Screenland (Sept 1922–Feb 1923)

GlUhat's T, LOST BONDS. By F. A. S., Camden, S. C. the MATTER with y STORY? HIS department is occupied to a large extent in reading scenarios that are unsuitable for production and in pointing out to the authors— and readers— some of the reasons why they are unsuitable. But your contribution is one of the few that has distinct screen possibilities. Although briefly presented— in its 2000 words — there is no question in our mind but that it possesses structure for a good melodrama, worthy the attention of a studio scenario department in want of melos. Are you familiar with East Indian customs? Then why don't you write your story longer, adding color and characterization? There is a passage from a recent book review by the brilliant Henry Van Dyke (The New York Times) which, although written of a novel, holds valuable interest for photoplay student. He writes : "The function of the novelist is to make a story real by showing the relations and consequences of human actions — and not of outward actions only, but also of feelings indulged and thoughts habitually cherished. Those inward actions and reactions belong to reality just as truly as the visible elements by which they are accompanied. . . . It is not merely by the deeds of the body but also by 'the deeds done in the body' that the drama of life is woven on the loom of circumstance." Two love elements arc dangerous. The pitfall of scattered interest has ensnared even the most successful scenarists and playwrights, at times. It is essential to your story, of course, that there be the two love elements' but one should be subdued. The other must be the major love element. So use your story for a pattern and cut from the cloth of life. When the fabric is as good as the pattern, submit it to a studio editor. 56 M;y Maiden Effort By Raymond L. Schrock, Scenario Editor, Universal Film Mfg. Co. It was early in the year 1911, having given up the profession of civil engineering, because in that capacity I had broken most of the walking records of Dan O'Leary and Edward Payson Weston; and not being able to "doll up" and "trip the gay fantastic" amongst Chicago's North Shore elite, on the slender salary of newspaper reporter, I chanced to look over a most alluring and promising advertisement of the Vitagraph Company of America, which stated that they would pay handsomely for motion picture scenarios. With visions of a new summer outfit and many nights of gladness, I hastened to a nickelodeon near the old "Rough and Ready" boarding house, where I hung my hat; because you see I hadn't the least idea whether a scenario was a short story or a mechanical drawing; and there I sat through four showings of the popular offering of the times (a one-reel drama), trying to dope out some idea of the technique of writing this new perplexing term scenario. That night over my trusty double barreled Smith Premier, I managed to tell a story in about 25 scenes and called it "On the Firing Line," which you will readily guess was a Civil War thriller about a spy and pretty girl, and the poipers." With great care and dispatch I mailed 'his first movie brain child to the Vitaqraph Company, and the next night I hammered out another, and sent it to the Kalem Company, because I had discovered that other companies were waiting breathlessly to send checks to aspiring writers. You've probably guessed It already— my second masterpiece was as the first a Civil War drama, called "The Two Scouts." Now comes the tnrll of this narrative — my daily work piled higher and hlaher at the newspaper office, and I forgot all about the feverish inspiration of those two nights. Then one morning I found a letter on the community table. It sure handed me a thrill, because the envelope was too small to contain the remains of my poor manuscript. Inside was a check for $20 and a printed release, whereby I was to sign away all my dramatic rights L°u.fa.,d stor,v Little did the Kalem editor, Phil Lang, for it was Kalem who first discovered that I was a genius) dream that for $20 I would have signed away everything but my life. Anyhow, Vitagraph made the same momentous discovery of talent, for three days later I was spending their check for $20 for one grand trip to Mackinac Island, with all the trimmings. A KENTUCKY GIRL By M. L., Los Angeles, Calif. /\S a fledgling scenario, what yoi have submitted is a worthy effort ; bu it contains no sales possibilities. L more nearly resembles a simple narrative than a well-rounded story plot. Elizabeth, Hinton and Hargrave— the familiar, age-old triangle, is the only basis you have for action. There is no theme— only a mild degree of conflict between hero and villain, with Jack Lewis a slight comedy relief. This story was criticised in a previous issue in this department, we remember. WIDE AWAKE By C. H. IV., Vernon, Texas. YOU say your story is especially written for Will Rogers, who isn't making pictures now but appearing in vaudeville. (Although we hope we will see more of his appealing comedies.) Do not make the mistake, when writing a story for any certain star, to duplicate the sort on which you have seen that star appear. You have written more in the vein of what you have seen than of striking, original material, which others want to see. Of course, Will Rogers would never consider a story so nearly the same as Living Up to It in which he appeared. But don't feel badly about that. Nearly all amateur scenario writers, it is said around the studios, are mirrors of the screen. It is the writer who, bypractice, acquires the dramatic skill to capitalize his own orieinality who makes a success. Take this Bert Benson of yours and make him do unexpected, unusual things for unusual purposes in order to lift the interest of the story above the sorididness of the man's surroundings. And remember that every part of your story must bear some essential relation to every other part. As you now have it, the failure of Benson's oil investment and his success at capturing chicken thieves are two fragments of action entirely separate.