Variety (January 1957)

Wednesday, January 9, 1957 Fifty-first J^SrISTy Anniversary PICTURES WHAT’S MY PLAYING ATTITUDE? (Or, “I CALL HIM HAMLET BUT WE CAN CHANGE THE NAME”) Hollywood. Hello there! I suppose you’re wondering why I called you all together. Well, showfolk, my subject today is The Art of Story Telling. Perhaps I should be more specific and say The Art of Telling a Story Verbally. The pen might be mighter than the sword in some lit¬ erary circles, but the mouth is the tool most often used these days on the commercial plateaus of show business to bring story buyer and seller together. In fact, the verbal telling is more and more the vogue in all the various entertainment media. The short cut and reading time-saver for the Busy Busy Executive who scorns the five pound manuscript in the sweaty hand of the Author, and barks, “OK, kid, I don’t have to plow through that! What’s your story? If it’s any good you should be able to tell it in one line or at the most one paragraph! Shoot!” With knocking knees; faint heart, dry mouth, thick tongue, and a spurious smile of confidence, the Author begins. ‘•Well, you see, sir — I kind of hate to lose the flavor — I mean you could only get by reading it — but briefly it’s a story about this girl— but she’s no ordinary girl — she’s beautiful — and she’s a fishmonger’s daughter in Ice¬ land — ” “Iceland!” “Yes, sir — but it could be laid any place — wherever they have fish — and fishing boats — ” “Go head.” “Anyway, Maura — ” “Her father?” “No, sir — that’s the girl’s name. But I just made it that it could be any name. Anyway, talking about her father — he has this little shop — ” “You just said they sold fish off their boat! Now you tell me he’s a shopkeeper? Have you thought this story through, Boy? I’m a busy man — ” “It’s a fishmonger’s shop, sir — I suppose I should have said ‘stall.’ It’s the boy who owns the fishing boat — only he doesn’t own it, he’s making payments on it. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Anyway, our story begins some time ago—” “Wait — I don’t want any period stories! Let’s not waste your time and mine. I’ll never forget what Carl Laemmle Senior said when he was running Universal— and it’s just as sound today. Know what he said?” "No, sir.” “He said, ‘I don’t want any more of these stories where the hero writes with a feather!’ ” “Ha-ha, yes, sir — but this could be made a timely story — -because it’s basically about love. Anyway — oh, I should tell you first that there’s this parrot — ” “What parrot?” “On the second floor over the shop — er— stall, that plays a pretty important and amusing part in Maura’s love life—” “The father? Now look, son, I don’t want any ‘middleaged romance’ if that’s what you’re getting at! Where the lovers are a couple of poor slobs — this Marty thing in my book was a fluke! So save your breath if it’s a love story about the father. You see, son, let me give you some advice born of long experience — ” “But you haven’t heard the story yet.” “Know why? Because you can’t tell it. You haven’t thought it out. Look, pal, if you’ve got a story you can tell it. Oh, you can fake around on paper, sure. Like all them novelists. Write all around the subject. Ten paragraphs about “the dawn breaking” when in the screen¬ play all you write is EXT. PANORAMIC SHOT-SKYDAWN BREAKS! The fancy schmancy words. That “Rosey pink fingers that tear away the last violet veils of night” type crud is only window-dressing! Underbrush to cover up the fact that the guy has no stdry! Too much parsley covers up the roast! That’s why I never read any¬ thing! I make writers tell me the story — ” As our defeated Author slowly sinks out of sight and the producer goes back to his Racing Form, we can only wonder whether Scheherezade had the same trouble. But don’t be dismayed, Pen Pals, I’m here to help you. Faint heart never won fair contract. This, after all, is not only to be an inspirational monograph, but a prac¬ tical workaday one as well. Which gets us neatly to CHAPTER 1 “You, Too, Can Be A Story Teller In 10 Uneasy Lessons .” Rule One: Don’t speak slowly, i.e. talk fast. And not too many gestures. And never forget the Producer is just as afraid of you as you are of him. Which gets us to CHAPTER 2 “ Past Pitfalls In The Lives of Great Men And How To Avoid And Profit By Them.” I had thought of starting with several anecdotes from my own past, but then I thought it might be more modest if I began with somebody else’s — Leo McCarey’s, for in¬ stance. Told to me in his own words, and I might add in a voice still trembling with shock— although the ter¬ rible incident happened nearly 25 years ago, when Leo had only one directional credit to his name and was a fledgling megger under contract at the old Fox Studios, Conan Doyle, with his penchant for pungent titles, would have captioned it “The Scraping Sound.” The Scene: Leo McCarey's own tiny office with his name proudly lettered on the door. Cast of Characters: Leo and the Executive Producer in charge of medium budget pictures. As we fad'e in, Leo is in the. middle of telling a new story for a film he is pitching at his smiling