of it, the character he portrays does not achieve its inherent promise,
and the entire dramatic structure is irrevocably weakened.
To just what extent does the average screen writer furnish the
actor with dialect lines? A great many scripts solve the dialect prob-
lem simply by ignoring it. No indication is given by the writer, who
should know as much of the manner of speech as its content. The
result is a characterization either entirely lacking in identifying
personality or only barely suggesting it because of the limitations of
an actor working with sufficient knowledge but inadequate tools.
In one way it is quite understandable why the writer studiously
avoids the use of dialects. Its study is specialized. It calls for an
immense amount of work, of research, of classification, and of adap-
tation. But because it is a puissant though neglected writing tool,
its study should be cultivated assiduously. In fact, each dialect is
a study in itself, for each dialect has its unique variants from the
"standard" form of speech.
That is why, in a limited section such as this must be, it would
be impossible to give a complete course of study in dialects for
screen-play writing. The subject is too vast, the available material
be presented in capsule form. But it is possible
far too extensive, to
to give directions and suggestions that may help the interested
writer so that in time he can become proficient in the correct use of
authentic dialect speech.
The only comprehensive books to be found on the subject are
Manual of Foreign Dialects and Manual of American Dialects.*
They should furnish the writer with an excellent guide for the use
of foreign and American dialects.
For treatment of the speech variants between American English
and British English, especially on the subject of idioms, Mencken's
The American Language is highly recommended. But it is not
enough merely to choose isolated words from Mencken's lists and
imagine you can pop them into an Englishman's mouth and expect
him to sound off like Lord Cholmondeley (pronounced Chumley)
or 'Arry 'Awkins. Many English writers have done just this in sup
plying supposed American idioms for their American characters,
with disastrous results and many an English writer has writhed at
an American writer's laughable admixtures of supposed British idi-
oms and expressions with bald-faced Americanisms.
The use of only a minimum amount of dialect would be a good
working compromise. The dropped "h" in cockney, the "d" and "t"
substitutes for "th" in German, "y" substitute for "j" in Swedish,
* Written by Lewis and Marguerite Herman and published by Prentice-Hall.
the aspirate "uh" ending to final consonants (correctly used) in
Italian, the dropped final, glottal-stopped "t" in Scottish— these are
a few that may be used in foreign dialects. In American dialects, the
dropped Southern, Eastern, and Negro speech is valid,
final "r" in
together with the dropped "g" in the "ing" ending words, as in
"fightin' " and "doinV An occasional dropped "1," as in "he'p"
in the Southern dialect, together with a few other such helpful hints
to the actor, can be used provided they do not detract from the
understanding of the word's meaning. But dialect stress should be
made on the use of localismsand idiomatic expressions.
There an invaluable source of American idioms in the files of
is
the magazines American Speech and Dialect Notes. They contain

classified lists of idiomatic expressions, region by region, together
with, in many instances, treatises on the manner of pronunciation.
A course of study devoted to a careful, annotated survey of these
magazines could be invaluable to the writer who is serious enough
about his craft to strive for perfection.
But most important of all, the writer must develop, in addition
to his traditional photographic eye, a dictographic ear. He must
listen carefully to all foreign-speaking people and to all American-
dialect speaking individuals, and record their oddities of expression.
His notebook should have sections devoted to speech as well as cos-
tume, to local Americanisms as well as characteristic mannerisms.
He must realize that, in speech, he has a powerful and effective
means of delineating articulate mankind.
Foreign language dialogue
This discussion of the use of dialects in dialogue brings up another

important speech problem. Since the motion picture found its
tongue, the screen writer has been plagued with the ever recurrent
problem: How should the speech of foreign-language speaking char-
acters be treated for the most esthetically satisfying results? How,
for example, should two Parisian gendarmes be made to converse-
in their native French tongue, in a French-English dialect, or in
straight English?
This problem has been made particularly urgent today, because

of the emergence of a type of picture using a deliberately inter-
nationally slanted theme, with a story line enacted by players of
mixed national stocks, who speak a variety of languages. Recent
examples of The Search, Four in a Jeep,
this sort of picture include
The Last Chance and Marie-Louise. Earlier films in this genre were
Grand Illusion, Friendship, No Man's Land, and Jewels of the
Crown. All are European films.
In The Last Chance, more than eleven separate languages and
dialects were spoken, including straight British, British with a Scot-
tish accent, American, Italian, German (various dialects) Swiss,
,
Yiddish, French, and Serbian.

Faced with such multilingual characters and beleaguered by the
categorical imperatives of the average Hollywood producer, the
average Hollywood writer would have thrown out individual char-
acterization for the easier-to-write, easier-to-sell straight English dia-
logue. But the Swiss producers and screen writers of The Last
Chance were more courageous than their Hollywood brethren. They
chose the more difficult way. And the result was a better picture
than could have been produced in Hollywood.
For it cannot be argued that the picture was not artistically en-
hanced by the fact that its characters were made real through the
medium of real speech. No phony, labored dialects marred the char-
acterizations. There was no stretching of audience credulity, by
forcing English words from obviously unEnglish tongues. The
Frenchmen looked like Frenchmen, acted like Frenchmen, reacted
like Frenchmen and, what was most important, talked like French-
men. And the same could be said of all the other national charac-
ters. They were truly representative of their milieus.
But same time, The Last Chance-and the other inter-
at the
national pictures— suffered because of their reliance on multilingual
speech. They were hampered from achieving maximum success be-
cause of a basic shortcoming— few people in any audience are suffi-
ciently conversant with all the languages used in the pictures. So
subtitles translating the foreign dialogue were resorted to.
At best, this method
of conveying meaning is an inadequate make-
the audience's visual attention from the action to

shift. It distracts
the flow of a disconcerting, badly printed, ludicrously translated

stream of words. Of necessity, much of the action is lost, even in
momentary chunks, while the visual attention is being diverted from
the actors to the subtitles. Also, the painfully written and rewritten
lines, in their original language, would be completely ignored by
the subtitle translator, who is forced to compress a long speech into
just enough letters to fit into an exactly spaced subtitle segment.
Lou Holtz's story of the fellow who translated a character's prolix
spate of foreign verbiage into a monosyllabic English, "No," may be
apocryphal, but its counterpart can be viewed time and again in
many subtitled foreign films. What is even worse, entire speeches
are often completely ignored because of the whims of a lazy transla-
tor or the immutability of censorship, so that long stretches of film
flicker by unmeaningly.
Obviously, then, the printed subtitle is out of the question if per-
fection is to be achieved, if the inherent virtue of the finished picture
is to be realized. Attempts have been made at "lip syncing" (dub-
bing in actual voices) using translated versions of the foreign

speech. This seems to be the general practice for Hollywood pictures
distributed in foreign countries.
This method, too, is patently unsatisfactory. A character written
around the unique and established vocal antics of an actor such as,
say, Jack Oakie, could hardly be projected by the dubbed voice of
the so-so, but French, Henri Duval. The words would be there,
perhaps, but the characterization would remain with Oakie in
Hollywood.
Again, lip synchronization is a virtual impossibility because of
the divergent movements of the lips which, let us say, utter an Eng-
lish vowel sound while being shaped for an Italian lip consonant.
Such subterfuges are futile because they militate against the success
of matching the vocal sounds with the lip movements, which has
accounted for the perfection of the talking picture. It was the lack
of synchronization that prevented the talking picture from emerging
long before it actually did, and it was only after a method was
devised that made for perfect synchronization that the talking pic-
ture arrived. "Out-of-sync" talking pictures defeat the happy amal-
gam of sight and sound— they stutter.
How then can this language barrier be overcome? How is it
possible to retain the unquestioned virtues of foreign speech and

still convey sufficient meaning to a nonunderstanding audience with-
out detracting from the picture's visual message and without emas-
culating the screen writer's labors?
It is with human actions and reactions that the screen writer
can partially solve the vexing problem of foreign speech. The clue
to the former can be found in Shakespeare's Hamlet in his injunc-
tion to the players: "Suit the action to the word— the word to the
action."
For it is possible to write dialogue so that, although the words
may be gibberish to the audience, the accompanying actions of the
actor may present a revealing clue to the content of the words. Thus,
if the gist of the character's words is that he is stifling because of
the heat in the room, if his "business" is such that he unloosens his
collar, indicatesby his expressions that he is stifling, and then goes
to the window and throws it wide open, then the meaning of his
foreign speech should become obvious even to the most undiscern-

ing. This example, of course, is an oversimplification. But if such
business is written in by the screen writer it can aid considerably in
elucidating foreign speech.
Further speech clarification may be gained in the written-in busi-
ness, especially that of a character's reactions. This method can be
even more revelatory than the actions themselves. The content of
a foreign-language speech can be easily deduced from the reaction
to it of another character. Told that he should make certain that
a trunk can go through a doorway, a German porter can demon-
strate the content of the German lines simply by going through the
motions of measuring the width of the doorway with his hands and
then measuring the width of the trunk in similar fashion. A simple
nod head to indicate the job can be done, and the foreign
of the
speech becomes crystal clear.
More emphasis should be put on the use of pantomime in the
actions of characters who use foreign speech. Many scripts are too
wordy because pantomime is seldom indicated by the writer. Before

talking pictures arrived, pantomime was a prime requisite in every
script.Murnau's Last Laugh was presented without a single title
card, both relying entirely on pantomime. Chaplin reached his
zenith in acting strictly with pantomime and his sound pictures
have not added a whit to his stature. Pantomime is acting on an
international status. It can be understood by the Hottentot, the
Ainu, and the supposedly more civilized Man of the Western World.
.

It can convey more emotion than a word. It could obviate the
language lack were more of it to be written into a foreign-language

script.
But the most effective means of making the foreign language intel-
ligible lies in the actual writing of the dialogue itself; which is where
the role of the special writer must emerge. With only a bare, work-
ing knowledge of the foreign language to be used, he can inject
certain words into the foreign speech that could be easily understood
by most people.
The English word "chocolate," for example, has a similar-sound-
ing counterpart in almost every European language.
This does not mean that the writer should insert the word
"chocolate" into a script simply because it has international under-
standing. It is used here only as an example of thousands of other
words with similar universal pronunciation, words such as: "hotel,"
"impossible," "information," "monument," "minute," "moment,"
"national," "permission," "photograph," "police," "profession,"
"restaurant," "secretary," "service," "study," "telegram," "tele-
phone," "theater," "tobacco," and "uniform." The word "address"
can be found in a recognizable form in languages ranging from
French (I'addresse) through Dutch (het adres) to the Turkish
(adres).
Also, there are words common to many languages which, although
they may not be similar in spelling, retain similar meanings,
still
as with the exclamation "Stop!" In French, the word generally used

is halte, which is similar enough to the English word "halt" for
anyone conversant with the English language to understand. And

the French verb stopper makes the English "stop" understandable
to a Frenchman. Other languages use the following words: alto
(Spanish) halt (German)
; stoppen (Dutch) stopp (Swedish)
; ; ;
stop (Danish) stopp (Norwegian); stok (Lithuanian) and haltu

;
(Esperanto)
This knowledge can be used so that, instead of writing a charac-
ter's foreign language line to read "Where does he live?", in which
the verb "live" has few recognizable counterparts, the line would
be changed to "What's his address?" Thus, despite the fact that
most of the audience would be ignorant of the foreign words
"What's his," all would be aware of the word "address" and, from
it, understand the implication of the entire line.
WRITING THE SCREEN PLAY 2 Or
These are a few of the methods with which the language prob-
lem in screen-play writing can be overcome. Others may suggest
themselves to many. With them, and with industry, research, and
increased knowledge, there is no reason why, in the future, the
foreign-language speaking characters in scripts should not be en-
dowed with naturalness and realism, through the gift of tongues.
The dialogue hook
Suppose now, we get into the more practical aspects of dialogue

writing, with the purpose of presenting a script that will result in
a smooth-flowing picture.
Pictorial continuity can be aided considerably by a smooth flow
in dialogue continuity. It can also be interfered with if continuity
is lacking in the dialogue.
The basic principle, of course, is to make certain that there is a
continuous progression of cumulative ideas that make up the story
itself, of which the dialogue is only a part. This should take care
of dialogue continuity, and of transitions between shots, between

scenes, and between sequences.
But there is to be considered, also, the important element of con-
nective continuity between lines in the shot. For individual speeches
can be written so that they will be tied together in a smooth, con-
tinuous flow of verbal movement.
The device for achieving this smooth flow is the "dialogue hook."
Actually, it is simply a method that uses the closing words of a line
of dialogue as a hook, to connect with the opening words of the suc-
ceeding line of dialogue from another character.
Single word repetition. The repetition of a single word can be

used to hook into a previous speech, as in:
DAN
Well— I gotta go now.
Good-by, Dora.
DORA
Good-by?
DAN
Yes. There'sno sense for us to kick
each other around like this.
DORA
What about love?
DAN
What about love?
Line repetition. In the foregoing example, still another type of

hook can be seen in action— the repeated entire speech, but with a
different word emphasized, to indicate a difference in meaning.
At the same time, it illustrates another kind of dialogue hook—
the question that is answered with another question, without in-
cluding a reply to the original question.
The repeated words need not come at the end of a line. They
can be repeated in the body of the speech, as in this example:
HANK
Maybe he's come to ask for help.
VINNY
He's come to ask for something. We
can be sure of that.
Let us see how the dialogue hook operates in practice, with repe-
tition first.
FRANK
What's all this about?
TONY
About you, Frank.
Notice that, in the first speech, the closing word was "about." No-
tice also that in the succeeding speech, the word "about" was re-
peated as the initial word, causing it to be tied in with the preceding

line of speech.
.
WRITING THE SCREEN PLAY 2o7

Another example uses progression to tie together a series of
speeches.
TONY
We can take in the Riviera, Sue, and . .
SUE
(interrupting)
And Cannes, and Paris and . . .
TONY
(interrupting)
The whole works, yes!
The order of progression, in the above example, obviously carries

the ear from speech to speech, so that the effect is one of continua-
tion.
Still another example:
CY
He must be a tough guy!
STU
Yeah! a very tough guy!
The simplest, most often-used example can be found in the ques-

tion and answer form.
HAYNES
Why did you do it?
STRINE
I don't know why— I just did it,
that's all.
A question naturally calls for an answer. Therefore, the audience's

ears have been conditioned one and, in almost a reflex
to expect
action, subconsciously move forward with the question, and without
stopping to wait for the answer, flow into its comprehension.
a

When the question is followed by another question which calls
for still another answer, the effect is that of pyramiding the hook
device, as in:
BESS
Are you really upset about me?
KARL
No! why should I be?
BESS
Well— I just thought you would—
little, at least.
An ideal place to use the dialogue hook can come with groping,
unfinished speech, as in:
HELENE
(groping)
It's hard to explain, mother, it's . . .
well . . .
MOTHER
(with a smile)
The measles?
HELENE
(still groping)
Oh, no, mother! It's . . . oh . . .
MOTHER
It's love, dear. I know all the symptoms.
A line of speech that is in agreement, or in disagreement, with a

preceding line, will serve ideally as a dialogue hook, as in:
BLACKY
I was a damn fool, sheriff!
SHERIFF
Right the first time. You're getting
smart, Blacky.
BLACKY
You're wrong there. I'm not smart—
I'm just a dope, a lucky dope.
In the foregoing example, both types of hook were used, and the
hooking effect can be readily observed.
The hook can also be a combination of various hooking elements.
Let us take the following dialogue as an example:
SERGEANT
What took you so long?
PRIVATE
Stopped over at the mess tent for
some rations, Sarge. You know about
an army's traveling on its stomach.
Napoleon said it.
SERGEANT
So what?
PRIVATE
I say, if you travel on your stomach,
then feed it.
SERGEANT
And / say, if you don't stop feeding
your stomach, you'll soon be travel-
ing on your back— in a hearse.
Questions, answers, repetitions, cumulations, progressions, and

developments have all been incorporated as hooks in the above ex-
ample, so that the lines flow into each other and out of each other
from speech to speech.
The deliberate interruption can also be used as a hook, as in:
.
ELLEN
I know, but . . .
TOM
(interrupting savagely)
I don't want to talk about it!
ELLEN
But you've got to understand that . .
TOM
(interrupting again)
Oh! I understand— everything and I . . .
ELLEN
You're a stubborn mule! I'm through.
Despite the fact that an interruption— and especially the double

interruption of the previous example— breaks up the flow of speech,
it is hook because its suddenness, coupled with an im-
effective as a
mediate flow of speech from the interrupter, serves to pick up the
flow before it actually comes to a full stop and, at the same time,
couples the two speeches together.
Finally, there is a more subtle means of hooking together speeches.
This makes use of ideas rather than words. It calls for the planting
of ideas, their development, their building, and their capping, all
within the compass of a number of speeches. Although it is inad-
visable to do so, an idea development, from speech to speech, can
be hooked together without resorting to actual dialogue hooks. But
if there is an idea linkage, cemented together with dialogue hooks,
the result would be that smooth flow of verbal continuity so essen-

tial to a motion picture.
Speech length
It can be stated dogmatically that there is almost no place in mo-
tion-picture dialogue for long speeches. A long speech impedes ac-
tion. Short speeches increase it. Since action is the prime requisite of
WRITING THE SCREEN PLAY 2 H
every filmic element, the short speech, in the main, should be ad-
hered to.
That does not mean, however, that the dialogue should consist of
short, curt, pithy one-word and one-line speeches throughout. Nor
should the short speeches be written solely with words of one syl-
lable. But the preponderance of lines should be worded eco-
nomically, and should be as pithy as possible unless, of course, the
character of the person talking is one who is being portrayed as
verbose.
Long speeches can be used, but not to describe events and situa-
tions that could otherwise be told in action. Rather, they should be
used mostly to describe emotional states, thoughts, and other mate-
rial that cannot be portrayed by action.
Bergman was given a thir teen-minute peroration in Hitch-
Ingrid
cock's Under Capricorn. As usual, this long speech was part of the
picture's climax. And to prevent the story action from bogging down
to an inevitable was simulated by camera movement,
stop, action
character movement, change of image size, change of angle, reaction
cutaway shots from onlookers, and the like, all of which tended to
give some sort of continuous movement to what was, at best, a tour
de force.
Speech length regulates tempo. The tempo of the picture as a

whole can be regulated by the length of the individual speeches.
Thus, in scenes that require a quickened tempo, the speeches must
be short, the lines incisive, the words choppy, and the rejoinders
immediate and sharp.
Conversely, for scenes designed for a slower pace, the speeches
should be longer, the lines more leisurely, and the words less con-
cise than in the faster paced shots.
Stream of consciousness
At certain times in a screen play, it may be necessary to supplant

spoken dialogue with unspoken thoughts. The most effective
method of depicting thought processes in motion pictures is by
means of pictorial action. A person's thoughts can be determined
to a great extent by the manner in which he acts. But there is still
another, more specific technique for presenting a character's inner
thoughts. It makes use of what is known as "inner monologue" or
"stream of consciousness."
From Shakespeare's day to the Victorian era, this inner mono-
logue was given in the form of soliloquy "asides." That is, all stage
action was stopped to permit the inner monologist to turn his head
from the other characters and give verbal vent to his thoughts.
Today such crudities have been mercifully junked. Instead, de-
pendence is put on the pictorial action that is the result of causative
thought. But, at certain times, spoken inner thoughts have been
portrayed as such, while all action stops, and the character, in close-
up, meditates on his mental woes. O'Neill's stage play Strange
Interlude was one long series of such interior monologues. The tech-
nique was carried over into the screen play. The result was a picture
that was as jerky as a horse's fly-pestered haunch. When the char-
acters were "acting" it moved, but when they "thought" it stopped
completely.
Use stream of consciousness sparingly. The best advice regarding

the inner monologue is this— don't use it. But if you must, use it
correctly. Use it as James Joyce did in his book Ulysses. Study his
techniques in giving the thought processes of Leopold Bloom and
Stephen Dedalus. Make especial note of his broken speeches.
The Russian director Eisenstein foresaw great possibilities for
motion pictures in Joyce's interior monologue devices. But he was
aware of the fact that, unless skill and aptitude were used in por-
traying these rambling inner monologues, the result would be noth-
ing more than an action-stopping, theatrical soliloquy.
Memory recall thoughts. There are certain times, however, when

a memory recall may be injected into a script with excellent effects.
If a certain graphic phrase or sentence is to be remembered by the
character, it may be given— usually through an electronic filter— as
a sort of off-stage voice. A character may have been gibed by an-
other character, with a remark such as "You're weak. You'll never
do it!" Some time later, when the gibed character is about to do
what he had been told he could never do, the memory recall of the
giber's voice, through filter, mockingly calling out, "You're weak!
You'll never do it! You're weak! You'll never do it!" can be inserted
WRITING THE SCREEN PLAY 21$
to represent the character's thoughts, and can be used by him as an

