The screen writer (Apr-Oct 1948)

such un-American words as "combine") there is no attack implied on this real estate combine, or of labelling it necessarily a monopoly. That does not interest us here. If the twenty thousand theatres, aggregating eleven million seats, were owned by twenty thousand individuals, the result to the screen playwright would be basically the same. Competition for product would be greater, no doubt, but under such a highly competitive system the cost of selling and distributing pictures would be increased, so that the net profits would probably be the same. WHAT does concern us is the simple fact that the screen playwright's stage is contained in these twenty thousand theatres. They are there for keeps — twenty thousand of them, blazoning their fronts on every Broadway of every city and village of the United States, with displays costing hundreds of thousands of dollars to entice the public inside to occupy those eleven million seats. They are useless for anything other than the showing of motion pictures. They cannot be turned into skating rinks, abattoirs or public service stations. They are one-purpose buildings, expensive to maintain, and dependent upon only one commodity to maintain them — motion picture entertainment. A commodity, according to the Encyclopedia Britannica, as intangible as a shadow on the wall, a sound in the air. The combine is concerned with only one consideration— the renting of those eleven million seats, and how many hours per day and night each seat is occupied. That is its sole business. That is the Motion Picture Industry. It has no heart, no sentiment, no culture, no interest whatsoever in art, literature or humanitarianism. It shouldn't be expected to have, any more than bricks and mortar and steel care about what they are holding up — a garage roof or a church steeple. The Industry is divinely objective. It is impervious to isms, morals, politics, religion, or Leagues of Decency. It is impervious to stars, stories, production values, and indeed all the things that most of us in Holly wood spend most of our time thinking and talking about. All the combine demands — a simple enough request for the two billion dollars invested ! — is that the commodity it deals in tickles the fancies of some eighty-five million people a day and excites their emotions and libidos sufficiently to goose them into going inside. If dear old Lassie does the trick, then an hermaphroditic collie is the world's greatest actor, and the author of Lassie's script looms larger than the Bard of Avon. And that is how it should be. The Hollywood studios are in exactly the same position. They are merely the manufacturers of the commodity that the combine purveys and must have in order to keep going. The heads of the studios, regardless of what personal artistic ambitions they may possess, are merely the servants of the combine. They are hired to turn out the necessary product. If they fail, regardless of why, they are quickly dismissed and superseded by some other manufacturing dynamo. This has always been self-evident. It was conclusively demonstrated, via the Eric Johnston statement over the Rankin-Thomas hearings in its recent investigation of the Motion Picture Industry. The Hollywood producers determined upon a decent and intelligent course of action, but under the alleged duress of Public Opinion, they were forced to adopt a completely opposite stand — and ordered to set up an industrial court, thereby contravening the laws of the land, wherein motion picture employees could be judged and convicted of the "crime" of holding certain political opinions. The only alternative the studio heads had was to lose their jobs. It is no wonder they capitulated, and no blame should be attached to their acquiescence. They were not employed in the first place to be concerned with political or humanitarian principles. There was no reason why they should undermine their jobs and ruin their careers over a situation that they neither created nor had any say in settling. Their allegiance was to the combine, and the concern of the combine was Public Opinion — as the combine interpreted it, rightly or wrongly. THIS does not imply, of course, that the studio heads and the producers as individuals are not personally and individually deeply concerned with motion pictures as an art, as literature, and as the greatest force in the world for moral and spiritual progress. Over the years many producers have made heroic efforts to foist fine pictures upon the American public. Once in a lifetime these have proved successful, but the majority have failed dismally — and the producer has had to take the blame. He is blamed in fact for most of the ills of the Motion Picture Industry — the so-called twelve year old mentality, picture formulas, high costs, poor product, while the truth of the matter is that he is completely blameless. He is merely the pawn of a robot calculating machine which he tries valiantly and honestly to serve. This real estate relationship to the dramatist's stage is nothing new. It is merely an extension, on a much larger scale, of the theatre combine formerly owned and controlled by the Shuberts, Frohmans, Dillinghams, and Erlangers. That combine was no whit more interested in culture or literary ideals than Loews Inc., Publix Paramount, or Warner Freres. Its interest was solely the income derived from renting out theatre stalls. It operated in precisely the same manner, even to the star system. The stars of those days — the Mansfields, the Terrys, the perennial BarrymOres — were employed under yearly contract to the theatre owners. Dramatists were engaged to devise "vehicles" to exploit the star's special talents. Only incidentally and in spite of the system did playwrights essay good and literary play writing. There were, however, two important differences between the playwright of the theatre and the playwright of the screen. In the theatre, the dramatist was always considered extremely important. His name became known, and he grew in fame and fortune. The screen playwright has only just begun to be considered important. So far, none is known. In the thirty years of movies not one single name has achieved any degree of importance. The Screen Writer, April, 1948