The screen writer (June 1947-Mar 1948)

THE SCREEN WRITER by side with the leading lady; it can accompany the leading man in a parachute jump when he bails out of a burning plane; it can peer nosily into a woman's vanity case, or read a letter over someone's shoulder ; all of which are highly unorthodox activities for the age-old theatregoer to engage in. Even to the casual observer, therefore, it must appear obvious that the physical limitations of the stage, on which dramatists have leaned so heavily, are of no use to the screen writer. An excellent illustration of this fact can be seen in the film version of The Green Pastures. On the stage, one of the most thrilling scenes in the play occurs when the entire company, by means of a treadmill, "marches" toward the walls of Jericho ; but on the screen this action is in no way spectacular because there is no physical limitation to be overcome. What the screen shows is simply a crowd of people moving by natural means along a road. This is only one of countless ways in which the devices of the conventional theatre are rendered ineffective by the analytical eye of the camera. But of much greater significance is what has happened to the internal structure of the play itself. Let us assume that a modern three act play is to be adapted for the screen. The first problem the screen writer faces is what to do about the exposition in act one. Minor characters bustle in and out like busy bees, each with a honeyed drop of information absolutely essential for the spectator's ear if he is to understand the action that follows. However adroit the dramatist may have been in disguising this fact, it is all too apparent on the screen. The picture audience is soon bored with being "told" something, since there is no good reason why the thing being told shouldn't be shown. Accordingly, the screen writer seeks a way to dramatize the events and subject matter contained in the exposition. This can either be solved by opening the story at an earlier period or by the use of flashbacks. Occasionally it is found necessary to invent new situations entirely. He then comes to the first major dramatic scene which starts the "action" or "conflict" of the play, and is dismayed to find that it is mostly "talk" and very little action; added to which it all takes place in one small room. The ability of the camera (audience) to move is thus arbitrarily restricted; and the spectator, more often than not, becomes restless and bored. To use the camera in this fashion is like playing a fine piano with one finger. The real potentialities of the instrument have not been realized ; and the results, therefore, are disappointing. This is elementary to screen writers and is only 24 stated here to illustrate how completely the careful plotting of act one breaks down. But when the screen writer tackles the second act, an even graver problem confronts him. He views with increasing alarm the fact that acts one and two are building to a big "climax" on which the curtain will be lowered for an eight minute intermission. He calculates roughly that this will occur in about reel six with three more reels to go. Feverishly he examines act three to see if the "action" continues to build ; but more often than not there is a falling off to the conventional denouement or resolution. Again this entails explanations, which, if they pall at the beginning of a picture, are ten times worse at the end. Thus the entire architecture of the play defeats the effective use of the camera. The screen writer, with no artificial limitations to overcome, is faced with the difficult task of making the most of his freedom. Since everything can be "shown," he has to appear to show everything, which, of course, is not what he is doing at all. He is actually engaged in making a painstaking selection of scenes, characters, and background, from the almost limitless possibilities at his command. The rules by which he makes this selection are peculiar to the screen and are being formulated by the simple method of trial and error (what is effective and what isn't) ; and many of them have already been discovered. Certainly, the basic form is pretty well established. The screen writer must present a continuous action, sustained through many scenes to a final climax — at which point the picture ends. In this respect the "form" is closer to the Shakespearian drama than to the modern three act play. The writer is presenting a series of tiny little scenes designed to have a cumulative effect. But his story must not be told as a narrative. It must contain all the elements of drama without the aid of theatrical devices, as I have pointed out before. It might be said that he is writing a long one act play in two or three hundred scenes. But the greater freedom he enjoys entails a greater responsibility to his subject matter. The slightest irrelevancy becomes a glaring flaw and is soon snipped out in the cutting room. The selection of scenes, therefore, and their continuity, are matters far less flexible than is commonly supposed. They are dictated by the inherent demands of the story; and the ability of the writer to recognize these demands depends entirely upon his dramatic talent and the skill with which he can use it. Regardless of cast or director, a "good" picture — like a "good" play — is one that is fully conceived and ably written. A "bad" picture is one that isn't.