incentive, or a deterrent, either to do or not to do what he is about
to do.
Monologue
Another device that should be discarded by pictures is the exterior
monologue. When the character is alone, the monologue is, at best,
an anachronism that should have gone out with high-button shoes.
It stops action, it is unrealistic, it offers gratuitously information
that could just as well have been presented pictorially and, there-
fore, more effectively.
The monologue may have some legitimacy when used as a long
speech in reply to another character's cue line, and when that char-
acter is still on scene. In Brief Encounter, the unfaithful wife's ver-
bal maunderings somehow retain reality, because they are supposed
to show that she is trying to imagine how she is going to tell her
husband the story of her brief encounter with love. But this is a de-
vice that can be used only rarely.
Motivate monologue. If you must use a monologue, be sure that

it is well motivated. The monologue can gain credence from the fact
that it is being spoken as a fervent prayer, for example. A number
of other similar situations present themselves: a child can give a
monologue grandmother to her sleeping grandchild;
to her doll; a
a man image in the mirror. But whatever
to his dog; a girl to her
the situation, it must be one that enhances the monologue with at
least an aura of credibility and audience acceptance. Unmotivated
monologues are entirely unrealistic, and since realism is one of the
prime requisites of motion-picture dialogue, unmotivated mono-
logues deserve to be allowed to rest in peace, together with many
other outmoded theatrical trappings of the past.
Dialogue realism
What is realistic dialogue? Obviously it should consist of words used

by real people, reacting to real situations, in a manner that creates
sympathy between the characters and the audience, so that they will
be accepted by the audience as being true to real life.
But the screen-play writer cannot write dialogue that is absolutely
true to life and expect it to accomplish his purposes. For were he to
reproduce the actual speech of average people, the result would be
a hodge-podge of halting, half-finished, verbiage. Dialogue would
meander down inconsequential bypaths, lose audience interest, and,
certainly stray dangerously from the strict but necessary injunction
that every word of dialogue must contribute something to the char-
acter or plot development to warrant its use.
Realism compromise. Hence the screen-play writer must compro-

mise with what is actual realism in order to achieve an effect of
realism that will carry the story forward, develop character, and re-
tain audience interest.
Dialogue selectivity. Once again, this can be accomplished only

by creative selectivity. It is absolutely necessary that the screen-play
writer possess the ability to eliminate all nonessentials of speech,
to highlight only those elements that move the story, actuate the
characters, or entertain the audience— to write dialogue, in other
words, that does not present actual speech, but rather represents it,
realistically and dramatically.
Dialogue ungrammatical. To do this, the writer must always keep

in mind the fact that people do not always talk with grammatical
precision, even if they are college professors who teach courses in
advanced English.
The normal grammatical word order in the English language has
the subject come first, the predicate next, and the modifier follow-
ing. "He walked away."
In the average colloquial speech, however, the word order varies
considerably from the grammatical norm. Modifying phrases that
would normally come at the end of a sentence are often used as
sentence beginnings. "That paper— over there, I mean— bring it to
me, will you?"
Use dialogue tags. Colloquial speech is full of little tags and ver-
bal formulas. A study of Joyce's Ulysses— in the interior monologue
—should be quite fruitful in supplying any number of these inverted

tags and formulas to the screen-play writer who conscientiously
desires to write realistic dialogue asit is spoken by real people.
For only with realistic dialogue that the actor, through the
it is
screen-play writer, can hope to establish contact with his audience,

so that what he says will give them the effect of having been spoken
by him for the first time, instead of having been memorized and re-
hearsed time and again. It is only solid, realistic dialogue writing
that can furnish a sense of immediacy to what is being said.
Overtones. Although the screen-play writer should be vitally con-

cerned with realism in his dialogue, he must consider other dialogue
requirements which should accomplish their purpose without de-
tracting from realism. One of these important considerations is the
matter of dialogue overtones.
In music, overtones are those residual higher tones that continue
after a certain, complex tone has been sounded. In dialogue, over-
tones are those residual ideas that are connoted, or suggested, by a
statement not directly describing the overtone ideas. Thus even the
most vacuous of remarks can be charged with a significance that is
not immediately recognizable in a line of speech.
For example, take the simple word "no." Stated plainly, it implies
what it means— a retort in the negative. But this word may have
many derivative overtones. "No," in reply to a startling statement
would imply disbelief. In an unsure reply to a question, the "no"
would be given an overtone of halting dubiousness. "No," in reply
to a question calling for a strong negative answer, would be given
with emphatic crispness.
In the sentence, the same principle applies. The statement,
"Well, I think I'll leave," could be applied to dozens of varying
situations but with varying overtones. Consider the long-hair music

aficionado, who is being bored at a be-bop concert. His manner of
saying, "Well, I think I'll leave," would vary considerably from
the manner in which it would be spoken by a man who suddenly
sees his girl's husband enter a room in which the husband's head
had just been gayly festooned with horns. Consider, also, the dif-
ference in overtones in the same line spoken by an escaped convict
who is surrounded by the police, and is about to take another
French leave. And how would that same line be spoken by a
2l6 A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWRITING
dubious but willing girl who has been invited to take a drive into
the country with a noted rake?
Dialogue directions. The only way for the screen-play writer to be

sure that the proper overtones result from an actor's reading of his
line is to indicate his meaning with an interpretive direction. Thus,
in the first example, the line would be written out, "Well, I think
I'll leave," but added to it, in parentheses, would be the direction
(bored). The second example would necessitate that (sheepishly)

be included after the line, the third (harshly) and the fourth (du-
,
biously) .
Many actors and directors resent these intrusions into their inter-
pretive bailiwick on the part of the screen writer. But unfortunately
there are many actors who require these interpretive signposts.
And if the screen-play writer wants to insure that his lines will re-
ceive the interpretation he feels they require, he should see that his
intention is always made crystal clear to the actors. The good actor
—the actor who respects his craft and the ability of the writer— will
accept these directions, at least at their face value. If they give him
even a minute clue to interpretation, he will be grateful to the
writer for having supplied it.
Avoid gratuitous directions. There are many instances, however,

when such interpretive suggestions (and that is all they should be)
are unnecessary. Certainly it would be completely redundant (and
insulting to the actor) to tag the statement "You're a damned
liar!" with an (angrily) direction. Where
meaning is explicit,
the
and where the manner of interpretation is obvious from the sense
of the words, these interpretive suggestions should be avoided. But
where there is any doubt regarding the manner of interpretation—
where, in other words, there can be varying overtones— then, by all
means, state specifically the interpretation you feel the lines require.
Although not mandatory, it is best to keep these interpretive
it is
directions as uniform as possible. The participial adverb is the

most feasible, for it can be tied in with the same grammatical con-
struction in which action directions are couched.
WRITING THE SCREEN PLAY 21 7
Indirection
A very effective technique for dialogue economies can be found in

the device of indirection. This device has a double result: it can
economize in dialogue on the one hand, and at the same time it can
flatter the audience by permitting them to reach certain conclusions
independently. In addition, the shock value of indirection is in-
tellectually stimulating and, therefore, entertaining.
In My Favorite Wife, for example, as Ellen takes a shower, her
mother, in a close-up, and obviously looking at her daughter's nude
body off scene, is made to say, "My! Ellen! you're all brown!" This,
in addition to having the afore-mentioned results, gave the audi-
ence a titillating picture of Ellen in the nude, without actually
showing her in that censorable condition.
This sort of dialogue indirection can be used quite effectively, es-
pecially in those situations where a shot of what is being discussed
is a pictorial impossibility. But once again, it cannot be used indis-
criminately. It is a device which, when used judiciously, can have

positive effects but which, when overused, would be deleterious to
the effect desired.
Dialogue punctuation
A very important consideration in the writing of screen-play dia-

logue is the insertion of proper punctuation marks. This may appear
to be information of the most elemental nature. But punctuation,
in dialogue especially, has a definite purpose. It can give the actor
a positive indication of the writer's ideas about the dialogue inter-
pretation. At the same time, it can furnish him with the writer's
suggestions for pacing.
Anexample of how a change in meaning can be effected with a
change in comma placement should prove how important dialogue
punctuation can be. Take the well-known sentence, "Woman, with-
out her, man is a beast." Were comma to be shifted over
the second
one word, so that the line read, "Woman, without her man, is a
beast," the meaning would be entirely different.
2l8 A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWRITING
Reading punctuation vs. acting punctuation. This fact must be
understood and used in dialogue writing: an actor's conception of
punctuation differs considerably from the ordinary reader's concep-
tion. The actor uses punctuation as signposts for sight reading. He
uses punctuation to give him an idea as to where and how he should
breathe. He paces his interpretation according to the punctuation
given him.
For that reason, some sort of punctuation system must be devised
by the screen-play writer, and then strictly adhered to, so that con-
sistency can be maintained throughout.
The following system has been found completely workable and
sufficient in variety to give the actor the necessary clues:
The period should be used to indicate a complete stop.
The comma, on the other hand, should signify only a breath stop,
a one-count pause between phrases or between cataloguing words.
A longer pause should be indicated by a dash or, if desirable, by
a series of three dots.
Three dots should be used to terminate a broken speech, one that
is left dangling in mid-air.
One injunction: When writing a speech that is to be faded out
and then segued into either a sound effect or another speech, make
certain to give the sound department sufficient wordage so that an
effective coupling can be made.
The underlined word, to indicate emphasis, should be used spar-
ingly,and only when there may be some doubt as to the exact word
to be accented for emphasis. See italicized words on page 206, in
dialogue hooks, for an example in which underlining for emphasis
was essential.
The usual punctuation marks for exclamations and questions
should be used.
All other punctuation marks— colons, semicolons, dash series, and
so on— should be avoided.
Interjections
A very important device for imparting realism to dialogue is the

interjection. Few people begin their speeches without some sort of
WRITING THE SCREEN PLAY 2 1Q
interjection, on the order of "well," "so," "oh," and so on. That is

because real people are not so quick-witted as they are represented
in the average screen play. Replies to questions, comebacks, quips,
and the like, do not come to their lips immediately. As a result, they
begin to answer by using an interjection, which gives them time
enough to think up an answer. Eventually they fall into the habit of
resorting to it, even when it is not necessary, so that it becomes an
identifying tag. Such tags can be used for character identification in

dialogue. But they must not be permitted to intrude too often, or
the effect will be lost in ludicrousness.
As a matter of fact, screen-play writers themselves are prone to
fallinto these same faults of interjection repetitions, especially with
the word "well." Care should be taken that all of the writer's
unnecessary "wells" and "ohs" are deleted from the dialogue when
polishing and revising the script.
Dialogue revision
Once the dialogue has been completely written, the writer should
drop the script for a while. He
should disassociate himself from it,
so as to rid his mind of all elements. The purpose here is to
its
achieve an attitude of objectivity about his own work. For the writer
is prone to fall into certain patterns of writing. Unless these patterns
are broken, he will find, when the time comes for script revisions,
that he is unable to throw off the patterns and, thus, is incapable
of revision.
This done, he should then begin to read his dialogue aloud. He
should do this with one hand cupped to his ear, as actors do, so as
to hear himself better. If possible, he should read— acting as best he
knows how— into a recording machine, shot by shot. Then, on the
playback, he should listen intently for the following dialogue faults.
Superfluity. First draft screen plays are usually replete with su-
perfluous verbiage. Trim off every word that does not add something
—character, story, or entertainment— to the picture. If you know
that a joke was added only for a laugh and also that it holds up the
action, use the blue pencil. Out with itl The screen-play writer must
be ruthless with his own work. The small voice of conscience, some-
how, will operatewhenever a wrong word or phrase is used, or when
a joke is inserted where it should not be. Mark these places with an
"x," or with a colored pencil, so that when the time comes for
revision you will know exactly where the objectionable spots are.
A second reading of them will almost always convince you that your
original reaction was the true one.
Repetition. Carelessly repeated words are, perhaps, the most fre-

quent of dialogue errors. An attempt should be made to eliminate
repetition, especially when the repeated words or phrases are close
to each other. In the following example,
JOE:
I'll say she is!
FRANK:
Say! where'd she go?
the repetition of "say" awkward. Its complete elimination would

is
do no harm to the dialogue.Watch, also, for the unwarranted repe-

tition of names. This is a common failing in most writers of dialogue
and should be checked for constantly. However, be sure to identify
new characters by their names, in the dialogue, at their entrances.
Repetition, of course, is welcome when it is used designedly for
dialogue-hook purposes.
Length. Check No matter how important its

for speech length.
contents may have appeared any long speech can be trimmed
at first,
down without destroying the meaning. Make certain that these long
speeches will be given pictorial pace with visual action, with camera
and character movement, with changes in image size and angle, with
reaction cutaways and the like. Break up most long speeches with
interjections, questions, or any of the devices mentioned under
dialogue hooks on pages 205-210.
Rhyming. Words that rhyme with other words in the same speech,
have a tendency to creep into dialogue. These should be rewritten
so that the rhyme is broken. Rhyming words call unnecessary atten-
tion to themselves, and thus dissipate audience attention.
Singsong. The same objection applies to the accidental use of a

too regular, singsong beat in dialogue lines. The regularity of the
beat should be broken, so that the attention-getting words will not
lose out to an extraneous element.
Alliteration. Alliterative tongue twisters are to be avoided in dia-

logue lines. They can becomesevere hazards to actors, who often
fluffthem, thus necessitating additional shot-takes. Eventually they
will be changed by the actor himself, by the director, or by the
dialogue director. It is to your best interests, and to the interests of
your work, that you make these changes yourself and thus be assured
that the substitutions will not be made ineptly.
Telephone dialogue
There has never been a directive regarding the use of telephone
conversations in pictures, and the manner in which they are to be
written into screen plays and, eventually, shot.
Judging from the procedures now used, telephone conversations
are written, directed, and edited according to the whims of the
three craftsmen involved. In one picture a number of treatments
may be used: (1) a conversation in which we see and hear only one
of the telephone pair conversing, usually the person on whom the
camera is focused; (2) a cutaway from the person making the call
the instant contact is made with the one being called, and then
holding the camera and sound only on the second person's ques-
tions and answers; (3) a conversation in which we hear the person
seen on the screen, talking with the person on the other end of the
wire, without hearing what the unseen person says; (4) the same
as number three, above, but with the voice of the person at the
other end of the wire being heard through a telephonic filter; (5) a
cutaway shot to the person at the other end of the line, in which
we hear and see him talking, and hear but do not see the person
who made the call originally, through a telephonic filter; (6) a
conversation in which we see and hear the people at both ends of
the wire, by means of direct alternate cuts from one to the other;
and (7) a conversation in which we see and hear both parties on
the screen at the same time, by means of a split-screen camera
technique.
When methods are used in the same picture, the
several of these
result can become rather confusing. Even if the audience does not
react confusedly, an element that could add to the over-all effect of
unity and coherence is being deliberately neglected.
The better screen writer does not gloss over such details. He
knows that every element in his picture must contribute something
to the over-all effect, and that any element that can contribute some-
thing to that over-all effect should not be ignored. He knows that a
motion picture is the result of pasting together film clips containing
thousands of such some of which may appear completely
details,
insignificant in themselves. He knows that if he gives the proper
attention to all these details, he stands a chance of adding a better
screen credit to his list.
It is details if misused, make for vague dis-

such as these which,
Quite often, after seeing a picture, audi-
satisfactions in audiences.
ences are unable to put their fingers on exactly what it was that
made the picture unsatisfactory.
This vagueness, though, is not the result of a subtle intangible.
It is rooted in errors brought about by an indifference to seemingly
minor details. The reasons for dissatisfaction are unrecognizable to

an audience because they are not sufficiently cognizant of the tech-
nical faults to be able to recognize them as such. Obvious and
glaring mistakes are often easily identified, but what the audience
believes are intangibles are actually minor details ineptly handled.
Use consistent phone dialogue. The screen writer, then, should

decide what method of telephone dialogue he would like to see used
in his picture. Having done that, he should adhere to that method
consistently throughout the picture. The director, then, must shoot
the shots the way the script is written, particularly if the dialogue
is so germane to the action that it can be shot in no other way. And
the film editor, in the same way, having been supplied with certain
obligatory shots, can do nothing but cut them in the way the direc-
tor shot them, which was also the way the script writer indicated.
The choice of methods, insofar as the writer is concerned, depends
on the importance of the dialogue, and the effect he would like to
achieve on the audience.
For instance, in a mystery story it may be necessary to withhold
an important clue from the audience. This clue is to come from one
WRITING THE SCREEN PLAY 22$
of the parties to the telephone conversation. Only one of the people

then can be shown at the phone— the detective, let us say. But the
carrier of the clue, to whom he talking, will not be shown, nor
is
will his clue-carrying dialogue be heard on the sound track.

Replies to questions put by the person calling on the phone may
not be of sufficient importance to the story to warrant hearing. This
may be in a situation in which the character calling on the phone
does so only to get out of camera emphasis range, so that the camera
can accentuate some other aspect of the scene; or in a situation in
which a person is making a series of calls to various places, when
it is not important to see or hear the person making the replies. In
the situation where a series of calls are made, if the last call brings
forth an important story point, then it would be a good idea to let
the audience see and hear both sides of the conversation.
If the replies are important, but if the person making them is
unimportant to the story— as would be the case, for instance, were
one of the characters to call a railroad station for information re-
garding trains— then we need only see and hear the person making
the call, and we need only hear the voice of the person at the other
end of the wire through a telephonic filter.
But in situations in which both people taking part in the phone
conversation are important to the story— and particularly if what
they say is pertinent to the story-line development— then both par-
ticipants should be seen and heard, by means of a series of alter-
nating direct shots.
This can be done in two ways, each method depending on the
degree of importance of the character, and of what he says. If, for
instance, it is necessary to show the reaction of a telephone con-
versation participant to what he hears, then, by all means, he should
be both seen and heard simultaneously. But if the reaction is not
too essential, the scene can be written and played so that, by means
of alternating direct cuts, we see one person on the phone, hear his
question, and then hear the reply by way of a telephonic filter, with-
out being necessary to cut away, visually, to the person making
its
the answers. Then, when we do cut away to him, we can repeat the
process by having the audience see and hear him answering the
questions, and, at thesame time, by having them hear only the per-
son putting the questions, by way of a telephonic filter.
Only when it is absolutely necessary that the audience see and
hear the combined reactions of both participants in the telephone
conversations should the split-screen device be used. For, at best,
this is a camera trick that has no legitimate place in a realistic story.
Quick, alternating cutaways from party to party, without resorting
to the use of the telephonic filter, can almost accomplish the effect
desired. And when a quickened pacing is called for, the alternating
cutaways is far more effective than the split screen.
series of short-clip
Thus, only by alternating shots as described above, can a unified
pattern of shots be achieved that will be both credible and estheti-
cally pleasing, as far as the general pattern of the picture is con-
cerned.
Dialogue cutaways
A situation may occur in a screen play where it will be necessary to

cut away from the scene of action to another scene, to show what
is taking place there.
This is a device that can be used in a number of instances. For
example, the dialogue information may be repetitive. That is to
say, a character may have to detail to a newcomer certain happen-
ings which the audience has already seen. To avoid awkward and
boring repetition, it is advisable to have the repetition start— only
to identify it— and then have it cut off sharply as the action is cut
away to something happening somewhere else.
Then again, the story line may make it advisable to switch action
locales, in order to avoid being forced to tell the audience of some
plot point which might destroy suspense. Thus, before the crook,
whom the detective has just collared, can tell the audience that the
head crook is to be found at the docks, in order to keep this informa-
tion from the audience and to sustain suspense, the scene would be
switched just at the point where the crook is about to divulge the
whereabouts of his chief. Then, perhaps, we could cut to the chief,
at his hide-out, going about some of his nefarious business. Then,
when we cut back to the detective and his singing captive, we could
find them in a car on their way to the docks.
There are a number of other places in which the cutaway can be
used, and they were treated in the section cutaways. But here
we are dealing only withwhat should happen to the dialogue in
a cutaway.
For example, if the cutaway is made at a certain point in the
dialogue, where in the dialogue should the cutback to the original
scene be picked up? Should allowances be made to cover a lapse of
time? Or should the dialogue pick up immediately where it was
severed for the cutaway?
Here again the answer can be made by the director or the film
editor. Ordinarily the director would shoot the entire scene at one
time. The film editor would insert the cutaway and then, in his
cutback, pick up with the dialogue at his discretion. But the screen
writer can more or less force the hands of both the director and the
film editor by writing in the dialogue so that it cannot be shot or
edited in any way other than the one indicated in the script.
The answer to the problem of cutaway dialogue is to be found in
the fact that although the audience accepts the convention that
while one action is going on a direct cut can be made to another
action which supposed to be going on simultaneously, a certain

