Evening Star Newspaper, March 29, 1931, Page 78

B is hete that picture-writing technique reaches its fine point. All along the extensive paths ef novel %riting have been changed into the short cuts of pic- ture expression. For instance, the girl who has marricd tii» hero finds herself wondering about his past. There are many whispers, in fact, and much mystery. Now, the novel can drop its thread and go back abruptly and leisurely into a story of the hero’s earlier life. But the modern piclure must snap into it and tell it all quickly and vividly while it moves swiftly along its main path of action, Dialogue is resorted to to do the trick. The young wife's relatives are in a room dis- cussing the husband, who is away on a mys- terious trip. She enters suddenly and confronts them. The duel of words begins, “Do you know this?” says one. “And this?” adds another. And thus, in a minute or so of sharp, tense words, accompanied by action and emotion, the important facts of the husband’s past are ¢overed without slowing up the picture, which is one thing audiences will not for- give. A minor incident is the arrival of wallpaper in the little frontier town. It gets much and creditable space in the Ilcisurely moving novel. On the headlong screen, however, it is just a flash of action and words. But it is adequately rey- istered. The picture writer's nem- esis is film footage. He has 80 much and no more. Into it he must pack all the eolor, action, emotion, by- play and characterization of the story, which if he be- lieves in it, must not lose one drop of its red blood. Furthermore, if he is wise, he will keep some of that footage up his sleeve for the always unforeseen happen- ings in production. All picture-story jobs do not progress with the defi- nite routine of “Cimarron.” Por one thing, it is of the class known as special pic- tures, and is given perqgui- sites of time and care not granted to ordinary pictures. Again, “Cimarron” was a one-man writing job, which permits of more orderliness than the collaboration sys- tem in vogue in some of the studios. At its best, however, story preparation is hectic work. It could not well be other- ‘wise. FOR one—and the main— thing, pictures are straining to do the seem- ingly impossible—to meet the tastes of all people. In the newspaper, magazine and book publishing field there is sharp classifica~ tion of product. We have tabloids and com- servative organs; dime novels and essays; men’s magazines and women’s magazines; class and trade publications; something for the lowbrow, the highbrow and the intermediate brow; for the country and the city, the home and the train, the adult and the child. But the 15,000 theaters of this country— with the exception of a group of newsreel theaters recently established, a very few that show only foreign-made pictures, and some erossroads houses that want shoot-'em-up Westerns—run on the same 500 feature pic- tures produced yearly; and thus, all together, they aim to please a weekly audience esti- mated at 100,000,000 people. Most any experienced craftsman's idea of just how to please the huge compesite audience is Bkely to deserve serious attention. Is it to be wondered that a story conference souncs, from the outside, like a genuine prizefight? The film executive, with his year’s pro- gram firmly in mind, sticks to this and to past and proven standards; the supervisor or associate producer knows—or should know —ithe selling values of the box office; the di- yector thinks both are crazy. And loocking askance at all three, and at each other, are the writers, imevitably specialists in some branch of the writing business—novelists, short-story writers, scenarists, dramatic eritics, playwrights, sports writers, ace reporters, etc. The writer group iIn most any studio is, day in and out, in & state of seething revolution. They are fighting, of course, for mental inde- pendence; they just can’t stand the diction of “You must do this” and “You can’t de that.” In planning the nice nmew building I have re- ferred to, the studio executives probably felt that the safest office for a writer would be a padded cell. Failing this, they fell back wpon psychologieal treatment. The fine offices are eobviously designed to be soothing. There are soft chairs and pleasing pictures; hanging slats on the windows, with curtains delicate in hue and texture to temper the California sunshine; the rugs are thick and cool in color. A radio can dispense faint music, Consider, too, the job of organizing and keeping organized in one writing machine these various, and generally temperamental, writing specialists. It is not strange that ridiculous things happen. An accomplished playwright from New York was working at one studio, without a contract but with an aceeptable salary of $750 a week. He was paired off with a scenarist and the two became studio pals. One morning the play- wright heard that his friend was to be let out, and he hurried to the front office to plead for Rim. As he argued feverishly the production execu- tive acquired a sickly grin. “Mr, Smith,” he interrupted. “Pardon me—er—it isn’'t Mr. Brown who is leaving us. It's you.” “Oh,” gasped the playwright, matching the other’s grin. “It would seem, them, that I have been extolling the wrong man.” He went back to Writers’ Row and announced his plight. “What does one do in Hollywood,” he in- quired, “when one lcses one’s job?” “Get an agent,” said his friend. on the phone right now.” “Righto!” said the playwright. “And now I'll avail myself of my first holiday and go oyt to the bzach for a swim.” When he returned that evening he was told that his telephone had been jingling all aft- ernoon. The agent was at the other end. “You're set!” he anncunced. “Year’s contract —$1,250 a week.” “Great!” said the playwright. “Where?” “At ——” replied the agent, naming the. stadio from which his client had been fired that morning. A curious situation, yet explainable. It seems that shortly afier the playwright left the “I'll get one THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, . €, MARCH 20, 1831, self-educated: men from the dramatic, news and sports desks of newspapers; poets, car- toonists, jokesmitbs, columnists, novelists and short-story writers of considerable renown; men who have writlen and produced for and acted on the stage; professional wisecrackers and slangsters; lyric writers and composers who have made wealth and fame in musical comedies. Fate or early choice of another career can- not, apparently, sidetrack a writer. Forest Halsey was an art editcr, Monte Brice a min- ing .engineer, Arthur C2esar a lawyer, John Farrow a navigator, John P. Goodrich an agri- cultural engineer, Earle Rodney a sewing ma- chine inspector. The latter, by the way, also