Hollywood Spectator (1931)

8 Hollywood Spectator much studio thought that they have a bearing upon the cost of pictures out of all proportion to the value of what they contribute. All the story difficulties are due to one reason — executive incompetency. Executives who don’t know a story when they read it and don’t know what to do with one when they get it, are responsible for the so-called story shortage, the blame for which they pass on to the writers of the world. ▼ ^ To THE MESSY manner in which stories are handled is due the fact that in a great many cases better stories are thrown away than reach the screen. A story with real possibilities in it is purchased. The possibilities are apparent in the first treatment, because up to that time only writers have had contact with the story. Then it begins. The production head thinks the story would be improved if the girl were given a drunken aunt to provide comedy relief, and his yes-men have ideas equally brilliant. Finally when the thing reaches the screen we find that the original story was thrown away and in its place we have the drunken aunt and the other afterthoughts. In a great many cases, however, nothing reaches the screen, as the picture possibilities diminish with each treatment until even a production executive is not dull enough to fail to recognize that there are no screen values left. I know of one studio that offered another a large sum for the first treatments of a number of stories that later had died while they were being operated on by incompetent executives. B wanted the stories in their original form in which they had merit, but A added to the price it asked for them the full cost of the murdering process, and the deal fell through. But I persist in the claim that as screen art is what the industry must sell if it hopes to become prosperous again, the story is comparatively unimportant. In one sense stories are important — because they are what the industry is buying. They become unimportant when we consider that they are not what the industry is selling. Happy Endings SOMEWHERE IN the pile of just-read film papers that sprawls on the floor by the easy chair in which I think, read and write, is a publication that reports a speech made by someone to a gathering of exhibitors. I would seek out the paper and give you the name of the speaker, but Stingy, our Scotch terrier puppy, is asleep on the pile and I don’t like to disturb him. And, anyway, if I leaned over far enough to reach the pile, I would disturb the orange Persian kitten that is in my lap enjoying a sleep in his favorite place beneath the pad upon which I write. When it approaches midnight the animals seek me out. Virgil, my old fox terrier whose friendship for me goes back for over a decade, occupies the depths of another big chair and looks at me shamefacedly because Charles, our large black cat, has coiled himself in a napping position in the same big chair. Virgil tolerates cats, but he refuses to recognize them as social equals. For him it is not a happy ending of the peaceful day we had together, but for me it holds as much happiness as ending days can offer me now. In the speech I referred to, the speaker summed up the ills of motion pictures and suggested the remedies that would make them well. Only one thing I remember — that unhappy endings are definitely out, that a picture with such an ending has no chance of success at the box-office. He uses the term, “unhappy ending”, in the same manner as it is used in Hollywood during those grave discussions that reveal how little the participants know what they’re talking about. In a properly told screen story a logical succession of events can lead logically to but one ending, and that is the ending the story must have. It is the only ending that will appeal to the intelligent members of an audience, and as the intelligent members greatly out-number the unintelligent, the box-office is served better when the story ends logically. Whether a story should have a happy ending is not debatable, but let us assume that it is. No doubt the speaker whose utterances are reported in the publication upon which the puppy slumbers, meant by “unhappy” endings those stories that left in distress the characters who carried our sympathy. But suppose the events lead logically to such a conclusion, would this orator distort the ending to make the characters happy? Whom is he trying to please, the characters or the audience? To be completely satisfactory to those who view it, a picture must end as the audience wants it to end. An American Tragedy ends “unhappily”. There is no other possible ending. Such being the case, is it not a “happy” ending for an audience that has employed its intelligence in following the story? Clyde no doubt would be happier of he were not condemned to death, but the audience would be dissatisfied, and of the two I think the audience is the more important. Virgil’s day is ending unhappily because Charles is in the chair beside him. I think it is a delightful ending, all the animals bringing their friendship to me, wanting to be with me to give me that companionship that is rooted in affection for me. I like to see Virgil and Charles in the same chair. I support them and give them a good home because I enjoy their company. What makes Virgil unhappy makes me happy, but surely I am entitled to that much. The puppy has awakened and is in my lap, having a fight with the kitten. At least it is what they pretend is a fight. But I won’t bother looking for the film paper now. The name of the orator doesn’t matter. Decent Hours There’s going to be a revolution in Hollywood motion picture studios on the twelfth of August. On that date there goes into effect the new state law governing the working hours of girls employed in studios. Fike all reforms, this one was brought about by abuses. At present girls are overworked disgracefully. Selfish executives receiving salaries many times what they are worth, have no consideration for their secretaries who have to appear for work several hours before their employers arrive and continue to work until their employers go home. In the other offices where female help is employed, conditions are just as bad. Metro has a favorite method of stealing hours from tired girls who work in its stenographic department. The department is under-staffed so that nightly girls have to work from