is
amount of time will have elapsed during the presentation of that

simultaneous action. The audience then will retain— in addition to
a feeling of simultaneity— an actual knowledge that some time has
gone by.
Now, compensate for that knowledge so that it will mesh with
to
the feeling of simultaneity, it is good practice not to pick up with
dialogue in the cutback at the exact point where it was previously
broken off. Instead, it is advisable to leave the audience with the
impression that enough dialogue and time have elapsed to cover
the cutaway.
For in spite of the accepted convention, time does not stand still.
And the audience will be left with the false impression that the
original scene has been frozen in time to allow for the cutaway, if
the cutback picks up at the exact point at which it broke off.
To make sure, then, that the director will not shoot the entire
dialogue, and thus supply the film editor with enough footage to
make do not furnish the director with the dialogue
this mistake,
which you want dropped during the lapse of time.
Write only enough dialogue to cover the story line in the original
scene. Cut it off at the point you feel is appropriate. Then write the
cutaway scene— dialogue and action. That done, cut back to the
original scene, but do not pick up the dialogue at the point at
which you cut it. Instead, time the action and dialogue of the cut-
away scene, determine the amount of both that would have taken
place in that time, and then start the dialogue in the cutback scene
so as to allow for that timed hiatus. In that way, the director can
shoot only what action and dialogue you have given him.
This is not possible, however, if you are writing your screen play
in master scenes. Here the director will shoot the entire scene. The
film editor, in turn, can throw in a cutaway scene without worrying
about the time lapse.
Writing character action
Because motion pictures are basically a medium for movement, the

screen-play writeris confronted with a double problem: that of
furnishing verbal descriptions of character actions and movement

and, in addition, of camera actions and movement. The latter func-
tion, as has been explained, has been considerably curtailed for the
writer. The camera is a machine that, somehow, does not exist as
far as the average screen-play writer is concerned. Fortunately, the

task of describing character actions has been retained by him. Al-
though, gradually— because of exigencies developed by stage-set de-
mands, and, therefore, unknown to the writer when he began to
work on his script— even these character directions have been tam-
pered with and deviated from.
Nevertheless, by and large, the screen-play writer still retains the
prerogative of furnishing character-movement descriptions. And
until some unassailable substitute can be devised by the higher-ups,
he will continue to do so.
Many directors, though, resent the writer's action directions, with
the charge that they tend to confuse their own conception of the
action required. But at the same time, a majority of the directors
are grateful— albeit not vocally— for whatever action descriptions are
furnished by the writer. And the more explicit those directions, the
more grateful they feel.
Describe action thoroughly. The screen-play writer, then, should

write out in as much detail as possible every physical action and
reaction of every character in the shot. No matter how insignificant
or how obvious that action may appear to be at first glance, it must
be written into the script. Just as it is the rare director who can
handle crowds— such as De Mille and Mamoulian-so it is the rare
screen-play writer who can furnish the detailed action directions
necessary to the judicious movement of a number of people in the
same shot.
Describe actions exactly. These character actions must be more

than quantitative— they must be qualitative as well. Not only must
they describe all the actions, they must describe them exactly. It is
not enough simply to indicate that "Joe crosses to Willa." Joe crosses
in a certain way that is characteristic of him, and of him only, at
that particular moment, and it may change the very next moment
because of a shift in circumstances. Joe may "amble nonchalantly
across to Willa," or he may "cross quickly, confidently to Willa."
But at no time should he simply cross.
For in the screen play the adjective and adverb are vitaland
effective tools of the writer. They are the most expressive means of
conveying to the actor, through the director, what the writer has
in mind for that character. Explicitness is the key word.
This explicitness, however, must be accomplished economically.
In fiction writing, the writer can be as discursive and prolix as he
desires. He can afford to characterize action by the use of similes,
tropes, and poetic comparisons. But in screen-play writing, the pur-
pose of description is not to give reading pleasure, but rather to
impart information. Therefore, all directions must be absolutely
direct.
Joe does not cross to Willa, "like a wounded bird," or "as though
he were frightened by the specter of the consequences." On the other
hand, it may be necessary to use similes when there is no word to
describe the action exactly. Thus, it would be better to say, "he
crosses to Willa as though he were treading on eggs," rather than
"He crosses to Willa with caution."
The point is that the physical screen play is not primarily a
medium of expression. Its basic purpose is to convey information
from the writer to the actor which the actor can use in interpreting
his role. The writer, then, should use every device at his command
to convey that information as clearly and as briefly as possible. The
wisecrack, if it must be used, should be reserved for the treatment
or the dialogue. But the character action should be all business.
Act it out. Just as the writer should read his dialogue aloud in
order to determine how it may sound, so should he go through the
gesturesand movements he writes in for his characters, and deter-
mine how they may appear visually. In this way he can discover
which movements are extraneous, which are missing, and which are
overdone, and adjust his directions accordingly.
Present-tense directions. These directions, like the treatment,

should be written in the present tense, as though the writer were
describing an action that is actually taking place.
Other than the factor of suggesting immediacy, and because it
has become standardized practice, the present tense should be uni-

versally applied both to the action and the reaction descriptions.
Actual action descriptions should be written into the body of the
directions section (see section under format) But the reaction
.
directions should be written in parentheses, under the name of the

character speaking, and immediately before his speech begins, as in:
JOE
(grinning sardonically)
That's what you think, Willa.
Participial present. These directions should be written in parti-

cipial form. This should be done not only for the sake of consistency,
but also because it is more economical, verbally, to say, "smiling"
rather than "he smiles" or "Joe smiles" or "Joe begins to smile."
Here again, though, the participial should receive a qualitative ad-
verb indicating the exact way in which the reaction is to be made.
Merely to say "grinning" would leave the actor bewildered as to the
exact interpretation he is to give. He could grin "ironically," "grim-
ly," "wanly," "warmly," "disparagingly," in fact, in almost as many
ways as there are adverbs. Once again, explicitness is the key word.
These dialogue directions and reactions should not include direc-
tions for physical body movement— crosses, arm movements, and so
on. These belong in the body of the directions section. A general
WRITING THE SCREEN PLAY 22Q
rule to follow is this: (1) Descriptions of movements of the body
above the neck should be given under the character-name heading;
(2) descriptions of movements of the body below the neck are to
be given in the body of the directions sections.
When a number of above-the-neck directions are to be given in
one speech, the format to follow is this:
JOE
(grinning sardonically)
That's what you think, Willa.
(the grin dissolving to a
frown of curiosity)
But do you? How do I know what
you think?
(the frown slowly changing
to an expression of cunning)
I know how to make sure, though.
Yes, I know how.
When it is necessary to combine an above-the-neck direction with

a below-the-neck one, the format changes, so that it would be pre-
sented as follows:
WILLA
(fearfully cringing)
What are you going to do, Joe?
She backs away, her hands brought up to her breast, as though

ready to push him away.
(continuing, her fear
mounting)
Joe! don't! Don't look at me that

way!
(her eyes close and her
mouth gapes as she emits
an anguished sigh)
Oh, no! no!
The above rules are admittedly not in general practice. As a

matter of fact, screen-play writers use no fixed rules. But they are
presented here only in the interests of uniformity and consistency.
23O A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAY WRITING
Used universally— as are script formats— the actor and director could
realize at a glancewhat are bodily action directions, and what are
facial expression reactions.
Another rule could be to confine the action directions written
under the character-name heading to facial expression descriptions,
and speech quality descriptions only, and to put all other action
descriptions in the body of the directions section. At no time,
though, should a character's bodily action, such as walking, crossing,
be written anywhere but in the body of the directions
falling, etc.,
section. Whichever ruleis followed, it should be done consistently,
so that uniformity and, thus, instant clarity will result.
Action before speech. Because the audience's eyes are quicker than
their ears, it is and gestures be indicated before
essential that actions
the lines of speech. Thus, were necessary to show a girl slapping
if it
a man's face, the directions would be written as follows:
WILLA slaps Joe's face.

WILLA
That's what I think of you, Joe
Hazlitt!
Delayed reactions. At certain times— especially after an important

plot revelation has been made, either visually or verbally— it is more
effective to delay the effect after the cause has been exposed, by in-
serting some sort of dilatory action. Instead of indicating that the
character respond to the revelation immediately— either vocally or
by physical reaction—prepare the audience for it; "milk" the effect,
in other words, by furnishing the character with some routine activ-
ity, either one which the revelation interrupted or a completely new
one. When his capping "effect" speech is given, simply have him
stop what he is doing and then give the speech.
This was done beautifully in The 39 Steps when the head spy
revealed his identity to Donat by holding up his hand and exposing
his little finger, amputated at the second joint. Donat's initial reac-
tion to this was to continue sipping his cup of tea. Then his eyes
widened, and his lips parted, to express his sudden bewilderment.
This technique adapts the effective comedy "double-take" device
to the dramatic. Like its prototype, it should be used only sparingly
—at dramatic high spots— to be most effective.
WRITING THE SCREEN PLAY 2 g,
Exits and
entrances. Character exits and entrances do not neces-
sarily have to be made into a room from a door. To conserve time
by telescoping— provided, of course, the door entrance is not vital to
the suspense or to other script requirements— such exits and en-
trances can be effected on a close-up of another character or a set
prop. After establishing the opening of a door with a sound effect
(to which the person in close-up can react) the character can be
,
shown entering the shot from the direction of the door, off scene,
or exiting from it in the direction of the door off scene. Anything of
this sort that can compress and telescope action, so that only the
vital action remains, contributes toward the all-important require-
ment of the forward flow of continuity.
Crossing actions. When an action direction indicates that a charac-

ter is from one place to another, the screen-play writer must
to cross
consider certain results. If by crossing he leaves another character
off center in the frame composition, and if the camera is not to pan
the crossing character, then some compensation must be made in
order to frame the remaining character, and thus retain a pleasing
composition. Hence, it is necessary (although seldom practiced) to
do one of two things: (1) indicate that the camera re-center the
remaining character with a slight pan adjustment, or (2) suggest
that the remaining character "dress the stage," as it is termed in the
theater, and center himself at a predetermined spot marked for him
on the floor.
Action for children. Action directions for child actors— especially

extremely young ones— require special consideration. The average
child actor, no matter how mimicry may be, is woefully
effective his
movement. Unless they are shot can-
deficient in matters of physical
did, and not candied, their inexperience and lack of stage presence
becomes magnified when they are given physical movements.
The acting of Jackie Coogan in Chaplin's The Kid; of the tow-
headed boy in The Fallen Idol; of the brown-eyed Italian boy in
Bicycle Thief; of the ragamuffins in the Russian Bezshprzhniki-
these were all shot by directors who knew how to handle children.
They realized that children act when they are told to. But when
they are caught off guard-when they are directed by indirection, by
being given something to do which is not necessarily in line with
2^2 A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWRITING
the script's action, but which is comparable to it in terms of a child-

hood experience— then children can turn in exquisite, fresh, and
tremendously effective performances. This, though, is part of the
director's function.
Consider children's limitations. The screen-play writer, however,

can make the director's task easier, by considering the limitations of
most child actors. Simplicity should be the rule. The directions
should be written in simple, understandable terms. The expression
changes should not be those resulting from deep-seated, complex
compulsions, but rather from those within the scope of a child's
ability and understanding. Simple similes may be used, but only
those that are in the sphere of a child's experience. He should not
be given too much "business" but, at the same time, some sort of
prop should be provided for him— something to keep him occupied
and to detract his attention from the fact that he is acting.
Animal action directions. There are similar rules to follow when

writing in action directions for animals. Most animal actions are
shot either by indirection or ad lib. The dog that is supposed to run
out of the shot to its screen master actually runs to its real master,
who is holding a dog biscuit for it off scene. The dog that tugs at
the little boy's coat to warn him of danger knows nothing of what
he is doing, and accomplishes its action only after arduous training
by its master. So do not call for tricks that would require a long
period of time to teach. Indicate only the simplest of actions for

animals.
Completely avoid calling for expressions and expression changes.
This may sound like unnecessary advice, but one producer is known
to have written into a script, "The dog looks up appealingly at its
master. Then it turns its head as if to tell him it wants to leave.
Then it looks up and tears come from its eyes."
Animals must be tricked into performing. Their work, at best, is
spotty, despite the seeming ease with which they accomplish their
tricks on the screen. Those effortless tricks, however, are the result
of hours of back-breaking labor and expert film editing. The act
of photographing one dog's rising on its hind legs and putting its
front legs on a boy's shoulders consumed four hours of shooting
time.
The screen-play writer should acquaint himself with the standard

tricks anormal animal can do, and then improvise. Dogs can swim,
for instance, butmost of them cannot swim across a wide river, as
they are supposed to do in many sequences. The trick here is to
indicate a shot of the dog entering the water, another one of it
swimming in the water, and a third of it climbing out of the river
onto the bank. When cut together, with various cutaways, to rapids
roaring dangerously near by, and to the villain taking pot shots at
the dog from off shore, the cut sequence can give the desired effect.
Most animals are well dieted before they are brought onto the
set to work. Therefore they will hop on chairs, hop off them, scratch
at doors, push in doors, look coyly from behind trees, look up
appealingly— do anything within reason and within their physical
and mental capabilities, to get a bite of food. A close-up shot, for
example, of a dog looking up appealingly at its real master, who is
holding out a hunk of meat, could be used as a cutaway shot in a
love scene, as though to imply that the dog seems to be eyeing the
smooching pair with eye-watering desire. Indirection is the answer,
and it is indirection on which the screen-play writer should rely, in
the main, when writing in action directions for animals.
Budget writing
Now that we have goneinto the vital elements of the material on

screen-writing technique, it may be apropos, here, to expatiate on
the problem of budget writing, which makes it essential for the
screen writer, for example, to confine his "time" directions to only
DAY Or NIGHT.
Ordinarily, in the more extravagant days of Hollywood, when
writing screen plays for major productions in the larger studios, the
screen writer was not required to concern himself with the cost in-
volved in producing the sets, actors, and props necessary to the
picture. trend, though, has been to economize; hence the fol-
The
lowing material could be applied even to the writing of screen plays
for the larger studios, as well as for the up-budgeted movie-house
pictures and television films.
Budgets are usually touched upon in the initial story conferences
between the writer and his producer, so that the screen writer can
obtain some idea as to how far he can go in calling for expensive
sets, a large cast of main-character actors, costly props, and so on.
But when the writer working on a low-budget picture, he must
is
adjust himself to the amount that can be spent and must write
against the limited budget.
"B" picture weather. For example, no "B" picture or television

film can boast of a rain or snow effect. To build the complicated
equipment on the sound stage necessary to creating a single rain
sequence involves the laying down of tar-paper foundations, pitch-
calked seams, built-up gutters, and an elaborate sprinkler system to
produce the rain effect— together with the plumbing layout neces-
sary to drain off the accumulated rain water.
This does not mean, however, that the effect of a rain sequence
cannot be achieved at all. Ingenious dodges are available to circum-
vent the exorbitant costs. The effect of rain can be obtained cheaply,
for instance, by indicating that the scene is an interior. Then a pipe
can be adjusted across the tops of the windows so that the audience
get the effect of an exterior rain. Sound effects of rain can be added
to the track to get a more realistic effect. And before actors enter
the scene from the outside, they can be liberally besprinkled with
water from a watering can. Which is about all the rain you can
expect to get into a cheap picture, where "it's always fair weather."
Visit the back lot. As for sets, if the screen writer is working at a
studio, he should make occasional trips to the back lot and to the
scene dock to learn what permanent interior sets and street sets are
available, so that he can write them into his script.
Consider re-dressing. He should also make provisions in his screen

play to "re-dress" certain interior sets, if at all possible. Thus, sim-
ply by switching a window fiat with a door flat, by changing wall-

papers, by changing curtains, or by adding or removing Venetian
blinds, and by changing furniture, an entirely new interior set can
be obtained cheaply. Screen writers, especially those writing tele-
vision films, can aid in this saving by not writing in actions that call
for unusual interior set features.
,
WRITING THE SCREEN PLAY 2 or
Consider corners. Scenes should be indicated that could be shot

in tight medium shots, using corners of sets already erected which
require little re-dressing. Such savings can be effected especially
where telephone close-ups are indicated.
Avoid staircases. Staircases should be avoided— they are costly to

erect. Staircases inhallways should not be suggested, for it is often
necessary to tear out the floor of the sound stage in order to obtain
the effect of stairs going down.
Library shots. The screen writer should also acquaint himself with
the available library of stock footage. It is comparatively much
cheaper to indicate a stock-footage full shot of a busy street scene
to establish the locale, and then to go in for a tight medium shot,
studio-built detail of one of the store fronts, near which the action
can be played.
Limit location shots. If location shots are absolutely essential,

write the locale directions so that it will not be necessary to travel
too far. It is a costly job to transport actors, camera crew, grips,
props, electrical equipment, power booster "jennies" (generators)
food, and the multitude of other supplies required in location shoot-
ing. If at all possible, try to write the scenes so that they can be shot
silent, without the need for sound equipment. If dialogue is an
essential requirement, investigate the possibility of shooting the
dialogue silent and then lip syncing (dubbing in) the dialogue, or
of recording the dialogue on tape.
"Cheat" the actors. If this cannot be done, then it will be obliga-

tory for the screen writer to "cheat" in the manner of actor place-
ments. Thescreen play should suggest that certain lines be given
while the actor's back is to the camera, which is on the face of the
person who is being spoken to, only to obtain his reaction to the
linesbeing spoken. If he has a reply, it should be short and succinct
to permit easy lip syncing.
Arrange also for some of the dialogue to be spoken at greater
camera distances than is ordinarily required, so that the actor's lip
movements At the same time, write in

will not be too noticeable.
reaction close-ups on the on things, with only the
faces of people, or
voice of another character heard as dialogue. Then cut away im-
mediately to the person speaking, for the last few words of his lines
which can be lip-synced in. And, as the camera is on him for a
reaction shot, indicate again the voice of the other person replying
to what has been previously said.
These are artful dodges that cannot be indulged in consecutively.
But, thrown together, they can be assembled by the film editor so
that the illusion of a sound sequence can be easily simulated. It may
seem that they lie strictly within the province of the producer, direc-
tor, and the film editor, but the screen-play writer can contribute a
great deal if he is aware of the need for, and the technique of, these
money-saving devices.
Limit the cast. The screen writer should also be chary with the
size of his cast when writing for budget pictures. Motion-picture
actors come high, especially when they are in the upper brackets.
The stars are usually hired on contract, but the minor characters
often work by the day. Try not to spread out the appearances of
these minor actors so that they are in too many scenes. Try to write
them so that when the script is broken down, they can appear before
the camera in as few days as possible.
A story is told of one shoestring producer who was producing a
fifteen-part Western serial. He decided he could add to the box-
office potential by using the name of a then current Western favor-
ite who eventually agreed to work on a per diem basis, but at a
fantastically high rate. The producer hired the star and ordered his
writer to turn out a story involving a masked rider. Then, after
shooting the masked rider— a cheap-salaried actor of the same build
as the star— for fifteen episodes, the star's services were used for only
one day, to shoot the final unmasking scene.
Extras for crowd scenes also add to the cost of a picture. The shots
can be written so that the number of extras, together with the
amount of time they work, can be reduced to a minimum. Few
scenes should be written in which all the extras are to be shown at
the same time. If it is necessary, use the scenes only as establishing
shots—then cut in to the crowd for medium shots and close-ups,
which will cut down on the cost for extras.
Large crowd shots should be particularly avoided in television

films— not only because they are costly, and because they must be
photographed from a long shot to include the entire crowd— but
because such crowded scenes appear on a small television screen as
a milling mass of indeterminate characters. Also, in crowd scenes,
give no dialogue lines to people in the mob, or identity of the
speaker will be lost.
Try not to give extras any lines to read. Only a single word from
them and their rate of pay almost doubles. Instead, resort to panto-
mime. Depend on recorded sound effects for crowd noises which
can give you the effect of a large crowd in the background, while
you indicate a tight medium shot on a small segment of the crowd.
A story is told of another shoestring producer who was doing a
picture in which he had to show armies of Union and Confederate
soldiers. He simulated the effect simply by having a dozen extras in
Union uniforms run past the cameras in a close shot, then change
their uniforms and run past the camera again as Confederates.
In spite of the proverb, the camera can lie, and the screen writer
can contribute significantly to the reduction of expenses.
The fact that a picture is cheaply made does not presuppose that
it will be of poor quality. Some of Hollywood's best pictures were
produced at vastly cheaper cost than most of its extravaganzas. Von