boss. Leo, encouraged by the smile, is doing good. He is now de¬ scribing, shot by shot, just how he will shoot the picture. He is cutting up some fine directorial touches. His elo¬ quent hands paint pictures, in the smoky air, of hilarious pratfalls. Suddenly there is a peculiar scraping sound. Leo pays ho heed, tdo caught up in his exciting climax. Again the scraping sound! Louder. This time Leo looks around and sees the source— a Workman outside in the hall, methodically scraping Leo’s name off the door letter by letter! Already tne “Me” is gone! “Go ahead. What’s the finish?” asks the executive, with the scraping sound still ringing in his ears. (A Monograph on the Art of Story Telling) By KEN ENGLUND along with the sound of the dropping of his option, Leo finished the story with gestures as the last letter of his name bit the dust. CHAPTER 3 “The Trials And Tribulations Of A Screen Writer.” Picture if you will Arthur Hornblow’s office at Para¬ mount some 15 years ago. Cast of Characters — Arthur and two writers. Let’s call them Don Hartman and Ken Englund. Their assignment to revamp that venerable old success, “Nothing But The Truth,” to fit the talents of Bob Hope and Paulette God¬ dard. The occasion — the first reading of the script. As per producer Hornblow’s usual procedure, the screenplay was 99% dialog. The stage directions and business he pre¬ ferred to have the writers outline verbally during a read¬ ing of the dialog, to test the soundness of the action. It was my turn to paint a glowing word picture of a love scene when enter another character — the actor who had played the Zombie in the Hope-Hornblow thriller, “The Ghost Breakers.” He was a huge colored gentle¬ man who trained dogs between film assignments, and was currently training Hornblow’s high-strung Dalmatian. This fateful day was the culmination of two months of dog school, and the Trainer-Zombie announced that the Dalmatian had been broken of several bad habits. “Do you think he’ll still hate me?” asked Hornblow warily. For this, it was revealed, was one of the dog’s chief neuroses. The Trainer assured Hornblow that the dog was cured of all malice, and after some money changed hands, the Zombie left and the Dalmatian remained in the office to stare at the three occupants. “Go right ahead, Ken, and ignore him,” ordered Horn¬ blow. I put my script down alongside my chair and picked up where I left off in the love scene I was describing. Half¬ way through, the Dalmatian bared his teeth at Hornblow and lifted his leg over the script. Of course, dogs have a lot more intelligence than peo¬ ple give them credit for. The next day when we looked for cuts the love scene was the first to go. Moral: Never tell a story lo a producer with a dog in the room. CHAPTER 4 “ Never tell a story to a producer with another writer in the room” For if there’s anything worse than a Dalmatian, it’s another writer. Nine times out of ten he’ll be secretly or openly competing with you, and all the while you’re talking his facial expressions are bound to influence the producer. Imagine if Bacon sat in the office while Shake¬ speare told “Hamlet.” As a matter of fact, you don’t have to imagine it. I once wrote the scene. Sir Milton, the producer,, has just introduced Bill Shakespeare to his nephew, Sir Francis Bacon, who has been invited to the story conference to act as a mere sounding board.” Shall we listen? SIR MILTON Bill, tell the story to Francis. Francis, see what we might salvage out of this — FRANCIS Now, fellows, I am just here for laughs, but I’ll be glad to throw in whatever I can. (he lights his pipe) God knows it would hardly be fair for me to get any¬ thing out of this. What’s your notion, Bill? BILL Well, this Danish Prince — SIR MILTON Or Irish, Francis, they’re a jollier race. I don’t want you boys to be tied down to anything. BILL Anyway, I call him Hamlet — FRANCIS ( pulling on his pipd thoughtfully) Hmmm — BILL — sees a — SIR MILTON Wait, Bill. You had a thought, Francis. What was it? That’s what I want, reactions. FRANCIS It’s nothing that we can’t fix — SIR MILTON What? FRANCIS Nothing, except Hamlet isn’t an Ii'ish name. I just throw that in for what it’s worth. BILL Anyway, the ghost of Hamlet’s father appears and tells his son of his murder — FRANCIS Wait, This isn’t the old Icelandic saga about the son avenging -his father’s murder? BILL (feebly) I thought I had a new treatment of it. FRANCIS Oh, but Billy. You can't use that hackneyed revenge angle. You can’t palm it off a Norse legend again no matter how you disguise it — SIR MILTON I’ve only been trying to tell him that for a half hour. FRANCIS Why not build on the one fresh element we’ve got — the Irish nobleman? BILL ( completely broken) It — might be something — SIR MILTON Is there anything in "Othello” we could use? We own it. Any more would be painful. Then there’s that other familiar character to avoid — • The Face Watcher. Some fellows watch clocks. But this fellow watches faces — bosses’ faces. When the Boss frowns at a point in your story, he frowns. When the Boss laughs at one of your comedy scenes, he laughs— hollowly — enviously. Which puts me in mind of a scene some years ago in Sam Goldwyn’s office. He was death on Face Watchers and would play tricks to smoke them out. Like on this particular occasion when we were discussing one of the funny day dreams James Thurber had authorized for “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.” Without any warning, Mr. G., with deliberate dead pan, turned on the Face Watcher and asked for his “honest opinion.” “Is that a funny scene — ” began Goldwyn. “Frankly, Mr. Goldwyn, if you want my honest opinion — ” cut in the Face Watcher who was anti-Thurber in his tastes, “of all the comedy scenes I’ve ever heard — ” “This is one of the most hilarious,” smiled Goldwyn. “Ye-a-a-h,” switched the Face Watcher in midair. “Just great,” turning the pan on his lips to praise in the nick of time. In the trade this is known as the Half Gaynor or Com¬ plete Summersault In Mid-Conference. CHAPTER 5 Wives and Other Hazards. Never tell a story to a producer with a wife in the room. First of all, she can upset him by turning up at the office and peeking in with the glad tidings, “Excuse me, Herman, but I need a check — ” And things like, “I wonder if I should go to the Farm¬ er’s Market or pick up the new Picasso first?” And, “Goodbye, dear, I won’t disturb you — Oh, but you heard about your brother? — Nothing, except the insurance company detectives found an empty can of gasoline in the back of the store and now there’s some silly fuss and nonsense about them no4 wantinp to pay for the fire. ’Bye, darling — nose to the grindstone!” At the Producer’s Home it s even worse. You’ve got the Producer’s Kids who keep coming in to kiss Daddy goodnight. Then Mama sinks into a chair with a drink in her hand and promises to be “quiet as a mouse.” “My little sounding board,” grins the producer, putting a proud and affectionate arm around the little woman. “Continue.” You do, but not for long. The quiet little mouse has turned into a big fat loud-mouthed rat. “Excuse me, but as newly elected President of the P.T.A., I wouldn’t want my own children seeing a scene like that! Why does the heroine have to be a prostitute? Couldn’t she just be the girl next door? Who's just a little wild?” And you’ll be wild by the time you get out of there. But you have only yourself to blame. You shouldn’t have consented to have the conference in his livingroom in the first place. CHAPTER 6 “Never Tell a Story to a Producer in a Barber Chair.” This is a true story, so profit by it. The Scene: 20th-Fox Studios, circa a dozen years ago when Mr. Zanuck maintained his own private barber shop for himself and his producers. Cast of Characters: Myself and My Producer. I hope to work for him again, so let’s just call him Producer X or Milton Sperling. .Milton had been a writer so was most sympathetic to my story problems, and I had many. In fact, my birth pangs were quite painful. Milton, an old play doctor, diagnosed “Third Act Trouble.” One forenoon when I was really full of story headaches — “the morning sickness” as we call it in the trade — I phoned Milton for help. He reported that he was on his way to Darryl’s Barber to get prettied up for a VIP exec¬ utive lunch, but I could meet him in the Barber Shop. So dissolve to the shop with Milton in the barber’s chair; Sam, Mr. Zanuck’s barber, busy with comb and shears, and myself sitting, like a minstrel of old, at Milton's feet, ad libbing my newly reconstructed finish. When I finished, the barber was the first, to speak. “What’s the motivation for Gene Tierney doublecrossing Henry Fonda , when she’s supposed to be so much in love with him? And why do they fall in love in the first place?” Milton couldn’t get a word in edgewise. But Sam was a good man on construction. That’s just the way it happened on that fateful spring morning. Everything exactly as it was then, except “You Were There!” CHAPTER 7 “ Never Tell a Story to a Producer With Anita Ekberg or Jayne Mansfield in the Room” There are four good reasons why they might distract from the story telling. But no need to belabor the point — we’re all, I’m sure, men of the world. So to sum up, students, and repeat after me till you’ve learned this lesson well: 4lNever Tell A Story To A Producer With A Dalmatian , Another Writer, A Wife, or Anita Ekberg or Jayne Mans field In The Room.” CHAPTER 8 Various Kinds of Story Telling, or, Know Your Competition Type A: The Slow, Meticulous, Down-to-the-Last-Detail Teller, or Around the Office in 80 Days. Slowly pacing and pondering, this particular writer takes all morning to paint a vivid picture of the pictur¬ esque shots behind the Main Title and Credits. He’s so damned earnest and sincere no one dares to rush him. The fidgety, insecure producer goes into his washroom at least 20 times to wash his hands. Finally he explodes, “Let’s take a breather for lunch, men.” And it’s only 11:05. Type B: The British Stonr Teller. This elegant smoothie gains the upper hand at once by clearly establishing that the American producer is a man of inferior background and education. Johnny Bull’s opening gambit sends the producer rum'Continued on page 10)