The screen writer (June 1947-Mar 1948)

THE SCREEN WRITER be done to the story, characters and scene design. This is the part of his contribution which is not in the script. The studio has paid for it and then denies itself the opportunity of benefiting from it. His right to contribute some of the judgment and knowledge born of the experience of writing the story must not depend on the common sense, itnelligence, self-interest, or fair-mindedness of the studio, the producer, or the director. His right must be inherent somewhere in the terms of his employment. The playwright enjoys this status. To a more limited extent so does the novelist. If every screen writer were given these minimum opportunities there would be less criticism by an actor of lines which look fine on paper but which he cannot speak. This process goes on into the cutting and editing of the film, from which the writer learns, as well as to which he contributes, day by day. By actual participation in daily shooting and in the subsequent study of the rushes, the writer quickly learns the limitations imposed upon him by actual film. Questions of length or brevity are realistically related to the understanding of intercutting, dissolves, total film length, audience fatigue, etc. With such experience, a writer can subsequently design his scenes conscious of problems and possibilities. It would seem to me that this added knowledge on his part ultimately spells greater profits at the boxoffice. But denied the opportunity of participating in daily shooting and seeing the rough cut as it grows reel by reel, he remains ignorant of the final product, which is not words on paper, but people and their purposes in action on film. Seeing the picture months later in a theatre never did and never will supply this. And that, I believe, is why from one assignment to the next, the writer is told that his place is at the typewriter and that he has no right to participate in production decisions because he doesn't have the "know-how." Thus, both he and his employers are in the final analysis cheated. I reject the solution which works for individuals, but not for the writing group, such as the person who becomes a writer-producer, or a writer-director to "protect his material." I choose the path of writingproducing for a variety of reasons having to do with previous experiences in other fields. But if a writer wishes to devote himself exclusively to writing, then, in the best interests of the industry he should not be penalized for this by being the lowliest participant in the decision-making end of producing a motion picture. Not so long as the final product rests upon the basic characters, sequences and ideas he had originally put on paper for its validity and effectiveness. It is unjust as well as unintelligent. I likewise reject the pompous judgment of the "Haves" against the "Have-Nots" which argues that the writer, to secure these privileges of authority with regard to production, and the privilege of following through on a picture "on the company time" until the film is in the can, must go through a lengthy and bloody apprenticeship. If his dramatic instinct and capacity to be articulate were good enough to secure him employment in the motion picture industry, then they are sufficient credentials at that very moment to qualify him for the additional training which I described above. It will make him a better writer. It will make good pictures better. It will give his employer more value for his money. I was surprised to find that this line of thinking creates wrath expressed with great certainty in some quarters. Perhaps my specific solution is not the best. But no one who has the interests of the industry as a whole at heart can deny the existence of the problem. Those who do, with such deep throated certainty are, I suspect, guilty of an unreasoning canine snarling born of dog-eat-dog competition which is harmful to the entire industry at a time when it heads into serious problems at home and abroad. I am aware that the Screen Writers' Guild has done prodigious work on this problem and I am most certainly not criticizing the Guild for what remains to be done. I realize that achieving this improved status of practical dignity for the writer may well bear directly on achieving an improved economic status for him. I still think it is sound business for the industry, as well as for the writer. In addition, I know what those writers who have not been accorded some of my opportunities have been denied. I am indebted to my many patient teachers during this apprenticeship — men who had nothing to gain for themselves by their generosity. Sidney Buchman, Bill Lyon, our film editor, his assistant, Sam Brown, our set designer, Carey O'Dell, Larry Butler, in charge of special effects, Reggie Smith, our property man, Burnett Guffey, our cameraman, Arthur Birnkrant, Seymour Friedman, our assistant director, and Irving Lerner, whose practical experiences in the documentary field taught me a great deal. I would like to see other writers share similarly enriching experiences. It is not enough that some studios and producers have the intelligence to realize that the director and producer must work closely with the writer. So long as this fundamental difference in authority persists, when the going gets rough and disagreements become basic, from what I have learned, the producer and director 10