Sternberg considered Salvation Hunters his most sincere work, yet
he produced it independently, at a total cost of $4800! Such pictures
as The Informer, and Cat People, termed "sleepers" by the trade,
were cheap-budgeted pictures that were both artistic and box-office
successes. The European producers are able to turn out masterpieces

at costs farbelow those in Hollywood.
It must also be kept in mind that it is quite possible to go over-
board in keeping the budget low, so that instead of having a picture

that is cheap only in price, you have one that is cheap in quality as
well. In the television film Back to Zero, a few feet of stock footage
showing crocodiles disporting supposedly in the Zambesi River
opened the picture. The rest of the film was shot on what amounted
to one set. Never did the camera go outside the Boss' hut, not even
when he stood at the window, looked out at a fire, and commented
upon it. It may have been too costly to build a fire set, or to dig up
some stock fire footage to match the locale. But the fire could have
been easily indicated by indirection, merely by flickering a few
2$8 A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWRITING
flame shadows on the faces of those watching through the window.
A little creative imagination, at minor cost, could have improved a
picture which was at best nothing more than a filmed live television
drama.
More important than low budgets and surmount finan-
tricks to
cial obstacles, are talent, sincerity, honesty, and a genuine desire to
make adult, intelligent, and moving motion pictures.
The verbal cliches
One of the things which makes for a dull, formula script turned out
on the assembly line of B pictures, shaky A's and, even A's them-
selves is the direct result of lazy thinking and lazy writing. It is the
conventionalized verbal cliche, like "came the dawn," that has be-
come so stale that it often elicits a laugh from many audiences.
The most trite of all these expressions undoubtedly
is, "Don't
worry, everything going to be all right." This line has been heard
is
in almost every motion picture produced. Following is a list of other

such cliches which, were they to be conveniently forgotten by screen
writers, would make for screen plays that would have some sem-
blance of fresh, creative writing.
"You mean. ." the fearfully asked, half-spoken question that
. .
usually precedes the revelation that that is precisely what the char-
acter did mean. It is usually something horrible or startling.
"But my son was always such a good boy" invariably spoken by
the grieving mother of a homicidal maniac.
"The lights are going out all over Europe" a horrible favorite
during World Wars I and II, spoken as the hero and heroine gaze
sorrowfully, hand in hand, through a darkened window, and the
sound of bombs and planes is heard in the background.
"Oh! It's beautiful!" the invariable reaction of a girl when she
first views a gift, usually an engagement ring.
"Why, you look as if you've seen a ghost!" spoken to a character
who has just been frightened by any one of a dozen of terrifying
experiences.
"That's our song they're playing" always spoken by the heroine
to the hero, over a checkered tablecloth in an Italian spaghetti
WRITING THE SCREEN PLAY og Q
joint, as "their"song is heard in the background played by a one-

hundred-piece orchestra.
"No, don't look back. I want to remember you like this," spoken
by a leave-taking lover as the object of his sorrow lingers tearfully
behind.
"Hold me close, darling! Closer! Closer! Don't ever let me go!"
which is self-explanatory.
"Why, you're . . . you're trembling!" spoken by the young lad as
he holds the girl's arms close, and gazes down into her tear-rimmed
eyes.
"There's only one doctor who can save him-and he's in Vienna!"
spoken sadly over the bed of a child who lies dying of a rare disease.
"I've been blind— blind, I tell you!"
"Follow that car, driver!"
"That can mean only one thing— bombers!"
"Hold the presses! I've got a scoop that'll blow the lid off the
whole town!"
"He had a fighting heart!"
"I'm comin' out and I'm comin' out shootin'!"
"We're through, washed up, finished— you hear me!"
"Yes, I killed him! Sure I did! And I'm glad! You hear me-I'm
glad!"
"He's . . . he's lost the will to live!"
"You're back and that's all that matters now!"
"I know— I've been blind to you all my life."
"She's been living a lie all her life!"
Going to pieces. The young, inexperienced pilot, miner, GI etc.,

goes to pieces under the stress and strain of his job. Usually the
strong sergeant or foreman slaps the young man on the cheek with
a rough but rousing, "Pull yourself together, man!"
Surprise names. Historical film-stories are particularly guilty of

overusing the cliche in which the name of a now famous person
is mentioned casually when that person enters the scene as a
youth. If the picture is a pre-Civil War epic, and a gawky youth
is seen splitting rails, the topper will always be, "He'll never git
nowheres, he won't, that there Abe Linkern!" The varieties are
endless.
24° A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PL AY WRITING
Surprise place names. The samebeen overworked with
trick has
place names. The most its brooding irony,
spectacular, because of
was the shot in Coward's Cavalcade, in which the two lovers stand
at the deck rail of a steamship, discussing their future happiness.
When they walk away, we see they are standing in front of a life-
saver, on which is printed the grim, prophetic legend: Titanic.
These are but a few of the hundreds that could be culled from
Hollywood's products. They are all old, time-worn, hackneyed,
hoary. Avoid them.
Prop cliches
Avoid, also, the cliches which pop up periodically in picture

prop
after picture— clicheswhich employ, as a gimmick, some inanimate
object, such as a handkerchief, usually in the scene where the girl,
suddenly brought to tears, draws a big white, manly handkerchief
from the breast pocket of the boy's jacket, and wistfully blots out
her big glycerine tears.
The pajamas. The little girl who is forced to remain overnight in

the great big man's apartment, decks herself out comically in his
oversized striped pajamas, with the leg ends dragging and the sleeve
ends dangling.
Long underwear. a man appears in a set of baggy,

Conversely, if
drop-seat long underwear, thought almost certain to get a

it is
laugh. It has in the past, and it may now. But it is the kind of bur-
lesque writing that a writer can hardly be proud of, even when it is
a sure laugh-getter. It is much like laughing at the antics of a half-
wit.
The buy-off. The stern rich father of the boy enters the chorus
girl's cubbyhole, draws a checkbook and pen from his pocket and
grunts out, "All right! how much?"
Cigarettes. A cigarette is the most often used prop in the motion-

picture business. This is so because many young actors and actresses
have not yet learned what to do with their hands while acting. A
1
director, therefore, is forced to give them a cigarette to make sure

their hands do not hang stiffly wave fatuously and
at their sides, or
ineffectually in the air. Too often, though, the young lady smoker
never has a match to light her cigarette, which act is always per-
formed by someone who eyes her steadily, the exact manner depend-
ing on the nature of the scene.
Other cigarette oldies include the use of an ash tray full of cigar-
ette stubs to indicate a time lapse; the gangster who punctuates his
decision for violent action by rubbing out his cigarette in an ash
tray (a cigar is usually restricted to the use of brokers, business men,
and other more genteel menaces) And . let us not forget the grilling
scene, in which, after offering the grillee a cigarette, the griller com-
ments, casually and pointedly, "Nervous?"
Props have also been overworked as symbols, especially dolls
which fall to the floor from the lifeless hands of a dead child.
Candles flicker out when death occurs; flowers wilt after a death
takes place; a canary languishes in a cage, to symbolize its mistress'
state of bondage, and then flutters out when she is freed; trees bud,
flower, wilt, and are then covered with snow, to indicate a lapse of
time; a pan must always be filled with hot water when the country
doctor arrives to complete an accouchement. The magical bubble of
chemicals in a group of variegated but useless chemical retorts and
flasks, in almost every laboratory scene; the close-up of chorus girls'
legs tripping down the circular backstage staircase; the rocks which
are always thrown by outraged disbelievers through the windows of
the scientist's laboratory, in scientific-discovery films; the spinning
auto wheel dissolved into a spinning train wheel or propeller, to in-
dicate a time lapse; and the horn-rimmed spectacles that always
adorn starlets to indicate they are ugly when young, or not so
charming when working as the hero's secretary, so that, always, in
the love scene, he takes off her glasses and says, "There, you look
better this way!" These are only a few of the hundreds of prop
cliches resorted to by writers with lazy cerebrums and active mem-
ories.
The answer may be in restraining the screen writer from attend-
ing the movies, to avoid absorbing these banal cliches. The story
told of Alfred Hitchcock is that he once said to an executive pro-
ducer that he never viewed any finished motion picture. To which
the reply was, "But where do you get all your ideas, then?"
On learning from seeing
Of course, the screen writer should attend motion pictures, if only

to keep up with the current practices and techniques of motion-
picture making. If you should not come away from a picture loaded
with a cargo of outmoded film cliches, what should you, as a screen
writer, learn?
Your own If you are seeing a picturization of your own

picture.
screen play, and if you are genuinely interested in improving your
abilities, you should pay special attention to a number of elements.
First, you should listen carefully to the dialogue for false notes.
Is it verbose? What lines or words could have been eliminated with-

out befogging meaning, to pep up the pacing? Is there word repeti-
tion or word rhyming? Do the lines flow? Are some of the speeches
too long? Are they revelatory of character?
At the same time look for story holes. Is there anything unex-
plained? Are all the story threads tied together at the end of the
picture? Do any characters drop out suddenly, without explanation?
If you cannot note all these things at one screening, see the pic-
ture again. Or obtain a print of the picture and run it through a
number of times, looking for other errors.
Now, notice if and entrances were smoothly manipu-
the exits
lated. The Are they presented as you wrote them in the
opticals?
script? If not, try to determine why the change was made necessary.
The scenes dropped, if any— were they justified? Try to visualize
the same sequence with the dropped scene included. Would it have
enhanced the sequence? Try to reason out why it has been dropped.
Added scenes— do they improve the sequence and the picture?
Were shots dropped which might have been obscure in your script?
The running gag— did you permit it to run just a mite too
long? Did you pay it off? Try to analyze the audience reaction at
the pay-off. Was it worthwhile?
Try, if possible, to observe audience reactions to the high spots of
the picture. They will cough in those parts that lag and drag. There
will be complete silence where their attention is being held.
Clock your laughs in audience reactions. Did the big laugh really
pay off with a boffb roar? What happened? Did you arrange for a
few lines of dead dialogue to follow the big laugh, knowing they
would be covered up completely? Do your laughs build in the audi-
ence's reaction as you tried to build them in the script?
Observe the director's interpretations of your shots. How did he
improve on them? How did he fall down? Were the actors' direc-
tions that you gave followed? If so, could they have been improved?
If not, try to determine why the changes were made, and how the
improvement succeeded.
In the cutting, take special notice of the pacing achieved by the
film editor. Had you suggested the cuts? Were they followed? If not,
why, and how was the continuity improved? Were the cutaways you
had suggested photographed, and inserted where you had indicated?
What about the reverse shots? Are they all in? If so, what is the
effect? If not, how was the visualization of your script improved?
Not your own picture. Accept this: Once you become a professional
screen writer, you will be spoiled for enjoying pictures per se. For to
be entertained by a motion picture, it is necessary that you be recep-
tive to the effects of the picture as a whole, and not to the break-
down of the picture's individual elements.
As a screen writer, you will follow the technique of handling and
presenting the material, rather than the material itself. You will
find yourself mumbling, "Close shot, pan to table, dolly in to close-
up," and the disagreeing violently with some things, admiring
like,
others, and making mental notes of certain effects you intend to use
in future screen plays.
This is We learn how to write, after all, by reading the
legitimate.
classics— even by reading literature that is not as good as the classics;
in other words, by learning from others' successes and mistakes.
There is no reason, then, why you should not be able to improve
your screen writing by viewing the results of others.
But do not take away the wrong things. Do not be affected by the
trite, the mediocre. Know what the verbal and visual cliches are so
that when you recognize them you can reject them instantly.
You need not reject them in toto, however. That there is nothing
in the world that is actually new is a truism that cannot be too often
mentioned. What is thought to be new and startling is simply an
adaptation of something old— perhaps something trite— but it is the
revitalizing of the old into what appears to be the new, that makes
for originality, just as in Shakespeare's adaptations of the old of
Holinshed.
So, in seeing the cliched devices in pictures, remember them, not
as you saw them, but rather as you think you can refurbish them for
future use. For example, if you see a candle being gradually de-
creased in size to indicate a passage of time, do not remember the
candle only. Try to analyze the device the candle represented— the
gradual wearing down of anything. This should open an investiga-
tion of a vast store of possibilities: soles wearing thin, a piece of
chalk diminishing in size, a cigarette burning down, a container's
water level gradually lowering, the effect of wind blowing up or
dying down— these are some of the valid extensions that could be
made from the original springboard. To cite still another truism:
It isn'twhat you do as much as it is how you do it that is important.
Use the same method in relation to all aspects of the film. Use the
plot of the story line as a springboard for other plots. This does not
mean that you should simply use the "switcheroo" method, which
takes the same plot pattern but reverses and juggles characters and
character relationships. Your manipulation should be more than
that. It should include the creation of an entirely different story
line, with different characters, who are to be involved in different
situations. The idea obtained from the film should be used only in
the nature of a pump-priming device, and nothing more.
In other words, you should be stimulated to legitimate and crea-
tive variations on the themes presented in films. It is legitimate for
any composer to create variations on a Bach fugue. In the same way,
it should be perfectly fair for you to create your own variations
without suffering reprehensive accusations or qualms.

One of the themes of De Sica's Bicycle Thief emerged in Mag-
giorani's grim reply to the police official's question, "Did anyone
witness the accident?" It was "People saw it, sure— but nobody
cared." Nobody cared about the tragic consequences on a little
man's little life of the theft of his bicycle.
The same theme is evident in a story of an entirely different na-
ture, Death of a Salesman, in which the wife complains bitterly and
urgently that "Attention must be paid." Yes, attention must be paid
to the crisis in the life of the little man who was her husband, and
who lived such a little life. For "nobody cared" about him.
So, similarity of themes should not be a drawback to using them
as springboards for your own work. Given a theme, a writer should
be able to create any number of completely dissimilar stories-
stories that can stand on their own feet without suffering compari-
son with other stories using the same theme.
Props
The screen-play writer has still another powerful tool at his disposal
with which to obtain action and character development. It is the
physical prop— some inanimate object introduced into the story and
developed as the story continues. The standard props for all West-
erns, for example, are the horse and gun.
Props for pantomime. The prop is especially adaptable to panto-

mime, and to the comedy scene. Chaplin's success was built in part
on his remarkably telling use of props. All of his pictures offer ex-
cellent examples. The fantastic gear-laden machine in Modern
Times in which Chaplin became stuck was nothing but an immense
prop; as were the wrenches with which he chased around the woman
with the buttons on her dress. The swallowed whistle which sounded
when he belched, in City Lights; the toy dog which he suspected of
having done its business in his straw skimmer in The Cure; the
candle floating on the waters of the flooded dugout, in Shoulder
Arms; the street lamp in Easy Street; his bamboo cane, his mustache,
his derby, his oversized, patched shoes, and his ragged morning coat
—these are all props which Chaplin used to their fullest.
Frank Capra's comic genius flowers with the props he introduces
and develops. His "hat" business in The Awful Truth, combined
with the business of the dog's uncovering it at embarrassing mo-
ments, was a howling success. The same business, with a dog pulling
up the fringe in the workroom, in My Favorite Wife, was still
funny, although it was derivative.

The phone-booth props in My Favorite Wife were excellently

done. In the hotel sequence, as the wife paged her husband from
one booth, her husband answered from another booth in the same
row. He tells her he is in the airport of another city. He explains
away the sound of the booth's electric fan by saying it is an airplane
propeller. Then, when he walks out of the booth, he meets her
emerging from her booth, and the result is electrifying.
Character props. Props can also be used to identify and develop

character. In Welles's CitizenKane a number of effective props were
used— the sled "Rosebud," to symbolize the main character's early
childhood, and the jigsaw puzzle, used to characterize him as one
who likes to put disjointed things together. This was further de-
veloped by the business of having him buy an old European castle
and arrange to have it torn apart, shipped to America and, piece by
piece, put together again.
Props for actor ease. But the prop has still another use, which ac-
counts for its being introduced, ad lib, while the screen play is being
shot. Many motion-picture actors and actresses— especially those
distaff pretties whose chief claim to acting is a beautiful body, and
those stony-faced actors whose gamut of reactions is limited to one
stock expression— either stand stiffly while delivering their lines,
fidget nervously with their hands, or make stylized, ineffectual ges-

tures. It is then that the distraught director throws a pencil, a
handkerchief, a matchbox— anything handy— at them, to give them
something to do with their hands. The incessant tossing of coins by
gangsters, as introduced by George Raft, must have been one direc-
tor's ingenious answer to this vexing problem.
Write in props. But such props, when introduced on the spur of

the moment, cannot become an integral part of the actual story and,
therefore, adaptable for dramatic development. Props of all kinds
should be introduced early in the story, developed as the story con-
tinues and, where possible, paid off at the end of the picture— a sort
of pictorial gimmick, as it were.
Props for child actors. Props should be written in especially when

child actors are to be used. Given a prop to work with— a doll, a
ball, a toygun, a dog— anything to take their minds off the fact that
they are acting— most child actors can turn in a fairly credible per-
formance. One director who was having difficulty getting his boy
actor to perform naturally gave him a small branch of leaves to
play with as he spoke his lines. The effect was almost magical— the
boy's stiff unnaturalness disappeared and he became the boy he was
trying to portray.
The Our Gang comedies can be attributed
success of the old-time
were given mechanical props to work
to the fact that all the kids
with. They became so absorbed in the workings of the props that
they forgot they were actors, and became kids playing naturally
with toys.
Props for suspense. Props have a legitimate place in situations that

are not necessarily comic. Hitchcock usesthem continually for pur-
poses of suspense. The The Lady Vanishes; the
tea-package label in
rope in The Rope; the countless missing letters and papers in prac-
tically all his pictures; the bagful of dynamite in The Time Bomb;
the gun firing directly into the camera in Spellbound—these and in-
numerable other props are Hitchcock's stock in trade for introduc-

ing and developing the suspense at which he is so facile.
Props as symbols. Props have a way of turning into symbols. Most

of the props in The Informer—the reward poster, the blind man's
cane, the silver Judas coins, the bundle of notes pushed by the
officer's cane— these also became effective symbols. But the prop need
not do such double duty, although an apt combination can be put

to better use than a single-purpose prop.
Props come in handy. The screen-play writer should try to write

such props into his script, even when he cannot see any immediate
need or use for them. The perceptive director can usually be de-
pended on to use a good furnishing prop, either as a hand prop, as
an image frame, or as a compositional element. The miniature
equine statues in Ecstasy, doubtlessly put on the set to dress it up,
were seized upon by the director and used to symbolize the animal
passions being portrayed. The wide interstices of the headboard of
the bed in Devil in the Flesh made for a dramatic trucking shot
of the lovers in the bed. Architectural details are used-fireplaces,
door details (the church door iron ring tugged at by a passing

youngster in a picture whose name has been forgotten) exterior ,
and interior staircases (as, for example, the staircase in Carol Reed's
The Fallen Idol), archways— these are details the knowing director
gratefully adopts. Mamoulian invariably brings his roving camera
to rest on an architectural detail. Such details can be written in by
the screen-play writer, and thus more completely integrated into the
story line and movement.
Done with mirrors. One of the most useful set props in motion-
picture making is the ordinary mirror. A great many filmic effects
can be devised and executed with it. Mirrors, for example, can be
used in time-lapse dissolves. In the British picture It Always Rains
on Sunday, many of the time lapses were effected by dissolving
through from one mirror image to another. Mirror reflections of
Robert Montgomery were used in Lady in the Lake to furnish the
audience with shots of the hero who, because of the subjective-
camera technique, was never seen in the picture. Startling camera
effects with mirrors can be achieved: reflections of background ac-
tion while the foreground action is being conducted in front of the
mirror; revelation shots, when the camera pans to a mirror to re-
veal some startling addition to the shot; revelation shots when, after
opening with a close-up on a mirror reflection, the camera pulls
back to reveal the person whose image has been reflected, in con-
junction with some other person or thing. Mirror reflections also
come in handy as cutaway shots from the main action, to cover a
very short lapse of time.
One of the first things a director looks for when he examines his
set initially is a mirror. For, with it, he realizes he has a filmic tool
that can give him added angles and shots. The screen writer, then,
should arrange for a mirror to be put on the set. More, he should
plumb all the possibilities of mirror-reflection shots, and then write
a few into his script. He can feel reasonably sure that, if the mirror
shot is apt, if it does not disturb the forward flow, the director will
use it.
Props are tools for action movement, story development, char-

acter development, acting aids, suspense, comedy, and for countless
other purposes. The screen-play writer's bag of motion-picture tools
WRITING THE SCREEN PLAY 24Q
should include a vast assortment of such props. With them, he can

include a multitude of "business" bits— without them, he can be pic-
torially bankrupt.
The subjective camera
Under ordinary conditions, the camera lens furnishes a number of

viewpoints to the audience, first of one character and then of an-
other.
Lost Weekend concentrated, in the main, on the viewpoint of
the protagonist, as played by Ray Milland. In Lady in the Lake,
Robert Montgomery concentrated exclusively on the viewpoint of
Philip Marlowe, the tough Raymond Chandler detective character
he played in the picture. His idea was to use the camera as the eye
of his character, so as to keep the audience's attention consistently
on the character he was playing.
In Montgomery's picture, a number of trick devices were resorted
to in order to further this illusion. He was seen only twice in the
film. At other times his presence was suggested by means of shadows,
by reflections in mirrors, by shots of hands and feet, by cigarette
smoke in front of his face, by having the camera dip when he sat
into a chair, and by having a glass of whisky pushed head on into
the camera.
The was a picture that was not too brilliant as far as qual
result
ity was concerned, for reasons which will be gone into shortly. It
created a mild stir, only because of the technique which made the
picture a vehicle for a tour-de-force.
This same technique was used in the opening sequence of Ma-
moulian's Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, where the camera was supposed
to be the eyes of Dr. Jekyll. In Pichel's The Great Commandment,
the camera became the eyes of Dr. Muncheson, as he watched Ingrid
Bergman crossing the room to the door.
The pioneer of the subjective camera was Abel Gance, in his
Napoleon, made about 1926. In it, he strapped a camera to a singer's
chest to record the reactions of the theater audience to the singer's
rendition of the La Marseillaise. In the same picture, he attached a
camera to the tail of a runaway horse. He even had it take part in a
25O A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWRITING
snowball fight, where it was struck by snowballs, ducked, ran away,

and returned.
To present a film that is purely subjective, it is necessary that no
compromise be made with objectivity. At no time should the point
of view vary. Everything the camera reveals must, of necessity, be
only what is seen through the eyes of the protagonist.
This means that the camera must simulate every action per-
formed by the protagonist. When he descends the stairs, it must not
slide down smoothly, but must go down swaying from side to side,
in rhythmic jerks. Pans must be performed so as to give the effect
of glossing over nonessentials, as the human eye does, and concen-
trating only on important details. And there must be a steady
stream of pans, for the eyes are restless and are continually roving
from side to side, searching out points of interest. What is more,
there must be an intermittent blacking out of the screen, to indicate
occasional blinking of the eyes. Then again, a great many more eye-
level shots than are necessary in the ordinary picture must be
photographed in the subjective film, because that is the normal
level of most people. This necessitates building seven-foot doors to
accommodate the film magazine and permit it to follow the pro-
tagonist through doors.
It is also essential for the other characters to talk directly into the
camera while conversing with the protagonist. When this is done
time after time, the device begins to become monotonous.
If the object of the subjective camera film is to put the audience
into a position of identification with the protagonist, then his con-
versation and narration must tend to destroy the illusion. For the
audience's reactions to what it is made to see through the camera
lens may not jibe at all with what the protagonist is saying or
thinking.
Thus, can be seen that the subjective camera technique is at
it
best just another trick device which, when overdone, as it was in

