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Close-Ups
65
THERE are no greater proclaimers of honesty than the
scenario departments ot the various film companies. And as far as the time-honored charge ol unwarranted
appropriation ot* manuscripts is concerned, there is very little truth in the accusation. Theatrical managers suffer from a plague of blackmailing authors — Mr. Belasco, for instance, has a suit or so a year from this breed — who take the remotest resemblances, the most absurd claims into court expecting snap judgment and easy money from the fruits of another's labor.
There is pilfering in filmland, but the amateur author, despite his frequent wails of robbery, is not so often the victim. Like marauding ants, the celluloid hordes prey upon each other.
It is safe to say that nowadays there is not a big production which does not contain two or three spies among its extra men. A California producer who recently sent forth a great new play built a wall about his premises, and during month after month neither "still" photographer nor newspaper reporter — nor, indeed, any casual visitor — was allowed within. Yet the producer's first cry, after showing his picture, was: "They have stolen my stuff!" A neighboring producer made exactly the same charge, a few weeks previously. Directors and actors have worked as extra men for days — scouts in alien territory.
Announcements of singular, impending productions have often been delayed for fear of imitation. And such imitations have been made. We can think of one exceedingly conspicuous instance last season. Phonetic similarity of title, similarity of plot, similarity even in unique characterizations is not unusual.
"8
You Never Can Tell.
WE have in mind a certain Western photoplaywright who is as prolific in plots as Nick Carter's literary papa; who is strong on human characterizations; who is a Samson in powerful situations — but who shows the most lamentable lack of knowledge concerning everything in the American metropolis. He gives you no impression of knowing what Fifth Avenue, or Wall street, or Longacre Square, are really like. He has absolutely no New York atmosphere. Manhattanly speaking, he is as naive as a school-girl writing about Broadway from a maidenly conning-tower in Butte. As a great many of our photoplays are, per force or fashion, laid in the Twentieth-Century Babylon, this provincialism is a bit unfortunate.
So, one recent evening, upon meeting the shadow-Pinero's manager, we ventured to suggest for him, a month or so among the white lights as a mere matter of necessary education. Silence.
"What part of the woods" — we continued — "does he hail from?" Answered his manager: "Born, raised, educated and always lived in New York City."