The screen writer (Apr-Oct 1948)

The Cliche Masters: A Case History By DAVID CHANDLER DOES anybody here want to buy a nice original screenplay, in mint condition, consisting of a ribbon copy and five carbons, typed on an excellent quality Eaton bond? The reverse pages, being blank, would make fine scratch paper, or shredded, could serve as wrapping for china or glassware. The present writer knows' of one such script available for a song and he believes he can persuade the author to settle for scratch-paper money rather than write the whole thing off as a Total Loss. It will not affect the value of the scratch-paper that the proper (or typewritten) side has been written in blood and has been well-spoken of by a couple of people whose judgment you'd be bound to respect. After . all, herrings have been wrapped in Shakespeare. The author of the nice original screenplay has appointed this writer as his literary executor. He has also left behind him a mordant screed, moving in its classic Sophoclean frustration. In it he has drawn a stunning portrait of the screen writer struggling against a certain fate, daring the gods, and then, inevitably falling victim to the consequences of his own folly. It also constitutes a kind of record of what people who actually buy scripts say (as, for example, when Mr. Goldwyn writes for these august pages) as distinguished from what they buy, or to be precise, what they make. We all know what they say, don't we, fellows? Mr. G. was saying it just the other month, remember? It goes something like this : Don't be a lousy rewrite man. Be a creative giant, that's what we need. Write your guts out. A piffle for money. Write in terrible isolation and if it's good they'll buy it, they'll give you a percentage, they'll give you any thing. Only the one thing they loathe and won't have is the usual, the trite, the cliche. The fact that not Mr. Goldwyn, nor anyone else, has been able to mention one instance where he'd done what he was asking us to do apparently had no effect on the author of the nice original screenplay mentioned above. The author took the words to heart, went on iron rations and was creative as hell. He had no illusions about marketing his story to those mass production picture factories which are interested in new-slanted carbons of the same stuff they made last year. He showed it to a number of independent producers, all of whom had affirmed a passionate urge to break with the assembly-line methods of the larger studios, efforts they, too, largely blamed on "bad writers." WHAT happened is touchingly dramatized in the scratchings appended below. A careful reader will catch the pattern : the eager writer is brought face-to-face with the Man of Power. The M. of P. expresses a desire to do something "fine." There is a brief conversational honeymoon. Then, collapse. Despairing, the author of the screenplay, humbly wishing to "improve himself," races to the Bijou, there to sit in rapt attention before the latest product of the gentleman who has just said him nay. My friend, being a man of steel detachment, keeps emotions out of it. He has left us a portrait of the writer as passionate virgin, as rejected mistress, and finally as a kind of literary Stella Dallas standing outside the church while the groom who has spurned her takes his vows with some other dame. There may be a picture in all this. I wouldn't know. But then, you never can tell, as they keep telling us. Besides, as Mr. Goldwyn can see, every word has been written from the heart with no idea of profit or gain. The notes began — Saw AAAAA today. He's a very important agent who seems less interested in handling flesh and more interested in being a producer. Says he's sick and tired of dull, obvious formula pictures. "We'll leave formulas to the majors," he said. "The real talent wants to strike out and do good pictures, work creatively. What's money? The government takes it all away in any case. I want to make pictures that say something, give us a lot of fun and which we can look at without apologizing for." Has heard of my script and appears eager to do, if it lives up to its advance reports. Well, AAAAA has turned down script. Just felt it wasn't right for him. No hard feelings. Hell. Have been in this business too long for that. Gide turned down Proust. Friede turned down Thomas Wolfe, what the hell. That's what makes horse racing, isn't it? Still, he seemed like fairly capable, sincere guy, so went to see his last picture. No use being bitter, understand. Just wanted chance to learn. Learn the kind of thing he wants to do, since he can't do mine. Following is what I saw: BATTLE STATIONS Lieut, (j-g-) Tom Kegley is a brash young fellow, full of ginger and a divvil of a boy-o with the waitresses. Assigned to the grand old flattop "Savin Rock," his comment on first seeing the ship, "What a fat tub of rust," deeply wounded the old Chief, Bill Jones, enlisted Navy through and through. Jones has just said goodbye to his beautiful daughter Elaine and Tom Kegley seeing her (Continued on Page 26) The Screen Writer, August, 1948 11