Lady in the Lake, betrays its technique, and thus nullifies the re-
sults desired.
The subjective treatment has been and can continue to be used
only if it is handled sparingly and judiciously. If it is employed only
as an aid to audience participation— in not one character but in
most of the major characters— then it can serve its purpose. And it
must be used only in those story-line situations that call for this
WRITING THE SCREEN PLAY 2Pil
specialized treatment. Finally, the scenes in which the subjective

treatment is used must be written and produced so that they flow
out of the preceding scene and into the following scene, so that the
technique will not obtrude and interrupt the continuity.
Needless to say, because of the costs involved in the many time-
consuming takes necessary to obtain an OK take in the subjective-
camera treatment, and the work involved in lighting up such
long-running takes and of rehearsing camera crews and others in the
intricate camera movements, the subjective technique is out of line
in the average television film script.
Conventions
Audience acceptance of certain dramatic conventions is necessary

to establish rapport between the performers and the audience. The
audience, for example, accepts the convention of the missing "fourth
wall" on the stage. At the same time, it will accept the shadowy
figures flickering on the screen

humans, because such an accept-
as
ance must be present if there is to be enjoyment and understanding.
Thus, the audience has come to accept the presence of an or-
chestra accompanying a singer on a roof top, for instance, where no
orchestra is visible or could even be present.
The point is this: In utterly realistic pictures, where everything
must contribute to the sum total of the realistic effect to be achieved,
such conventions should be resorted to only sparingly. Milestone's
picture The Grapes of Wrath is an excellent example of this type
of realistic picture. It would have suffered if the usual motion-
picture conventions had been used. For, in it, only that which served
to fill in the details of the mosaic of the lives of the California
Okies was recorded, and the result was a picture that faithfully re-
created the life of the itinerant worker. The audience was almost
able, at times, to smell their variegated odors. Rossellini's Open City
is another example of cinematic realism that excluded the use of
unrealistic conventions.
But there are other types of pictures in which many of the cine-
matic conventions are completely accepted by the audience; musi-
cals, especially the lavish musical productions of Warner Brothers,
contain many which the audience accepts as
of these conventions,
blithely as they do the shadowed images on the screen.
A story is told of an argument Hitchcock had with his composer
for the picture Lifeboat. The composer was insisting that he be per-
mitted to compose some music to be laid under the shipwreck scene.
"Who ever heard of an orchestra playing at a shipwreck?" Hitch-
cock is reported to have said.
The composer was quick with his retort, "Who ever heard of a
cameraman being at one?"
Composition
It may have become obvious that various attempts have been made
in this book have been con-
to deal with subjects that heretofore
sidered outside the pale of the screen-play writer's domain. Much
attention, for instance, has been given to certain aspects of cutting,
which are in the film editor's province, and of shot sequences, and
so on, which have been the director's job. An attempt will now be
made to give the screen writer some idea of the composition of the
images on the screen: that is, the place and position of the physical,
decorative elements of the shot, so as to make for an artistic and
esthetically satisfying presentation. These have been the considera-
tion of the director, the set designer, and the set decorator.
This being done with a definite purpose in mind. The role of
is
the screen-play writer has been relegated to a position of minor im-

portance, because he has permitted himself to be jobbed out of cer-
tain responsibilities which were inherently his. As a matter of fact,
a survey at the Hollywood studios showed that the writer's mini-
mum salary is less than the minimum established for the second
assistant hairdressers! This, in spite of the fact that it is only with
the work of the screen-play writer that the business of making a pic-
ture can begin!
book has included a discussion
It is for this reason, then, that this
of composition in motion For the screen writer creates the

pictures.
actions and dialogue of a group of people, not in a vacuum, but set
against certain scenic and architectural backgrounds. And if the
people and their actions and their speech are to be integrated into
their background, the best place in which to do so, naturally, is at
the source of their inception as characters— with the screen-play
writer himself.
It would be impossible, in the short space given to this subject, to
cover it in complete detail. Nevertheless, certain of the basic prin-
ciplescan be given, so that the writer will be equipped with enough
information to be able to suggest composition in his screen plays,
intelligently and effectively.
Composition definition. In motion pictures, composition is that

quality of the set-content arrangement, animate and inanimate,
which focuses audience attention on important details in an orderly,
esthetically satisfying manner.
Three-way composition. This composition is achieved in three

ways: with lights, with set-content position, and with character
movement. The screen-play writer should be concerned, in the
main, with the last two, although a basic knowledge of set lighting
could be of considerable aid.
In writing set descriptions and in suggesting set props, character
movements, and camera movement, the screen writer must always
keep in mind the important fact that the audience's eye will travel
naturally from one point of attention to another. In order to take
advantage of this natural tendency— to make sure, in other words,
that the eye will be invited to follow, rather than discouraged— the
following principles must be kept in mind constantly:
Emotional content analysis. Determine beforehand what is the

key emotion to be portrayed. Is it to be comic, dramatic, brilliant,
formal, informal, factual, bizarre, frothy, gruesome, or gay?
Establish mood patterns. With the proper over-all pattern of mood

established, plan your sets so that they fit mood.
into that particular
That accomplished, go into the mood pattern scene by scene, and
try to establish each specific mood pattern so that it fits in, in some
way— even by contrast— with the general over-all mood pattern.
Von Sternberg was especially successful in establishing such mood
patterns, and in sustaining them throughout his pictures. His inno-
vation of painting sets white to control his lighting more perfectly
served to unify the picture's pictorial qualities so that he was able
to achieve pictorial continuity in addition to the other types of
continuity.
In the same director's Salvation Hunters, the slum background
was faithfully and realistically limned throughout the picture. At
the same time, he used the exterior ugliness to mirror the interior
ugliness in the lives of his characters.
Gregg Toland, perhaps the finest cameraman in the business,
wrote of his lighting of Wuthering Heights: " (it) was a soft picture,
diffused with soft, candle-lighting effects. I tried to make the love
scenes beautiful in a romantic way. It was a love story, a story of
escape and fantasy. So I tried to keep it that way photographically,
and let the audience dream through a whirl of beautiful close-ups."
Simplicity. Once the mood pattern for each scene has been estab-
lished, the writer should begin to consider what his sets should con-
tain in the way of architectural design, set decoration, and props.
Old-fashioned attraction. He should remember, for instance, that

the old-fashioned has a strange attraction for both young and old.
Wherever possible, he should indicate old-fashioned residences for
interiors, with old-fashioned architectural features, all modified, of
course, for modern appreciation. Only for an absolutely realistic
representation of a Victorian parlor, for instance, would it be ad-
visable to suggest a clutter of whang-doodles, antimacassars, and
whatnots. Refurbished attics, modernized brownstones, period coun-
try architecture— these, and many others, are constantly being used
as sets because of their color and uniqueness.
Keep it simple. But in describing such a set for use, the screen-
play writer must keep it simple. Only those things that contribute
to the over-all mood pattern should be suggested. The set-decoration

props should be confined to the absolute essentials. They should all
be predetermined to suit the action of the scene, so that they will

not serve to distract the eye of the audience which, as has been ex-
plained, tends to move freely from one point of attention to the
next.
This simplicity should be especially considered by the writer of
television films. Again, because of the comparatively small screen
on which his drama will be viewed, he should suggest no finely
wrought, delicately detailed backgrounds. Instead, he should indi-
cate backgrounds, furniture, and props composed of large patterns,
with sharp changes in contrast. Areas that are large and have an
over-all color should not be used, especially in the foreground, so as
to obtain variegated density and avoid "horizontal smear."
The television writer should also avoid sets in which large white
expanses of walls are contiguous to large black walls or props or
furnishings. On the television screen the result would be a bleeding
over from one to the other.
Variety, But, at the same time, for theater-presentation pictures,

the fact should not be forgotten that variety can be a powerful
means of retaining the roving attention of the audience. This va-
riety, in the matter of set content, will be useful when shooting from
various angles on the set, so that the background can furnish a suf-
ficient number of pictorially different shots on the same set.
While furnishing specific space-filling set props, the writer should

also suggest that there be sufficient space between props. Not only
will this permit character and camera movement, but it will also
serve as a frame of reference for the props themselves, and will allow
for the very important quality of balance.
Balance
For composition concerns itself largely with this most important
quality. It is the well-balanced picture that attracts the eye and

satisfies the innate desire of the onlooker for the symmetrical. The
mean that one side of
"symmetrical," however, does not necessarily
the picture should contain the same number of elements— in size,
in weight, in rhythm, and so on-as the opposite side. This formal
type of balance is entirely too pat for the eye to accept. It is static
in quality and so tends to retard the flow of pictorial movement.

Balance, too, should furnish movement to the over-all flow of con-
tinuity.
Off-center balance. Balance should be achieved by setting the cen-

ter off the actual center of the picture,and then weighting the
smaller segment with more content than the larger segment. This
suggestion should be remembered in describing close two-shots
or three-shots. Close-ups of one-shot subjects should be arranged so
that the person is a little to the right of, and a little above, center.
The same should be striven for vertically as well as hori-
effect
zontally. For example, instead of having all the characters seated,
some of them should be permitted to stand while others remain
seated to achieve variety in height with pictorial rhythm.
Lower left to upper right. It is a well-known fact to cameramen

that the most interesting portion of the frame is a diagonal, from
the lower left-hand corner to the upper right-hand corner. Attention
is centered on this diagonal flow. Take advantage of this, then, by
suggesting that important action take place in that portion. Have
that action move from the lower left frame to the upper right frame.
Strive for depth. At the same time, strive to get depth into each
picture, by the use of two strongly defined planes. This can be done,
of course, with a wide-angle lens and special lighting. But it can be
aided considerably if the screen writer suggests that the set contain
in it elements for effecting this desirable quality. For instance, in
long scenic shots, suggest that the foreground contain a tree, a rock,
or some other close object in one plane, to set off the distant scenic
view in another plane. In long interior shots, a significant prop can
be used in the immediate foreground while action, in focus, takes
place in the background; or a close-up— or even extreme close-up-
is effective, while action takes place in the middle and extreme dis-
tance.
Frame foregrounds. Try to arrange for arches, for doorways, for

anything that may serve as a frame in the foreground so as to high-
light the object of chief interest in the background. The foreground
action can also be in silhouette, an innovation of Von Sternberg,
who first used it in The Case of Lena Smith.
Most of William Wyler's later pictures— photographed by Gregg
Toland— feature this quality of compositional depth. In The Letter,
WRITING THE SCREEN PLAY 2^7
The Little Foxes, and The Best Years of Our Lives, he resorted to
photography in depth and succeeded admirably. As Wyler wrote,
"Gregg Toland's remarkable facility for handling background and
foreground action has enabled me ... to develop a better technique
of staging my scenes. For example, I can have action and reaction in
the same shot without having to cut back and forth from individual
cuts of the characters. This makes for smooth continuity, an almost
effortless flow of scene, for much more interesting composition in
each shot, and lets the spectator look from one to the other char-
acter at his own will, do his own cutting."
Movement composition
It is common knowledge that movement of any sort has more attrac-

tion value than the static. This is especially true in the motion pic-
ture, which depends so much on character movement to achieve the
all-important flow of continuity.
Limit background movement. Extraneous movement, however,

can negate this flow, especially when it is thrown into the back-
ground while the main-action movement takes place in the fore-
ground. This fact is well appreciated by scene-stealing actors who
manage to distract attention from the main action in the fore-
ground by fiddling with a handkerchief, pulling an ear, reacting un-
necessarily, and so on.
If a beach scene is to be indicated, for instance, make certain that
important action is not photographed with the rolling surf in the

background. In Carol Reed's The Third Man, the effectiveness of
the ferris wheel scene was lost completely, because it was photo-
graphed with a close-up of Welles and Cotten in one of the wheel's
cars as the other cars rotated in the background. This continuous
movement was seen through the car's windows (in process-screen
projection) . The was that some important plot points were

result
lost and the audience was left with the impression that there were
many plot holes in the story.
So, be careful of background movement such as candle-flame
flickers, clock pendulums, fireplace flames, character movements,
and so on, while setting up important main-action shots in the fore-
ground.
At the same time, when there is no foreground action taking place
—as in a scenic long shot— try to inject some sort of distant back-
ground action into the shot, so as to carry audience attention, which
can become lost in scenic beauty. Try to suggest some moving ani-
mal or vehicle in the background— a horse, a wagon, a ship, or a
sea gull, a train, a moving cloud even, to insure audience interest.
Dynamic symmetry
In art, dynamic symmetry is a device long used to furnish motion to

what is, patently, a static picture. It utilizes a system of giving lines
perspective, so that they converge to a point on the horizon, usually
the point of main attraction, for the purpose of drawing the eye
to it.
Dynamic symmetry can be applied to the motion-picture image as

well, to endow an otherwise static shot with action and movement
dynamically suggested.
Dynamic symmetry with low angles. Thus, in a low-angle shot of

a tall building, the picture should be shot so that the lines of the
building, instead of flowing up parallel to the sky, would converge,
so that they could meet at some spot off frame.
Dynamic symmetry with set furnishings. In interiors, this same

principle could be used to focus the center of attraction on what-
ever the writer has in mind. Thus, if an important entrance is to be
made through a door, a full shot of the room should be indicated
should be shot at such an angle that the door would serve as
first. It
the point where all the perspective lines meet. With this established,
the writer can then, in his set description, indicate that certain fur-
nishings be included on the set. These could lend themselves ideally
to focusing the door by means of dynamic symmetry. A couch, for
example, could be put in the foreground, camera left, and running
lengthwise to the camera. To camera right, against the wall, could
be a fireplace, with its lines converging to the door as a focal point.
The wall to camera left could contain a bookcase or a window with
its converging to the door. And overhead, a chandelier could
lines
be so placed that its lines would converge to the door as well. So,
although this static shot could be an an opening scene, the more
dynamic composition would give it movement and, in addition,
furnish a pictorial continuity for the audience, thus preparing them
for the dramatic entrance.
Static close-up with dynamic symmetry. The same principles can

be applied to the static close-up. Even a close-up of an ordinary
matchbox, for example, can be made more dynamic with suggested
movement. With a pen at one side, an envelope opener on the other
side and, above it, a slash of paper placed in an opposing angle, to
furnish counterbalance, this ordinary, static matchbox can be given
movement that would not deter the flow of pictorial movement
necessary to the film.
Orson Welles's pictures contain dozens of examples of this use of
dynamic symmetry for pictures. They should be studied well, for
they can furnish more material regarding this vital subject than an
entire book.
Television film writers, on the other hand, should remember to
suggest that all important action be photographed center screen.
The outer edges of a television screen project poor image definition,

and the pictures have a tendency to become distorted in those areas.
Also, the lower and right edges of a television screen are more sus-
ceptible to edge-flare. The television film writer, therefore, should
not suggest that any dark subject, sets, props, costumes, etc., be used
in those particular areas.
The foregoing should be considered only as tips for effecting bet-
ter composition by means of indicating suggestions in screen plays.
It is entirely within the scope of the cameraman to arrange
for com-
position at the behest of the director. But there is no reason why

the screen-play writer should not be able to furnish certain basic
essentials, so as to aid in achieving the best composition available.
26o A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAY WRITING
Epiphanies
An epiphany, according to the dictionary, is a Greek word that

means a manifestation. It originated as a name for a religious feast,
celebrated on January 6, to commemorate the arrival of the Magi,
which was supposed to be the occasion of the first manifestation of
Christ to the Gentiles of his time.
Now just what has this religious rite to do with literary life in
general and screen-play writing in particular? James Joyce first used
the term in Stephen Hero, to illustrate, as he put it, "a sudden
spiritual manifestation, whether in the vulgarity of speech or of
gesture, of a memorable phase of the mind itself."
Joyce's use of the epiphany can be illustrated with his thoughts

on the Ballast Office dock.
"Yes," said Stephen, "I will pass it time after time, allude to it,
refer to it, catch a glimpse of it. It is only an item in the catalogue

of Dublin's street furniture. Then all at once I see it and I know at
once what it is: epiphany. Imagine my glimpses at that dock as the
gropings of a spiritual eye which seeks to adjust its vision to an
exact focus. The moment the focus is reached the object is epipha-
nized. It is just in this epiphany that I find the supreme quality
. . .
of beauty."
How, then, can the epiphany be adapted to the motion picture?
It can be done in three ways: first, by the characters' psychological
traits which, in turn, can be epiphanized by means of their dialogue,
and then by means of their physical actions and reactions— that is,
their gestures, expressions,manner of walking, and so on.
Such epiphanies have been created in many films, and these iso-
lated bits stand out in memory with that "supreme quality of
beauty." Bette Davis' vitriolic reading of "You disgust me!" in Som-
erset Maugham's Of Human Bondage is a beautiful example of
epiphanizing, because it includes a perfect synthesis of dialogue and
expression.
On the other hand, Cagney's sudden smacking of the grapefruit
half in the girl's face, in one of his early pictures, epiphanized some-
thing that many men, at some time or other, have been wanting to
do with some woman or other.
1
The screen's first cut-in close-up, the pan of beans in Griffith's

