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ing. The Admirable Crichton may be sacred to you and me, but its screen alias of Male and Female has a far bigger pull with John Smith and his uncles and his aunts and his cousins the world over.
The producer is not interested in literature as literature. His milieu is pictures, not words. Literary art is of value to him only in so far as it has something to offer that is adaptable to his specialized medium. If he is ready to pay ten thousand dollars for a piece of literary work for the sake of a mere idea contained in it, and, based on that idea, turns out a film that bears little or no resemblance to the original, that is his privilege. We may gnash our teeth over it, but at the same time we must be careful not to misinterpret this reaction of ours as evidence that the producer is an ignoramus.
The failure of the great majority of novelists and playrights who have gone to Hollywood, to write directly for the screen, has proven a mutual disappointment. And author and producer are equally to blame — the author for failing to perceive the distinctive difference between literary and pictorial expression, and the producer for assuming that ability to produce an excellent novel or drama implies the ability also to write an ordinary scenario.
And so it is that many of our contemporary literary lights, numbering among them Michael Arlen, Gilbert Parker, Basil King, Joseph Hergersheimer, Mary Rinehart, Gertrude Atherton, Fanny Hurst, Irving Cobb, Booth Tarkington, Rupert Hughes, have twinkled brilliantly for a time on the Hollywood studio lots, only to disappear more or less quickly and return gratefully to their native firmament.
Each to his own trade. The cobbler to his last. Novels
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