The screen writer (Apr-Oct 1948)

< > »— t Z z <! S H Z w w H »-^ created out of circumstances where none of them was present. And obviously by what I am saying here, I am not attempting to argue that screenwriters' salary scales should be lower than those which now exist. On the contrary, I think that what I intend to propose should increase, rather than decrease the reward for honest original creation among writers here. Creative writing for motion pictures is not limited to the field of "originals." Much of the greatest work which has so far found its way to the screen has come from the application of great creative talent to the works of others. The screenplay of W uthering Heights is no less a literary classic for the fact that Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur took a novel written almost a century before and applied to that, rather than to a story of their own invention, a depth of feeling and a poetry of expression rarely paralleled on the screen. Nor is The Informer any the less a classic because Liam O'Flaherty first conceived the character of Gypo Nolan in the pages of a novel before Dudley Nichols laid Gypo's soul bare on the screen. But there is not enough creative writing in Hollywood either with respect to work created for the screen or work adapted to the screen. Writers can not avoid their own heavy responsibility for this by blaming "the system" here. For while "the system" has grave faults, — of which this is not the least — you writers, on the other hand, have the opportunity, if you have the courage, to create for yourselves an atmosphere of artistic freedom and an opportunity for even greater financial rewards for the future. What a desert the contemporary American theatre would be if practically all of its plays had been written by authors who were content to do all their playwriting as employees on the weekly payroll of the Messrs. Shubert instead of creating their plays out of their sweat and toil and despair and effort and struggle, and willingness to wager their time and effort on their ability to create good work — willing ness to stake their success on their talent. What a dried-up field American literature would be if practically all novelists turned on their talents like faucets, automatically but only when payment was guaranteed, reported into their publishing houses from nine to five, picked up their checks at the end of the week, and stopped thinking about their work the moment the checks stopped. WE expect and we get fine, distinguished and, from time to time, great works from playwrights, from novelists, from short story writers because they are writing from what is inside of them; what their reason, their emotions, their experience, their perceptions dictate they must write. Good work does not come easily. No one has yet discovered any magic formula by which fine writing can be distilled effortlessly. Any writer who aspires to something more than money can buy — and also to a chance at even more money than a weekly pay-check will bring — is going to have to make some initial sacrifice. He is going to have to give up the security of a fixed payroll for an opportunity at something more. I do not deny that there appears to be a need for a certain amount of "weekly writing," if I may call it that, or flat sum contract writing, but the point I want to make is that that has been vastly overdone to the detriment of the screen and of writers themselves. How many writers have told me, "I can't even think about your story unless I'm being paid!" I am sure that it would benefit the writers greatly if they thought and worked and wrote without being on someone's payroll. They would write better on the whole, and they would actually be better paid on the whole. I think that writers know that I have never hesitated to pay full value — and often more — for writing talent. I do not want something for nothing for myself or for our industry. I do not want writers to be in a position where their work can be appropriated without full payment. Nor do I want writers to be "poor relations" in Hol lywood who must depend on a producer's good graces for a living. On the contrary, I think so highly of the importance of good writing and I have such a genuine admiration for good writers that I want writers here in Hollywood to have the stature, the dignity, the standing which writers in other fields of literature have carved out for themselves. Hollywood is filled with men and women who have the latent ability to become great creative literary figures. No one — not even "the system" — is stopping them from fulfilling their potential. What is holding them back is the desire to have their cake and eat it too. That may be a perfectly human and blameless desire but no one has yet discovered how it can be done. I believe that the future of American picture making depends on freshness, on originality, on renewed vitality. Such an infusion of strong creative writing can come about only if writers as well as others concerned with the making of motion pictures discipline themselves to the intense effort needed to think and work creatively and daringly for motion pictures. In my opinion the stimulus of the opportunity to write well and creatively should be enough to cause serious screen-writers to shake off the comfortable, golden bonds which affect their talents. But I am so concerned with the need for revitalizing screenwriting that, as a producer, I am prepared to go further. I am ready to offer writers a percentage of the profits of any original work which they create or adapt for the screen on their own. I assure you that this will mean much more ultimately than weekly pay-checks. Let a writer bring to me a treatment or a screenplay which he has written on his own, regardless of whether it be an adaptation or an "original," and if it is usable I will pay him much more than he would have received if he had been working on a weekly basis or for an amount fixed in advance. This is a matter of simple economics for if the writer takes the risk involved — and does it successfully — he has much greater 20 The Screen Writer, April, 1948 111