Birth of a Nation, had this same effect on audiences— it was elec-
trifying.
Laughton's Bronx cheer in // / Had a Million; the tinkle of the
Judas silver falling to the floor in the wake scene of The Informer;
the aimless chatter of Dolly in Brief Encounter, wasting the precious
last moments of the two lovers; the entire staircase scene in Potem-
kin; the horse dangling in mid-air from the upraised drawbridge in
Ten Days That Shook the World; Ray Milland's typewriter-hocking
sequence in Lost Weekend; the expression on Chaplin's face when
the girl did not arrive to partake of the dinner he had prepared for
her, in The Gold Rush; the Louise Rainer telephone bit in The
Great Ziegfeld; the land rush in Cimarron; the cockroach race in
Lives of a Bengal Lancer; the feathered Scot's cap falling to the
ground in Rene Clair's The Ghost Goes West; the idyllic marriage
of Poil de Carotte, in Duvivier's film of the same name, in which
the two children walk through a lovely countryside scene together,
followed by a long line of farm animals; the close-up of the spy's
little finger in The 39 Steps; the hilarious scene in Rake's Progress
when Rex Harrison breaks up the chairman's speech by interrupt-

ing him with replies to rhetorical questions; the poignant moment
in Bicycle Thief when the little son veered off petulantly from his
father, who was also in a pique, and walked parallel with him on
the sidewalk; that moment of nonrecognition, when the lady sud-
denly discovers that all the people have changed, in The Lady
Vanishes—these are all unforgettable examples of Joyce's "a sudden
spiritual manifestation" that makes for the filmic epiphany.
These are the rare touches of genius which often glow in an
otherwise mass of dross. They are not accidents. They are the result
of experience, knowledge, and a conditioned intuition that make
for the difference between a hack screen-play writer and one who,
like the Elizabethan dramatists, is to be considered a poet.
For these bits of filmic epiphany can be construed as pure poetry.
They are lyrical interpolations that soar with unalloyed beauty.
They are, to use a cliched but apt phrase, "poetry in motion."
Symbolism
A symbol should serve a definite purpose. It is the screen writer's

personal poetics and creative representation of what is otherwise
a baldly stated fact. In a motion picture, the symbol can show
something more beautifully, more startlingly, more feelingly, more
pictorially than if it were shown in the traditional, prosaic presenta-
tional manner.
The motion picture is an ideal vehicle for the literary and pic-
torial symbol— properly used. Improperly used, it can only deter
the forward flow of movement. In a literary work, the symbol may
be one which is not immediately obvious but which can be thought
out until its meaning becomes known. But in a motion picture, the
symbol must be strictly on the conscious level. It must be obvious,
clear-cut, easily identifiable, and capable of being instantly grasped
by the audience.
This is so because, unlike a book, where the reader can go back
and reread the passage containing the symbol, the motion-picture
audience is unable to look back to the improperly understood sym-
bol for further simplification. It flashes by on the screen, and then it
is off again and will be lost completely if it is not immediately

comprehended.
The motion-picture symbol, then, must have universality of ap-
peal. It cannot be so esoteric that its meaning and relationships are
known only to its be left with a
creator, or else the audience will
vague feeling of dissatisfaction and obscurity.
Symbolism has a definite place in the motion picture. It has always
been so, as far back as the time when stock shots of London and
Paris were first flashed on the screen to set the scene for the follow-
ing sequence, which was supposed to take place in those locales.
In the old silent picture— and especially in those from Europe—
the pictorial symbol was used to obtain cross-reference effects. In
Lang's Destiny, Death was represented by three lighted candles,
each symbolizing the span of life of one of the characters. As each
of the candles flickered out, one character died.
A number of examples of the use of the motion-picture symbol
come to mind. Like those lambent directorial touches that suddenly
light up an otherwise drab scene, the felicitous symbol can make a

totally unprepossessing shot glow with meaning.
In Pick's Shattered, the shot of the railroad trackwalker swinging
his lantern was intercut a number of times to symbolize the monot-
ony of his life.
In Griffith'sDream Street, the masked violinist was supposed to

symbolize Evil, while the rapt crowd, listening, represented suffering
humanity.
In Gance's Napoleon, the tumultuous session of the convention
was symbolized by a storm shot, and Bonaparte's angry face was
dissolved into a rugged eagle, while the cast-off women became dead
leaves in the wind.
In Eisenstein's Potemkin the opening shot of the picture showed
an enormous frothy wave breaking against the shore, a symbol of
revolution. The shot of the haunch of meat infested with maggots
was supposed to symbolize the condition of Russia before the revo-
lution.
In Cimarron, when George Stone, the Jewish peddler, was beaten
up and thrown to the ground, his sprawled arms fellon a couple of
crossed sticks to symbolize the death of another Jew on another
wooden cross.
Symbolism found its most sophisticated use in Czinner's Ecstasy,

which was loaded with symbols to the point of satiety.
In Lang's Metropole, the beam from the mad inventor's flashlight,
encircling Maris, whom he was chasing, was used to symbolize the
nonescapable wall that trapped her.
In the same director's Scarlet Street, the intermittent flicking on
and off of the off-scene electric sign symbolized the flashes of sanity
and insanity in the mind of the murderous cashier.
The same effect, in Technicolor, was obtained in the same man-

ner by Hitchcock in the closing scenes of The Rope, when the two
psychotic young murderers were confronted with their guilt by
their former professor. Reflections of an electric sign just outside
the penthouse windows illumined their faces alternately with the
color red— associated with insanity and symbolizing their warped
brains; the color white— symbolizing their youth; and the color
green-symbolizing their sane, lucid moments. The phantasmagoria
of colors all symbolized the obvious schizophrenia of Branden, the
evil genius of the picture.
In the picture M, the shot of Loire's shadow hovering over the
frightened little girl graphically symbolized the tragedy that was
soon to take place. In the same picture, the shot of the little girl's
ball rolling out of the bushes symbolized her death at Lorre's hands
better than any more literal shot, even of the murder, itself.
The same type of symbol was used in Hangmen Also Die, when
the Gestapo man's derby was seen to roll around comically and
come to a dead stop under the table on which his murdered body
lay outsprawled.
The Informer, according to Dudley Nichols, its screen-play
Ford's
writer, was replete with symbols, some "obvious, much of it con-
cealed except from the close observer."
The foggy night in which the entire action played was supposed
to symbolize groping humanity and the mental fog in which Gypo
moved that night. The reward poster was a symbol of betrayal; the
Black and Tan officer's stick that pushed Gypo's reward money
across the desk was a symbol of contempt; the blind man's tap-tap-
tapping symbolized Gypo's conscience; and the carved image of
Christ at the picture's end symbolized, of course, Gypo's salvation
in his Lord.
In the more recently produced British film Gone to Earth, a shot
of a shoe crushing a flower symbolized the seduction of the girl
played by Jennifer Jones.
There is a school of thought that objects to the obvious symbol
as gauche andinartistic. The same school operates in other media
of expression and communication. It is the school of obfuscationists.
The fact remains that motion pictures are primarily an instrument
of communication. First, they must communicate ideas and sensa-
tions. They cannot do this by making symbols so unidentifiable that,
only by re-viewing the picture a number of times, can the symbols
become clothed with meaning. Nor can dozens of explanatory
commentaries be published, as was necessary with Joyce's work in
order to bring his hundreds of symbols into recognizable focus.
Certainly the more obvious symbols— the cliches, in other words-
should be avoided. But, just as it is the duty of the screen-play writer
to create fresh characters and situations and dialogue, so it is part
of his job to create fresh symbols— and re-create fresh uses of clichexl
symbols— in order to illumine the prosaic with the poetic.
WRITING THE SCREEN PLAY 2 6r;
But these symbols must be understood at first glance, at least

partially. For the symbol need not be completely obvious at once.
It can create a sensation of understanding in the subconscious, so
that the cumulative result will create the effect desired in the audi-
ence.
The
pictorial symbol can be of great use to the screen writer if it
is used intelligibly. If it cannot be understood immediately, and
absorbed, then it serves only to obscure, to clutter up and, thus,
retard filmic movement and continuity.
Topicalisms
Motion-picture production is such that a great deal of time elapses

between the period in which a screen play is written and the time
when it is released for public viewing. In some rare instances— as
when a picture is rushed through production and released as soon
as possible in order to jump the gun on a competing studio that is
making a similar picture, or when early release is essential to permit
the picture to become a current year Academy award participant—
a picture's release date may not be too far separated from the time
when its screen play was written.
Ordinarily, however, for a number of reasons— such as a backlog
of sound-stage or Technicolor commitments, constant rewrites and
polish jobs on the script, casting delays, and the like— from eight
months to two years may elapse before the writer can obtain theater
audience reactions to his work.
This delay can lead to some serious pitfalls for topicalisms. At the
time the screen writer is fashioning his script, Sugar Ray Robinson
may still be a boxing champ and one of the writer's lines may run,
"Yeah! he may have a Casper Milquetoast build, but he sure packs

a Joe Walcott wallop."
But during the interim that elapses before the picture (or even
this book) is released, old Joe may have been KO'd by effec-a more
tive puncher. Hence, when the picture is released, the allusion to
Walcott will have been outmoded, and will definitely date the pic-
ture as being out of step with the times.

MacKinlay Kantor's story for the picture Best Years of Our Lives
was written in 1945. But by the time the picture was produced, in
1946, and finally released, in 1947, a considerable number of changes
from the original story had to be made to avoid obvious dating and
topical references which would have made a period piece out of
what was intended to have almost newsreel immediacy.
Avoid year dates. Unless it is absolutely required by script de-

mands, the screen-play writer should avoid any reference to specific
year dates. That is why, when calendars are photographed on desks,
walls, or in time lapses, the year is not shown unless it is demanded
by the story.
Avoid dated gags. The writer should never resort to topical gags,
or to gag phrases, unless they have become stabilized by universal
usage and, of course, unless their use is intended to establish the
period as the one in which the gag was being used, or to establish
character. An older, conservative man, whose character is such that
he is inflexibly part of the past, could be made to say, "Twenty-
three skidoo," or "Oh, you kid!" without courting dating trouble.
But the difficulty arises with the indisputable fact that the average
gag phrase of more recent years— the "is zat so," the "Confucius say"
and the "but definitely"— become outdated in a comparatively short
time and, like short skirts seen in a long-skirt era, create only a sense
of ludicrousness rather than of topical style.
To sum up: Unless story demands call for it, the screen-play
writer should never permit any topical reference to remain in his
script— an actual date; a historical reference (alluding, for exam-
ple, to the current president, who may die the next day) ; a currently
popular phrase; a currently popular song title; a current bit of news-
paper gossip; or a current newspaper headline— anything that may
become a disturbing factor in the audience's picture attention when
the motion picture is finally released.
Sound
Until the movies began to talk, they were only two-dimensional. An

attempt was made to give silent pictures a third-dimensional quality
by adding a musical background— usually a tinny, out-of-tune piano
—that furnished, in addition to mood music, music that simulated
suggestive sound background.
It was when the talkies arrived that sound came into its own as
an integral part of motion-picture making. For, with it, it brought

perfectly synchronized mood music, instrumental music to suit the
action being played on the screen, spoken dialogue, and sound
effects.
You have only to try this experiment to realize how important

sound effects are to motion pictures: close your eyes at the next
movie you attend and notice that, to a certain degree, depending
on the type of action being played, you will be able to follow that
action. Again, you may have noticed, when the sound apparatus in
a projector fails, how flat, how unreal, how shadowlike the shadows
on the screen suddenly become. It is as though the life blood had
suddenly been drained out of the characters.
When electronic sound was first perfected in Germany, Walter
Ruttman, a painter who had been experimenting with abstract
films, recorded a three-hundred-foot sound montage called Week
End. In it, solely through the use of sound effects, he told a story
(which was radio-broadcast) of two lovers who take a week end in
the country. With only a few lines of dialogue, with depot sounds,
train sounds, bird calls, leaf rustling sounds, crowd noises— even with
fragments of silence— Ruttman was able to present what amounted
to a sound symphony.
For sound can be quite important to motion pictures. Properly
handled, it can give verisimilitude to any scene, exterior or interior,
action or otherwise.
Unfortunately, though, the quality of soundis out of the hands
of the screen-play writer. A

complex setup of boom men, recordists,
sound mixers, sound editors, sound dubbers, and the like, become
the eventual arbiters of the quality and, quite often, the nature of
the sound that comes out of the sound track. But the writer, to a
great extent, can suggest that certain sounds be used, when they
should be used, and how they should be used, and hope that when
the picture is completed some of his suggestions will have been
followed.
Know your sound effects. The screen-play writer should realize,

first, that the studio and sound departments pos-
specialized service
sesssound effects of almost every noise to which the ears of man
have been subjected— from a volcanic eruption to the sound of
bacon frying in a pan or of mice squeaking on the floor.
Selectivity. But because these sounds are available— either from

stock sound from live-sound, "wild" sound tracks shot on
tracks, or
the set— the writer must realize that he should practice the same
selectivity with sound effects as he does with action and with dia-
logue.
Sound should be built and orchestrated and afforded the
effects
same attention is given to all the other elements of picture mak-
as
ing. Sound effects should be used selectively. The human ear itself
when listening to normal, workaday sounds, practices an almost
sound mixing and sound selection. It rejects
instinctive process of
and channels into the subconscious sounds that are extraneous to
understanding, and accepts only those that are related to what the
conscious is aware of.
This selectivity also operates in disassociating sound from sight.

For it is quite possible to give visual attention to one thing and, at
the same time, be listening to the sound of something outside the
scope of vision. These are physiological factors that must be often
considered by the screen-play writer.
An important advantage of sound effects is that, as far as film
length is concerned, they are not additive. Because they can be laid
behind a scene's action, they require no extra footage. That is why

they can round out, with a three-dimensional effect, what could be
flat and only two-dimensional.
Establish sound. The sound effect of heavy footsteps in a murder

mystery, or in any other type of suspense scene, can lend an air of
approaching danger to a close-up of feet walking across a creaking
floor. This sound effect, however, must first be established, not only
sound may
aurally but visually, in a close-up. After that, only the
be used. This is sound of footsteps in itself is not
so because the
distinctive enough— compared, say, to the sound of a dog's bark— to
be comprehended by itself alone. In addition, the sight of uniden-
tified feet adds to the suspense.
Indirection with sound. Sound effects can do more than merely

add to what is being seen. They can suggest, by indirection, what is
not being seen, provided, of course, that the sound effect— unlike
that of footsteps— is easily identifiable.
When Chaplin made his Woman of Paris, he was forced to sug-
gest the leave-taking of aFrench train, because French coaches were
unavailable in Hollywood. So, by means of lights and shadows flash-
ing across the faces of the characters— by indirection— he suggested
the presence of the train. Had he been able to lay in a sound track
(this was in pretalkie days) he would have been doubly successful
for, in addition to sight, he could have used the huff and puff of
escaping steam, the roar and jangle of the wheels, the thin, piping
whistle of the station starter, together with the other sounds, authen-
tically French, that are the aural accompaniments to a starting train.
A perfect example of sound being used indirectly was seen in
Hitchcock's The Rope. In almost the entire closing reel, after Stew-
art had fired the shots through the open penthouse window, the
sound track began to carry (considerably diminished in volume)
first, the voice of one person who had heard the shot, then the voice
of another person, and then still another person until finally the
voice of a policeman was introduced to cap the babble of excited
voices. The whole sound sequence was then capped by the sound of
a squad car's siren— introduced first in the extreme distance, and
then faded in gradually— whining in the street below the penthouse
and thus symbolizing, without its ever being shown visually, the
eventual electric chair demise of the two murderers.
Sound sequences. In King Vidor's Hallelujah, the last ten minutes

of the film— the chase sequence through the swamps— used only a
sound-effects sound track to carry the action: the swish of water, the
sucking squoosh of feet in the mud, the rustle of shrubbery, and the
shrill cries of birds. The last-mentioned sound effect, by the way,
was in the form of three bird cries punctuating a period of intense
silence. The over-all effect of this sound-effect montage was to make

the chase fraught with terror.
Fill in with sound. Sound effects can also suggest the whole of
some thing while only part of it is being photographed. Train in-
teriors, for example, especially tight shots which do not furnish
sufficient background architecture and furnishings for quick identi-
fication, can be ideally suggested merely by indicating that running
train sounds (in considerably decreased volume) be laid in behind
the shot.
Writers of cheaply produced theater and television films should
lean heavily on these subterfuges for the economies they can bring.
Recalled sound. Memory recalls of sounds previously heard can be

used as aural flash backs in a sound superimposure, to bring back
some sound effect from the past in order to motivate an action of
the present.
Usually such sound superimposures are distorted electronically
from the natural sound, to avoid leaving the impression that they
are actually being heard.
In Scarlet Street, this effect was used as a climax motivator when
Edward Robinson hanged himself after hearing the muffled memory
recalls of the girl who was condemned to death for the murder he
had committed.
Sound transitions. Sound effects— as was explained in the time

lapse section— make ideal time lapses and scene transitions. As sym-
bols, too, the sound effect is an esthetically satisfying device.
Sound Another very important use for sound effects is

leitmotifs.
their ready adaptation as leitmotifs and thus as over-all transition
devices. In Hans Richter's Everything Turns, Everything Moves,
the sound effects of a carnival setting were used, and referred back
to constantly, as a connective device for the entire picture.
Three-dimensional sound. Within the shot itself the screen-play

writer should make use of sound to its fullest extent. A street scene,
for example, is not truly a street scene if the audience hears only
the sound of the dialogue. This is particularly so when street scenes
1
are shot indoors, on a sound stage. Studio acoustics tend to enliven

would be recorded
the quality of the voices, whereas, outdoors, they
with a more natural quality. This unreality becomes exaggerated
when background street sounds are not dubbed in. To compensate
for this deficiency, street sounds, such as passing autos, distant street-
cars, and even unidentified human voices should be introduced.
They should be sufficiently diminished in volume so as not to inter-
fere with the main dialogue. These voices need have no immediate
relevance to the action being shot. But they can offset phony sound-
stage acoustics and, at the same time, give background verisimilitude
to the foreground main action.
In the French picture Women of the Forest, most of the action
takes place in a few interior sets. But a sense of the world outside is
furnished by a brilliantly detailed sound track of a variety of street
noises, as a sort of antiphonal background to the drama being
enacted indoors.
Avoid sound on cue. A serious fault encountered in the use of

background sound effects is to be found in the manner in which
they are introduced. In the picture The Good Earth, for example,
sound were introduced— the whir of locusts, rain,
effects of all sorts
thunder, wind, and so on. But there was something mechanical
about them. They all seemed to come in right on cue, as though a
director or prompt man were in the wings telling the sound-effects
man when and where he should turn on the particular sound and
turn it off again. Some of this could be attributed to the sound
dubber, who neglected to fade in and fade out his sounds. But much
was also due to the screen-play writer, who should have indicated
that the sounds be introduced gradually, that is by building sound
effects as well as visual effects.
Cap with sound. When a soundeffect is to be used as a scene-

capper, as is often the case, should always be introduced before-
it
hand. In Laughton's The Beachcomber, for instance, a cuckoo clock

was used to cap the scene in which Elsa Lanchester had made a silly
remark. The clock's "cuckoo" was an apt ironic comment on it. But
the effect could have been heightened had the audience been intro-
duced to it previously by way of having it "cuckoo" once or twice in
the background and without pointing it up with a close-up.
As a matter of fact, this was done after the cuckoo was used, to
cap the scene in which Lanchester's brother was alone and the
cuckoo clock sounded once. This suggests that the writer may have
originally written in the shot with the brother at the correct time-
that is, preceding the clock's commentary "cuckoo"— but that the
film editor cut the shot into the wrong place.
In Ruttman's Melody of the World, the war sequence, which was
replete with the roar of cannon and other battle sounds, was sud-
denly cut to a close-up of a woman screaming in anguish. The ef-
fect was made even more stunning when a cut was made to a field
of white crosses, brooding in dead silence. The same effect was
achieved in The Life of Beethoven, where, after loud claps of thun-
der were established outside Beethoven's house, a cut to a close-up
on Beethoven, inside the house, was accompanied by utter silence,
pointing up his tragic deafness.
Volume important. Another sound that can be laid to

fault in
inept sound-dubbing the insistence
is on keeping the sound levels
of all the people in a scene at the same volume, despite their vary-
ing distances from the camera. This occurs because when live dia-
logue is being recorded on the stage the sound recordists are afraid
of losing a voice. Hence, they ride gain so that all the voices emerge
on the sound track with exactly the same volume, tempo, and pitch.
Sound volume, like sound itself, can give a third-dimensional
reality which should be retained as often as possible. In Hitchcock's
The Rope, where for the most part live dialogue was recorded on
the stage, this effect was striven for and achieved. But in those shots
that were shot silent, with the dialogue post-synced in, no attempt
was made to vary the sound levels. The result was that when one of
the characters walked away from the camera— almost to the other
side of the room— his voice retained its volume, and did not give the
impression that he was some distance from the camera and from
the other character conducting the dialogue.
Although this is the sound dubber's fault, the screen-play writer
can suggest, in his sound directions, that the individual levels vary
according to their distance from each other and from the camera.
Such suggestions may serve to keep this important fact in mind, and
can give the sound recordist a chance, if he works with a script, to
prepare for the desired effect.
Sound volume increases. There may be times when it is necessary

to increase sound volume above the realistic level. The ticking of a
watch or clock may have to be brought up in volume if it is essen-
tial to the action. Footsteps, creaking floors, doors and the like, may
have to be increased in volume. But for most purposes, an attempt

should be made to re-create sounds and sound effects realistically.
Sound filters. The screen writer should also be conversant with

the work of the electronic voice-filtering devices: echo chamber ef-
fects, the Sonovox, and other such sound devices.
Phone filter. The sound filter should be used to simulate the effect
of a voice on end of a telephone. It can also be used to
the receiving
distort the sound of a voice on other occasions, as in simulating the
voice of a radio announcer or the voice of a person on the receiving
end of an office intercom system, or as a memory recall, when the
character is remembering some remark or sound, or music heard in
the past.
Echo chamber. The echo chamber is an electronic device that im-
parts an echo effect to a voice, even though it may not be spoken in

a place that produces an echo. It should be suggested when a speech
is being made in a hall, when a conversation is being conducted
over the phone in a phone booth, when dialogue, in other words, is
spoken in any place that may result in an echoed quality, such as in

subterranean caves and tunnels, empty rooms, basements, and the
like. Once again, this should be strictly within the domain of the
sound dubber, but the writer should suggest the use of these effects
and hope that the suggestions will be taken.
Sonovox. The Sonovox is an electronic device that gives a human-

voice quality to what is ordinarily a nonhuman sound. Thus, a
violin can be made to talk, or a train siren (as in the well-known
Bromo Seltzer commercial) , or even a cow. The use of this effect,
though, is limited. It can be resorted to as a comedy effect in farces,

as a strange, eerie effect in fantasies or dream sequences.
Budget with sound. The use of sound effects in cheaply made

budget pictures for movie houses and television films is almost im-
perative. A cafe or restaurant scene can be shot by building only a
small corner set and then laying in a sound track containing the
background hum of voices, the tinkle of glassware and plates, and
the sound of a small orchestra, to give the impression that the cor-
ner is actually part of a larger set.
Similar subterfuges suggest themselves: corners of large railroad

stations, hotel lobbies, street corners, airports, and the like. An en-
terprising producer can get the effect of a whole theater simply by
resorting to such tight shots as: a segment of the stage on which the
action takes place, a shot of a small part of the orchestra, a shot of
a small part of the audience for reaction shots, and a shot, from the
wings, of the action taking place on the stage, with the camera
focused so as to catch only a few faces in the audience. And over-
riding all these tight shots are laid in the sounds of audience re-
actions— handclapping, coughs, and so on— plus the music of the
orchestra, dubbed
from another sound track.
in
Orson Welles was able to do away with these audience reaction
shots entirely, simply by shooting into a bed of lights that were sup-
posed to represent the footlights, which were to give the effect of
blinding the performers— and the movie audience— to the theater
audience apparently seated out front.
Music
Because music has become such an integral part of motion-picture

making, and because the screen-play writer is the prime mover of
all motion pictures, it is incumbent on him to familiarize himself
with music as one of the elements of motion-picture making.
Good music can improve a bad screen play. Bad music can also
break a good screen play. If the writer is anxious to regain those
prerogatives which he has permitted to slip through his fingers, then
he should begin to assert himself and his wishes, by suggesting ele-
ments—outside the fashioning of the screen play proper— which can
have so much effect on the finished picture.
Music is one of these elements. For, with his suggestions for
music, the writer has a tool that can supplement the words he has
written, and implement the other workers in the picture with ele-
ments that will be completely integrated into the picture as a whole.
It is not necessary for the screen-play writer to be completely con-
versant with music. He need not be able to distinguish one note
from the next, or even be able to sing on key. He may even be tone
deaf. But he should know how music can be adapted to his screen
play so as to take full advantage of its possibilities.
Plot music. There are two broad types of music used in motion
pictures. The first and least important, as far as the screen-play
writer is concerned, is the plot music injected into a script as part
of the action itself: the song the heroine sings; the music the night-
club orchestra plays; the music used for dance scenes; and the music
for such off-scene events as carnivals, circuses, parades, and theater
presentations. The theater-scene music in A Double Life was in this
category. This music is usually written before the picture is shot so
that recordings can be made of it. These recordings are then played
back while the scenes are being photographed, so as to make for
perfect action and lip synchronizing. Later on, in the dubbing the-
ater, the music tracks are laid in behind the photographed scenes
and matched perfectly.
Background music. It is with the second broad type of screen

music— the background music— that the screen writer should be
more concerned. Because of the rigid conventions which have at-
tached themselves to the composition of music for motion-pictures,
much of the music used is of the hackneyed "Hearts and Flowers"
variety that has become as standardized, in many aspects, as the old-
time cue music played for silent pictures on tuneless pianos.
If the writer is a sincere, creative worker, if he strives to avoid the
cliche in his verbalizing and achieve new-minted freshness, he
should be vitally concerned with the quality of the musical material
that is to complement his writing. Since the average motion-picture
musical score— with sequences running from a few seconds to several
minutes— covers a total running time of between forty and ninety
minutes, the writer should offer his suggestions and try to make
certain that thebackground music will be in accord with the fore-
ground action and dialogue.
From a note in his we can see how a British director, David

files,
Lean, was able to composer the kind of background music

tell his
he wanted for his Oliver Twist. "I should like music," he wrote,
"to accompany the whole scene of Fagin donning his hat, taking the
walking stick and walking around like an old gentleman, and finally
having his foot trodden on and his pockets picked, causing him to
search frantically for his lost wallet and watch, which makes Oliver
laugh so much. I think the music should start immediately after
'To work' and end on the dissolve to Oliver lying asleep. This is to
me almost the most important piece of music so far, and I should
like it to transform the scene into a comic ballet." If the creative
director can give such suggestions and instructions, there is no rea-
son why the creative screen-play writer cannot do likewise.
Avoid familiar music. One important injunction should be ap-

plied to almost all background music. Unless it is used as a gag,
the music should be original and not familiar. That is, it should not
derive from any known music. Music that can be recognized, and
thus identified, is disconcerting. It can detract the audience's atten-
tion from the action and call attention to itself.
Functions of background music. Background music has a number

of definite functions: it can supply additional information; it can
intensify emotional content; it can heighten dramatic impact; it
can clarify ideas; it can help to build a scene and then cap it; it can
contribute to continuity by integrating separate actions and scenes;
itcan identify characters and atmospheric time and place; it can
amplify psychological states of mind; and it can bridge and point
up otherwise comparatively uninteresting pictorial scenes.

For the screen-play writer to consider all of these functions with
the necessary attention when writing his script, it would be essential
that he work in direct co-operation with the music composer. Since
this is a virtual impossibility in the present studio setup— where the
writer seldom confers even with the director or film editor before he
starts to write the screen play— he should try to estimate the musical
needs of his script and at least attempt to assure his work of the
proper musical accompaniment by suggesting certain requirements.
The ideal setup would be one in which there was complete co-
operation between the writer, the director, the composer, the music
department, and the sound-effects people, so that there could be

complete integration of all the elements. This was done in H. G.
The Shape of Things to Come, which elicited from
Wells' picture,
Wells the remark that "This Bliss music is not intended to be
tacked on: it is part of the design."
Informative music. To make use of the first function of back-

ground music— to supply additional information—the screen-play
writer may suggest that the music imitate the sound of certain of
the actions. In the wake scene of The Informer, for instance, the
music was so written that it imitated musically the tinkle of the
silver coins as they fell to the floor from McLaglen's pocket. At an-
other time, the music convincingly imitated the burble-burble-
burble sound of the Guinness' stout as it was being swallowed by
McLaglen.
In Gance's Life of Beethoven, the composer's tragic deafness was
beautifully conveyed to the audience in the scene in which Bee-
thoven walked down
the street and passed an itinerant street vio-
linist. The had just been established, together with the
violinist
music he was playing. Then, as Beethoven approached the violinist,
the music was slowly faded out, until by the time Beethoven was
close up, the music was completely faded out. And, as Beethoven
walked away, the violin music was brought up again to re-establish
it.
Foreshadowing music. Background music can also foreshadow

events to come. The screen-play writer may, at a certain point in his
script, indicate to the composer that the foreshadowing should ap-
pear musically. In Chapayev, this was done when the army set out
to do an obviously superior force. The music at that
battle with
point was in a minor key, so that a foreshadowing of the defeat of
the army was incised subtly into the minds of the audience— this
without telegraphing, because music, by its very nature, and unlike
diction, has the faculty of suggesting without disclosing.
Intensifying music. Intensifying emotional content is, perhaps, the

most important of music's functions. The frank, forthright music
used in the opening sequence of Valley of Decision reflected the
dominating influence of the steel mills over the lives of the workers
and, at the same time, gave a dominating coloration to the char-

acters of the steel bosses. A suggestion as to the mood that the music
is to establish and sustain can be written in by the screen writer,
indicating the time he feels it should be introduced and other times
when he believes it should be reintroduced, as a sort of leitmotif.

In Algiers, in the scene in which the informer is confronted by
the killers, he backs away and bumps into a mechanical piano which
is set off. Then, with this tinny, robot-like ragtime music grinding
out as an ironic counterpoint, the informer is murdered.
Identification music. These same leitmotifs can be suggested by

the writer for music to identify characters. The intro-
when asking
duction of a character can be accompanied by a certain character-
istic musical phrase— as is done in opera— so that whenever that
character appears, or is about to appear, the accompanying music

can add an identifying commentary.
In Powell's The Edge of the World, a horn call is used as a leit-
motif for Peter Manson, one of the main characters. Later it is in-
tegrated into a departure theme, when he is about to leave his
beloved island. And when he falls to his death, full minor-key brass
chords enunciate an island theme suggesting the desolation of those
remaining on the island. The entire last reel of film, over which
this music is laid, contains but ten words of dialogue, and runs for
more than eight minutes.
In Fritz Lang's M, Lorre, the psychopathic murderer, is char-
acterized by his whistling a few bars from Grieg's "Troll Song"
whenever he is bent on murder. In fact, his identification is made
by a blind man who remembers his song.
Two or more themes can then be introduced, in counterpoint,
whenever the action is such that two or more characters are in-
volved.
A comedy character, for example, could be introduced with a
light, tripping pizzicato theme; a dignified person could be char-
acterized, musically, by a theme in a slow tempo and at a low pitch;
the same theme, but in a minor key, could be used to typify a senti-
mental person, with sad and dreamy proclivities.
Psychological music. Psychological states of mind are particularly

conducive to musical interpretation because of their evanescent
quality, with which music, with its many subjective nuances, is able
to supplement the objective, pictorial image.
In The Red Pony, when the boy began to daydream about
white circus horses, the picture showed the white chickens in the
farmyard being transformed into white circus horses. And the bu-
colic music that accompanied the barnyard scene was subtly segued
into circus music, to underscore the imaginative change.
Dramatic music. There is nothing so effective, for heightening

dramatic impact or for capping a dramatic scene, as a chord of ap-
propriate music. In radio, this function is called for by the word
"sting."
Thus, in The Picture of Dorian Gray, a sharp, dissonant chord
was used to punctuate the dramatic intensity that came with the
shock Dorian experienced when he learned of his sweetheart's
suicide.
Such "sting" chords can be called for at the proper time by the
screen-play writer,and partially described, so that the composer
may have the writer's conception of what is necessary, in lieu of a
personal conference with him.
Chase music. Even a comic situation can be underlined with ap-

propriate music. A comedy chase, for instance, lends itself ad-
mirably to musical interpretation. The lumbering, elephantine
notes of a bassoon or a bull fiddle can be used to portray the antics
of a fat man chasing his hat, or a blonde, or whatever it is a fat
man can chase that is intended to be funny. The same instruments
playing in a minor key can suggest the pathos of such a character
involved in unrequited love. In The Boy with Green Hair, special
chase music played under the chase scene, when the boy, Peter, was
being pursued by the gang of boys. This aided in heightening the
dramatic impact and pacing the tempo.
Atmospheric music. The function of identifying atmospheric time

and place is a natural for background music. Historical eras can be
represented musically so that, even without the addition of picture,
the timeand place can be deduced. The old-fashioned minuet pat-
and eighteenth centuries;
tern can easily identify the seventeenth
drum patterns (either of the African or of the American Indian
28o A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAY WRITING
type) can set the scene for their respective locales; calliope music
can do more for setting a circus scene than almost any other ele-
ment; the sharp, brittle tempo of current popular songs is perfect
for introducing a dance hall sequence or a night club; dock scenes
call for sailor chanty patterns; and country scenes for patterns on
the order of those used in Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony. There
is no end to the manner in which atmospheric time and place can
be supplemented by music.
In the British film Western Approaches, Clifton Parker's "Sea-
scape" was beautifully incorporated into the background as atmos-
phere music to suggest the tremendous upheaval of the ocean, the
menace of the sea to shipwrecked men, and the ocean's desolation.
The mechanical piano playing of the theme music in Casablanca
conveyed the shoddy dissoluteness of the North African fleshpot.
Building with music. The function of building dramatic content

with music can be seen to work perfectly in montages. Because these
montages are unrealistic representations that condense time, the ac-
companying music serves as a sort of realistic cement, because it
supplies what appears, momentarily, to be a series of disjointed
silent shots, with the unifying coherence of a musical idea or phrase.
Transition music. Because music can furnish a continuity of

sound, itcan be used as a transition device to link otherwise dis-
connected scenes that have been neglected in the writing of the
script or in its shooting. This function, then, can be relied upon by
the screen-play writer in order to vary his transitions, or as a sound-
track relief of a series of pictorial transitions. Although this sort of
continuity is not intrinsically motion, it has sufficient surface move-
ment to supply the necessary continuity.
In Brief Encounter, music combined with train sound effects and
dialogue was especially helpful in creating extremely successful
transitions.
Background music can also be used in combination with a sound
effect, asa matched musical dissolve, to connect two sharply differ-
ent scenes. Thus, the sound of a woman's scream, at a certain note,
to top off one scene, could be segued into a corresponding musical
note of the same pitch, in the following scene.
1
Crutch music. Dialogue sequences that in themselves are not suf-

ficiently dramatic— as in certain obligatory expository scenes— can
be enlivened considerably with suitable background music, which
can serve to carry forward lagging action.
There are many such sequences in a film that require a stiff dose
of music in order to achieve movement. Vacant spots between dia-
logue sequences can often be filled in with a background of neutral
music that can carry audience interest by the sheer power of its
compelling rhythm.
Commenting music. Background music can be called on to com-

ment ironically on pictorial content. In Painleve's Hypocampes, a
shot of a sea horse in the ocean was accompanied by a melange of
cliched race-track, newsreel music, and served to point up humor-
ously the composer's quaint notions about horse racing in general
and newsreel horse-race musical clips in particular. The sad, haunt-
ing zither music of The Third Man served as a sort of Viennese off-
stage commentator on the action it buttressed.
The screen-play writer can make his own musical comments, not
in actual content, but in the form of suggestions to the composer.
He has only to be aware of the potentialities of music, and the place
it can play in the fashioning of his screen play.
Dialogue-displacing music. In such places in a script where only

silent action being portrayed, background music can fill in a
is
third-dimensional sound track.

In Chaplin's Monsieur Verdoux, after Chaplin had gone to bed
with one of his wives, the camera discreetly remained outside the
closed door of their bedroom. But the music suggested what was
going on, presenting first a melody that suggested marital bliss; then
changing to a series of phrases that betokened the murderous pas-
sions taking place; and, finally, banging into a resonant fortissimo,
representing the murder itself. Concluding, came a rhapsodic idyll
of moving music, suggesting passions spent. And Chaplin emerged
from the room, insouciant and debonair, as fresh as one of the roses
from his garden.
There are times, however, when completely silent sequences can
add to the effectiveness of the action. The effect of the pause in Han-
del's resounding Hallelujah chorus is tremendous. In the same way,

Prokofiev highlighted many of the climaxes in his excellent score
for Alexander Nevsky with impressive silences. But many producers
abhor silence. Like unimaginative advertisers, they cannot under-
stand why they should pay for so much dead "white space" in their
product. So they insist that, no matter what reasons you may have
for desiring a silent sequence, overriding music be used. To avoid
their injecting an inharmonious element, then, suggest that some
sort of appropriate but neutral music be played over your silent se-
quences.
Format
For those screen-play writers who are now working at established

studios the following section may be unnecessary. Their completed
scripts are typed from their originals by experienced secretaries who
are conversant with the standard type-script format demanded by
their studio.
But for those who do their own retyping, or who have their
scripts typed by a stenographer, the following information regard-
ing the standard format required by the studios should be of im-
portance.
Scripts must be clean, of course. They can be duplicate sheets, but
with the typing sufficiently dark to insure The paper must
legibility.
be onion skin, 8x10 and the entire script must
or thereabouts,
be bound in colored binding paper, stapled, and suitably identified
as to title, author, and author's address.
The format of the screen play itself, however, varies from studio
to studio. But certain generalizations can be made so that a type
script may be acceptable to most studios and independent producers.
Following is a copy of the first pages of a screen play. It shows the
number of typewriter spaces that should separate the lines, and the
number from the left tabulating
of spaces, stop, that should separate
the line-beginning margin words.
(top of the page)

(2)
THE LAST CHANCE
(3)
SCREEN PLAY
(2)
by
(2)
LEWIS HERMAN
(4)
(15) FADE IN
(2)
INT. LIVING ROOM-BAKER HOUSE-DAI!
(2)
(8) 1. MED. SHOT-JOE BAKER. He is stretched out on (1)
the sofa as though unconscious. LIBBY DALE rushes (1)
into the shot and starts to shake him.
(40) LIBBY
(30) (anguished) (1)
(25) Joe! Joe! why did you do it, Joe?

(2)
(40) JOE
(30) (opening his eyes) (1)
(25) What are you talking about?
(2)
Libby is taken aback by his awakening.

She pouts prettily as she gets up from the sofa. (1)
(3)
LIBBY
(disgruntledly) (1)
Hm! then this letter was a fake. (1)
She throws the letter in Joe's lap. He picks it (1)
up and starts to read it.
(2)
INSERT LETTER which reads:
Dear Libby: Joe may do it yet. (1)
Toby (1)
(2)
BACK TO SCENE: Joe throws the letter to the floor.
A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PLAYWRITING
JOE (1)
(grinning)
So you thought I was ready to kill
myself, huh?
(3)
EXT. FRONT LAWN-BAKER HOUSE-DAY

(2)
2. FULL SHOT on the yard as BOBBY BAKER runs across
the lawn to the house.
(3)
3. MED. SHOT on Bobby running up the steps as he trips (1)

and on the upper stair sprawling out on the
falls (1)
porch. He gets up and limps hurriedly to the front (1)
door.
(2)
(55) WIPE
(3)
INT. LIVING ROOM-BAKER HOUSE-DAY

4. MED. SHOT on Bobby as he limps into the room and (1)
sees his brother and Libby eyeing each other warily. (1)
'
(2)
BOBBY
(disgustedly) (1)
At it again, huh? (1)
(3)
DISSOLVE
The following examples illustrating the use of capital and lower
case letters, should be used for camera action. When the camera is
stationary, use upper case letters for:
MED. SHOT with a group in b. g.
CLOSE SHOT toward door.

LONG SHOT through window.
CLOSE-UP over shoulder.
SUPERIMPOSE over MAIN TITLE.
CLOSE MOVING SHOT-REVERSE ANGLE-shows:
CLOSE SHOT-ANGLING UPWARD-to reveal.
When the camera is moving, use upper case letters for:
CAMERA PANS BACK-TO-UP-DOWN-

WITH-FROM-THROUGH-TOWARD-
OVER-LEFT-RIGHT.
CAMERA ANGLES DOWN-HOLDING to show
CAMERA MOVES DOWN SLIGHTLY revealing
DISSOLVE AND WIPE may occur any place on the page.
When they become DISSOLVE OUT and WIPE OUT at the
end of a page, be sure to begin the next page with DISSOLVE
IN or WIPE IN.
The same is true of FADE OUT and FADE IN, which may
occur, three spaces apart, any place on the page. But, when
FADE OUT occurs at the end of a page, be sure to begin the
next page with FADE IN.
Whenever MUSIC or SOUND occurs, these identifying words

should precede the sentence, as, for example:
MUSIC. Singing is heard.
SOUND. The train is heard approaching.
When adding scenes or pages, identify them with capitals, as

in 1A or 5B and so on.
Do not use a new scene number as long as the camera is in

CAMERA DOLLIES IN, ANGLES
action, for example, UP,
PANS BACK TO, TRUCKS TOWARD, and so on.
Lower case letters should be used for "disclosing," "showing,"

"including," "revealing," and "favoring"; as well as for character
names.
The following material does not apply to punctuation marks in
dialogue but to the rest of the screen play, excluding the dialogue.
Do not hyphenate words at the end of a line, except in the case
of a normally hyphenated word.
Quotation marks should always be placed outside the comma and
period. This is an invariable rule. Place quotation marks inside the
colon and semicolon; outside or inside the marks of exclamation
arid interrogation, depending on whether those marks belong to the
286 A PRACTICAL MANUAL OF SCREEN PL AY WRITING
quoted matter; outside the dash when it stands for something left
unsaid, and inside when it is used as an ordinary punctuation mark;
inside parentheses when the parenthetical clause is quoted, other-
wise outside.
Place a semicolon after the expressions: "namely," "viz," "for
example," "e.g.," "that is," "i.e.," "for instance," "however,"
"hence," "moreover." This should be done when they introduce a
sentence, a principal statement, or an enumeration of examples or
explanations.
Use dashes in scene location, never commas, as in: INT. LIVING
ROOM-BAKER HOUSE-NIGHT.
Bound in with the script, following the title page— which should
have the title, in caps, typed across the middle of the page, and
underlined— should come a page with the following:
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Joe Baker a young man, about 23.
Libby Gells a young woman, about 18,
in love with Joe.
Tony Zale about 30, in love with
Libby.
Mrs. Tilly Baker about 45, Joe's mother.
Mr. Piat about 55, town banker.
Mrs. Piat about 40, Mr. Piat's wife.
AND OTHERS
In the above cast of characters, the character descriptions should
include, in addition towhat is shown, a thumbnail characterization
of each major character. Description of the leads should include a
mention of the type the character represents: "Cary Grant type,"
"she has Ida Lupino's vivacity" or "could be played by sour-puss
Ned Sparks."
Although a set list is not always essential, it could be included,
provided, of course, there are few enough warrant using it
sets to
as a selling idea, if it is to be a B picture. If not, forget about it.

Following is a series of brief injunctions which should be fol-
lowed.
1. Typewrite all scripts.
2. Use only black typewriter ribbons.

3. Use pica-size type, if possible.
4. Do not bind the script with gay, colored ribbons. Wire staples
are enough.
5. Register a copy of the script with the Screen Writers' Guild.
Motion picture scripts can be copyrighted, but Guild registra-
tion is sufficient.
6. Retain a copy of the script yourself.

7. Keep your fingers crossed. Continue to keep them crossed even
if, mirabile dictu, the script is sold.
INDEX
Ace in the Hole, 75 Boy with Green Hair, The, 279

action, 74, 177, 187, 199, 203, 210-211, Brief Encounter, 33, 77, 79, 1 13-1 14, 123,
226-233, See movement in films 213, 261, 280
Alexander Nevsky, 282 British films, 179-181
Algiers, 278 budget writing, 233-238
All About Eve, 30 building the screen play, 179-187
American Speech, 200
Amos and Andy, 14 Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, The, 86
analyst, story, 22-23 camera movement, 189, 226, 248, 249-
angles, camera, 119-127, 188-189 251, See photography; shots
animals, 232-233 cameraman, 7
answer print, 56 Capra, Frank, 245-246
apparent definition, 100-101 captive audience, 13
applause cards, 14 Carne\ Marcel, 50
atmospheric music, 278-280 Carnet du Bal, 114
audience, 4, 13-14 Casablanca, 280
audience, television, 13-14 Case of Lena Smith, The, 256
Aivful Truth, The, 245 Cat People, 237
cause and effect in films, 184
B picture limitations, 233-238 Cavalcade, 240
Back to Zero, 237-238 Champion, The, 153
background, 20, 180, 257-258, 275-280 Chapayev, ^J
background music, 275-280 Chaplin, Charles, 13, 49, 133, 134, 203,
balance, 255-261 231-232, 245, 261, 269, 281
Bank Holiday, 144 characterization, 26-30, 34-36, 37, 52, 60,
Beachcomber, The, 271-272 62, 72, 74, 183, 195-197!:, 226-233, 260,
Beauty and the Beast, 84 278-279
Beggar on Horseback, 85 characterization vs. plot, 30s
Beginning or the End, The, 80 chase, the, 44, 45-50, 82, 279
beginning a screen play, 178-181 cheater cut, 51
Berlin, 81, 113 children, action for, 231-232, 246-247
Best Years of Our Lives The, 17, 86, 89, Chinese dolly, 118
256-257, 266 Cimarron, 261, 263
Beyond Tomorrow, 162 Citizen Kane, 120-121, 246
Bezshprzhniki, 231-232 City, The, 81, 111
Bicycle Thief, The, 20, 77, 79, 231-232, City Lights, 245
244, 261 Clair, Ren£, 49, 261
Birth of a Nation, The, 261 Clarke, T.E.B., 19
boom shots, 122-123 cliches, 196-198, 238-241, 264, 275-276
Boomerang, 76, 80 climax, dramatic, 31, 36, 39, 70
290 INDEX
clip, film, 96 documentaries, 79

close shot, 102 dolly, the, 99, 114-118
close-up, 103-105, 109, 190, 256, 259, 261 Double Life, A, 275
Cocteau, Jean, 84 double take, 230
coincidence, 27 dramatic construction, 38-40, 183, 279
collaboration, 3, 172, 193-194 Dream Street, 263
comedy, 62-66, 197-198, 245-246 Duvivier, Julien, 114, 261
commercials, 20, 71 dynamic symmetry, 258-259
complications, dramatic, 31
composition of screen images, 252-255, Easy Street, 245
255-261 echo chamber, 273
condensation, 73 Ecstasy, 105, 129, 247, 263
conference, story, 9-10, 56 Edge of the World, The, 278
conflict, dramatic, 27-29 Eisenstein, Sergei, 114, 190, 212, 263
continuity, i4iff, 186, 187, 188, 189, 190, electronic 212, 270, 273
filter,
194, 205-210 empathy, 29,40

contrast, 36, 187, 188, 189, 190 End of St. Petersburg, The, 129
conventions, dramatic, 251-252 entrances, 231
conversions, quick, 73-75 epiphany, 81, 260-261
Cook's Tour, 83, 144 establishing shots, 98, 101, 102, 104, 105,
costs, 53, 54, 94-95, 233-238, 273-274 108, 117, 124, 127, 150
Coward, Noel, 240 European films, 30, 77, 80, 86, 113, 179-
crises, dramatic, 31, 32, 36 181, 186, 200-202, 262
crossing actions, 231 Everything Turns, Everything Moves,
Cure, The, 245 270
cutaway, 63, 127-131, 224-225 exits, 231
cuts, xiii expressionism, 76, 85-86
cyclodrum, 163
Czinner, Paul, 263 fade-in, fade-out, 159-160
Fallen Idol, The, 43, 99, 124, 130, 231-
dead dialogue, 14-15 232, 248
death, 133-134 fantasy, 83-87
Death of a Salesman, 71, 245 farce-comedy, 85
De Mille, Cecil B., 227 Fernandel, 60
De Sica, Vittorio, 20, 45, 244 film grammar, xiv
Destiny, 262 film, 16 or 35 mm., 96
details, 185, 222 filmic sense, 182-187
Devil in the Flesh, 130-131, 247 Flaherty, Robert, 79, 82
diagonal, 256 flash back, 66-71, 82, 86
dialect, 198-206 Ford, John, 61, 151, 264
Dialect Notes, 200 foreground, 256-257
dialogue, 47, 52, 77, 81, 125-126, 194- Foreign Affair, 163
226, 260 Foreign Correspondent, 66, 164-165
dialogue hook, 205-210 foreign language dialogue, 200-205
direct-cut montage, 153 format of screen play, 282-287
directions, dialogue, 215-216 frame, 96
director, 172-173, 193 full shot, 98-99
dissolve, 73, 82, 135, i44rH5> *52. i53>
gag, the, 60-62, 196, 197, 266, 276
dissolve montage, 153 Gance, Abel, 249, 263, 277
distortion, compensation for, 124 Gaslight, 147
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, 249 Germany— Year Zero, 99, 113
INDEX 291
Ghost Goes West, The, 261 Joyce, James, 61, 77, 130, 212, 214-215,
gimmick, 39, 43, 55-58, 82, 246 260, 264
Girl Was young, The, 123, 150 jump cut, xiii, 107, 131
Gold Rush, The, 261
Goldwyn, Samuel, 17 Kanin, Garson, 198
Gone to Earth, 264 Kantor, MacKinlay, 266
Good Earth, The, 271 Kid, The, 231-232
Grand Illusion, The, 110 Kramer, Stanley E., 153
Grapes of Wrath, The, 251
Kuleshov, 182-183
Great Commandment, The, 249
Great Expectations, 103
Great Train Robbery, The, 45 Lady in the Lake, 71, 86, 110, 155, 157,
Great Ziegfeld, The, 261 248, 249, 250
Greed, 78 Lady from Shanghai, 144
D.W., 261, 263
Griffith,
Lady Vanishes, The, 60, 180, 247, 261
Lang, Fritz, 262, 263, 278
lap dissolve, 156
Hallelujah, 269 lapse-of-time cutaways, 131
happy ending, 88-90 Last Chance, The, 201

Hasty Heart, The, 63 Last Laugh, The, 120, 203
Hecht, Ben, 19 Last Mile, The, 61
Heiress, The, 126
Laughter in Paradise, 37, 62
Here Comes Mr. Jordan, 83-84 Lavender Mob, The, 19
Herman, Lewis and Marguerite, Lean, David, 103, 276
199
high angle, 121 learning from seeing, 242-245
Letter, The, 178, 256-257
historical background, 7-8
Hitchcock, Alfred, 41, 44, 46, 49, 58, 60, Life of Beethoven, The, 272, 277
Lifeboat, 251
76, 107-108, 113, 122, 132, 136, 143-
Lighting, 120-121, 253
144, 180, 211, 241, 247, 251, 263, 269,
lip synchronization, 202
272
Little Foxes, The, 256-257
holes, story, 87-88
location shots, 235
Hollywood, 30, 65, 79-80, 83-85, 186,
201
long shots, xiv, 100-101, 190
House on 92nd Street, The, 76 Lost Weekend, The, ^, 86, 249, 261
humor, 60; see comedy Louisiana Story, 82
Hypocampes, 281 low angle, 120-121
M, 130, 264, 278

ideas, story, 15-19 Magnificent Ambersons, The, 110
ideas, 241 Maltese Falcon, The, 132
If /Had a Million, 144, 261 Mamoulian, Rouben, 227, 248
image angle, 188-189 Mankiewicz, Joseph, 30
image size, 93-134, 187-188 March of Time, 76
immediacy, 67-68 Mask of Dimitrios, The, 47
indirection, 131-134, 217, 232-233, 269 master-scene screen play, 169-173
Informer, The, 61, 133, 151, 237, 247, match dissolve, 144-146
261, 264, 277 matte shots, 162
inserts, 104 Maugham, Somerset, 4, 136, 260
interjections, 218-219 medium, limitations of, 78
Irish, William, 42 medium shot, 101-102
It Always Rains on Sunday, 48, 99, 179, medium-close shot, 102
0.4,8 Melody of the World, 272
292 INDEX
Mencken, H. L., 199 P.P.P.P., 95
Metropole, 263 Painleve, 281
middle action, 52 Paisan, 77
Milestone, Lewis, 251 pan, 99, 106-112
minor characters, 34-36, 63, 180 Panic, 140-141
Miracle on 34th Street, 109, 132-133 pantomime, 203-204, 245
mirrors, uses for, 248 Passionate Friends, The, 70
Mission to Moscow, 155 Passport to Nowhere, 125
mock-up, 18 patterns, plot, 32-34
Modern Times, 245 patterns, writing, 219
monologue, 213 Payment Deferred, 132
Monsieur Verdoux, 133, 281 pay-off, 42-43, 60-61, 109
montage, 119, 152-156, 182-183, 186- photography, 76, 81, 82, See camera,
192, 280 shots
Montgomery, Robert, 248, 249 Pichel, Irving, 249
mood patterns, 253-254 pick, 263
movement in films, 6, 13, 44, 45-50, 52, Picture of Dorian Gray, The, 279
67, 105, 185, 187-192, 194, 257, See plagiarism, 17
action plants, 58-59
moving shots, 105-119 plate, 163, 164
Mudlark, The, 128 plot, 30-34, 36-38, 58-59, 87, 275
multicam, 95 Poil de Carotte, 261
Murnau, F.W., 120, 124, 203 polishing, 11
music, 251, 274-282 Polti, Georges, 32
My Favorite Wife, 217, 245-246 Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man,
130
Potemkin, 261, 263
names, character, 23-25
Powell, Michael, 278
Napoleon, 249
process screen, 162-165
Negulescu, Jean, 128
Procession of the Hours, The, 60
Nichols, Dudley, 264
producer, supervising, 8, 9
Night Has Eyes, The, 115-116
Prokofiev, Sergei, 282
notebook, keeping a, 16
props, 62, 240-241, 245-249, 255, 256
Notorious, 143-144
Prowler, The, 26
novelty in art, 244
Pudovkin, Vsevolod, 129
punctuation in dialogue, 217-218
October, 114 push-off wipe, 158
Odd Man Out, 47 Pygmalion, 33
Of Human Bondage, 260
off-stage voice, 212
Oliver Twist, 276 Rake's Progress, 261
On the Town, 138 Razor's Edge, The, 4
O'Neill, Eugene, 212 realism, 26, 27, 35, 65-66, 73, 75-83, 85,
Open City, 77, 79, 251 1 35> !36, 181, 200-202, 213-215, 251,
opticals, 156-160, 189 254, 270-271
orientation, 71, 98, 101, 102, 104, 105, rear-projection screen, 162-165
117, 118, 126-127 recap, 51
Our Gang, 247 Red Pony, The, 279
outline, theme, 19-25 Reed, Carol, 43, 47, 99, 130, 145, 185,
out-of- focus, dissolve, 157 248, 257
Outward Bound, 85 relief, 37, 62-64
Oxbow Incident, The, 54, 85 repetition, 71-72, 187, 188-189, 1 9°
INDEX 293
Return of Rusty, The, 57, 184 soliloquy, 212
revelation pan, 108-109, 12 5» 2 4^ Sonovox, 273
revision, dialogue, 219-221 sound, 48, 83, 163, 267-274
rhythm, 187, 190, 191-192 Sounding Wave, The, 151
Richter, Hans, 270 space, treatment of, 49, 122, 256-257
Rochemont, Louis de, 81 special effects, 158, 160-162
Rope, The, 76, 107-108, 122, 136, 247, speech length, 210-211
263, 269, 272 speed-up, camera, 46
Rossellini, Roberto, 13, 99, 113, 251 Spellbound, 247
rules, xiv Spider and the Fly, The, 40
Run for Your Money, A, 46, 60 Stage Fright, 113
run throughs, 148-149 stage plays on screen, 8
running gag, 60-62 star system, 88
Ruttman, Walter, 151, 267, 272 Stephen Hero, 260
stock footage, 235, 268
Storm in a Teacup, 62, 150
St. Benny the Dip, 75 story analyst, 22-23
Salvation Hunters, The, 237, 254 Strange Interlude, 212
Samson and Delilah, 163 stream of consciousness, 77, 154, 211-
Scarlet Street, 263, 270 213
Schulberg, Budd, 78 Sturges, Preston, 80
Screen Directors' Guild, 156 subjective states, 155, 157, 249-251, 278-
screen play, 3ff, 12, 13, 227-228 279
screen play classifications, 12 subplot, 36-38
screen writer, qualifications of, 5, 175- Sullivan's Travels, 80
177, 192-194 Sunset Boulevard, 57, 68
Screen Writers' Guild, 11, 287 superimposed montage, 154
Search, The, 77, 79 suspense, 40-45, 67, 68-69, 1 4 2_1 43
seguing, 150, 279, 280 switcheroo, 39, 43, 55-58, 82, 246
selectivity, 16 symbolism, 155, 262-265
semi-documentary, 79-83 symmetry, 255, 258-259
September Affair, 163 sympathy, 41, 213-214
serial,50-53 synopsis, 9, 23, 25-30
set, 258-259
Set-Up, The, 61
Seventh Veil, The, 138 telegraphing, 40, 41, 59, 88-90
sex, 53 telephone dialogue, 221-224
Shape of Things to Come, The, 277 telephonic filter, 221, 223-224, 273
Shattered, 263 television films, special problems of,
Shoe Shine, 77, 79 xiii, 35, 71, 93-96, 101, 104, 112, 118,
shooting schedule, 11 157, 160, 161, 178-179, 181, 234, 237,
shooting script, 10, 93, 96-97, 169, 173- 237-238, 254-255, 259, 270, 273-274
178ft. tempo, 189-192, 211
shots, 93-134, 183 Ten Days That Shook the World, 261
Shoulder Arms, 245 Teresa, 88
Show Off, The, 125 theme outline, 19-25
side angle, 121-122 Third Man, The, 27, 58, 89, 185, 257, 281
Sirocco, 73 13 Rue Madeleine, 81
size of image, 93-134, 187-188 39 Steps, The, 58, 59, 148, 150, 180, 230,
sleeper, 237 261
Sleeping City, The, 80 tilt shots, 112-114
Snakepit, The, 84, 155 time, fight against, 43-45
1
294 INDEX
Time Bomb, The, 247 Von Stroheim, Eric, 78

time lapse, 131, 134-141, i54-*57» 225-
226, 270
time-lapse dissolve, 156-157, 248 Wald, Jerry, 17
time-lapse montage, 154 weather in films, 234
title, story, 18 Week End, 267
title card, 7, 147-148, 156, 203 weenie, the, 53
Toland, Gregg, 100, 254, 256-257 Welles, Orson, 100, 120, 144, 246, 259,
topicalisms, 265-266 274
transitions, 69, 83, 141-152, 270, 280 Wells, H.G., 277
traveling shot, 114, 117-118 Western Approaches, 280
treatment, the, 9, 10, 89 westerns, 54-55
Wexley, John, 6i
Ulysses, 61, 151, 212, 214-215 Winslow Boy, The, 87
Under Capricorn, 2 1 wipe, 73, 82, 135-136, i43» !54» i57-*59
Under My Skin, 163 wipe montage, 154
wisecracks, 64-65
Valley of Decision, 277-278 Woman Alone, The, 44
Van Dyke, Willard, 134 Woman of Paris, A, 13, 134, 269
Vane, Sutton, 85 Women of the Forest, 271
Variety, 124 Woolrich, Cornell, 42
verbal cliches, 238-240 Wozzeck, 114
verbal elements subordinate to visual, writing for screen plays, 4-5, 93, 252
194 Wnthering Heights, 67-68
Vidor, King, 269 Wyler, William, 126, 178, 256-^7
visual elements in films, 6, 194
Von Sternberg, Joseph, 237, 253-254,
256 Zinnemann, Fred, 88
FORUM I BOOKS
A series of popular paperbound books — fiction and

nonfiction — of proven general interest, well
printed on good paper and sewn-bound
for durability and easy reading.
bennett, paul a. (ed.) Boo^s and Printing: A Treasury for
Typophiles. F259
buchwald, art Don't Forget To Write. F257
dreiser, theodore The" Genius" . F260
fadiman, Clifton The Lifetime Reading Plan. F254
HERMA, HANS, PH.D., AND KURTH, GERTRUD M., PH.D. (EDS.)
A Handbook of Psychoanalysis. F252
Herman, lewis g. A Practical Man ual of Screen Play writing for

Theater and Television Films. F253
lin yutang Translations from the Chinese (The Importance
of Understanding), Selected, Translated, and Introduced by

Lin Yutang. F250
montagu, ashley The Cultured Man. F255
singer, 1. j. The Brothers Ash\enazi. F261
VENTURi, LiONELLo Painting and Painters. F258

A Practical Manual of Screen Playwriting
FOR THEATER AND TELEVISION FILMS
Lewis Herman
Here, for the first time in paperback form, is a complete and authori-
tative work on screen playwriting. Its purpose is to supply practical
rules and suggestions and to describe practices applicable to the
writing of motion picture screenplays for both theater and television
presentation. As a guide to the beginning writer, and a sourcebook

of new ideas and tips for the professional, this practical manual
covers every aspect of writing for these fields.
The following are a few of the subjects included:
DRAMATURGY
The screenplay Suspense
Tools of the trade The chase
Historical background The serial
The story idea Westerns
Plot vs. character Comedy relief
Dramatic values Semi-documentaries

The full shot Transitions
The long shot Montage
The angles Special Effects
WRITING THE SCREENPLAY

The shooting script Tempo
Writing character action Dialects
Dialogue writing Music
Camera movement Budget writing
For both beginning and professional writer, this practical manual is a
treasury of information and ideas on what to do and how to do it.
Forum Books are published by

The World Publishing Company • Cleveland and New York
Tfiisbook is sewn for durahiUti

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II BOOKS

WE WIS HERMAN E^3

Scanned from the collections of

Funded by a donation from

for theater and television films

THE WORLD PUBLISHING COMPANY

First Forum printing February 1963

Copyright 1952 by Lewis Herman.

my wife Marguerite and our children-

The Screen Writer magazine.

This book is a practical manual of screen-play writing. Its purpose

page vii Preface

3 The screen play, the screen writer, tools of the trade.

25 The synopsis, personality shading, all cats are gray, conflict

horns of a dilemma, structural unity, straight-line story

40 Suspense, someone to root for, write— don't telegraph, don't

don't gild the lily, answer? compromise, of course.

88 Happy ending vs. unhappy ending

2 THE FILMIC COMPONENTS

12J Cutaways, establish cutaways, related cutaways, unrelated

cutaways for short time lapse, dialogue time lapse, exact

162 Process screen shots

WRITING THE SCREEN PLAY

169 The master-scene screen play

188 Image angle, progression in image angle, opposition in

189 Camera movement, progression in camera movement, op-

194 Dialogue writing, continuity with dialogue, visual more

consider re-dressing, consider corners, avoid staircases,

238 The verbal cliches, going to pieces, surprise names, sur-

255 Balance, off-center balance, lower left to upper right, strive

with sound, volume important, sound volume increases,

2J4 Music, plot music, background music, avoid familiar music,

The Hollywood screen-play writer's position in the manufacture

author is rarely forced to make radical editorial changes. Radio

Tools of the trade. Primarily, a screen-play writer should be able

Then, he should have a creative imagination. He should be able

there is sufficient physical action within the framework of each shot

quires an intimate knowledge of motion-picture techniques. It de-

for moving from scene to scene and from sequence to sequence. It

There was a time when such a specialized knowledge of motion-

with which the silent pictures tried to present a minimal amount of

chief tools, the close-up. And definite techniques for screen-play

Present studio procedures

The current Hollywood staff-written screen play is the result of

truncated to a page or even a paragraph. One important producer

minor changes and suggestions and accepts most of those made by

may be discarded. Another writer may then be put on the original

almost certainly— even if the finished script is perfectly acceptable—

Screen play classifications

The Hollywood screen play can be broken down into a number of

WESTERN COMEDY CRIME

of the motion-picture screen play is that it should make for a motion

The television film, however,viewed in the home, plays to no

write in a few seconds of "dead dialogue" after a laugh line or situa-

The story idea

We have already seen that ideas for feature motion-picture screen

Ideas for original-story motion pictures can be found anywhere.

Notebook. This requires, first, an acquisitive and curious mind,

Idea selectivity. Selectivity is one of the writer's most important