had been a bank clerk, hookkeeper, soap sales- man, sign painter, stationery buyer, shipping clerk, laborer, truck driver, plumber’s assistant, carpenter, play reviewer and musical comedy writer. “At its best story preparation is hectic work. It could not well be otherwise.” executive’s office a director dashed in. He was waving a sheaf of papers. “At last,” he shouted. “I've got dialogue!” He tapped the papers. “Dialogue as is dialogue. Clever, brilliant—where’s Smith. I want to see him.” Again the executive had a sickly grin. “We let him go today,” he said limply. “Suffering Moses!” yelled the director. “Get him back. Get him quick—before he lands somewhere!” It is decidedly a moot question as to whether or not a picture studio wants a fine organiza- tion. Experience proves that the smoother the machine runs the less appealing are the pic- tures. The best product is born out of un- rest; there must be latitude in creative effort, a good measure of individualism. Many a great picture was more or less of an accident; cer- tainly many successes were unforeseen, In the large and colorful colony of those who write in picture language there are men wholly It would seem that most every writer in the world obeyed the clarion call of Hoellywood, especially the recent one that went forth when the "talkies” came, and which echoed to New York and on to villas in Spain and flats in London. More of these later recruits have gone back than have stuck it out, however. One studio has retained but three of its New York imports. “Why did they give up?” I asked ome who had made good. “Snootiness, mostly,” he replied. They came out here with the idea, for some reason or another, that pictures were beneath them. The very fact that such large salaries were offered them seemed to increase their disdain. “To me # is incomprehensible. A famous novel will sell, say, to 200,000 people, a number no larger than the weekly attendance at two large picture theaters. If that novel is skill- fully put into picture it will be shown to $15,000,000. Which effort at expression, may I ask, is the more inspiring? Oriental Parasite Kills Japanese Beetle. A REAL foe of the Japanese beetle, a go- getter type of foe, has joined the ranks of the Department of Agriculture’s army which is campaigning against the beetle, one of the most serious of the inseet pests to harass the agriculturist and floraculturist of the Eastern section of the ecountry. Tiphia popilliavora, to give the ally its right name, was one of the parasites imported from Japan to fight the beetle, having been intro- duced in New Jersey in 1920, The parasite seemed to be a slow starter, but once it obtained Experts believe that in any area where 100 of the females may be introduced a eolony is certain to be established and perpetuated. It is the female, in particular, which wages war on the beetle, not through any antipathy toward Tiphia popilliavora is not alone in the war on the Japanese beetle, however, as there are five other types of parasites, survivors of some 14 which were introduced into this eountry, and one predacious bectle, which are all warring on the green beetle. This recourse to the natural ememies of the green beetle seems to be the meost promising method of fighting the pest, for while the beetle has ridden roughshod over the countryside in this country and done tremendeus damage to crops, lawns and flowers, it has beem of little consequence in Japan. As no control methods are carried on in that country, it appeared logi- cal that natural enemies were keeping it in check. The study of the problem from this angle developed the existence of a score or more foes of the beetle, of which Tiphia popilliavera appears the most deadly. Varied Woods Make Ties. SBOULD the question arise as to what wood is used in the manufacture of crossties for railroads most any answer would be correct. ——————e “I have struggled to adopt some of these famous novels, When I finished, 90-odd per cent of the book was thrown aside and the ree mainder was just an idea, not a remarkable one at that—not as good as many that jump out of studio story conferences, or the one thag Irving Berlin and Joe Schenck fought out in the hot room of a Turkish bath and which William Anthony McGuire wrote out for Douge las Fairbank's ‘Reaching for the Moon.’ “I have done all kinds of writing. I approach each specially with respect for its peculiarities, and a desire to master them. Perhaps there is the answer—adaptability. But I wish to say this: Of all the writing trades I've tackled, this cne of the pictures is immeasurably the harde est, the most exacting—and yet the most ene ticing.” But——-- “I don’t like it,” says another fiction writer, quite as well known in the magazine world. “The salaries are fine—but ‘writer’s gold,” I cght it. For those who dig for it and like the digging—fine! I don't. To me it's like fool's gold—e jron pyrites, which looks like gold, but doesn't assay outs I'd rather be my own boss, write my own wa;7 for peo= ple who understand and ace cept my way, even though I earn one dollar for every five they pay cut here. It'$ & relief to get back to my ' AIKONG the ace writers in Hcllywood a ecolorful team is the one of William Slavens McNutt and Grover Jones. McNutt, before he went to Hollywood, had to his eredit several hundred magazine stories; Jomes, who has yet to write =& magazine story, has done the stories of several hune dred pictures. Between theny they know a gcod deal abou$ the pictures that please mile lions, Jones is wholly of the studios. He doesn't hesitate to tell you that when his family moved Wast, about the same time the “movies™ arrived—they were from Terre Haute, Ind.—his firs§ studio job was that of painte ing the outdoors on studie canvas. He had good training— Yke many another produce tion executive—in Povertyl Row, a former section of Hollywood, where “horse operas” (cow-puncher pic« tures) and “quickies” im general were turned out in an incredibly short time at a cost of under $10,000 (compare this with the pres= tent-day average of $300,« 000). And many a “quickie,™ it must be said was as good & picture as some of w aristocratie cousins. Joutes will not mind the following story: Ome day a “quickie” producer called him wp. “Got a story?” he asked. “Sure! What kind of a story?” “Logging camp story.” - “That’s funny,” said Jones. “I just blocked ene out.” “What I had in mind,” went on the pro= ducer, “was this: The wealthly lumberman dies and his son comes home from college to Tun the business. That puts the foreman’s nose oud of joint and he becomes the villain"—— “And the girl—the heroine—the foreman's daughter!” “Exactly,” said the producer. laughing about?” “Why, that’s my story,” said Jones. “How soen can you get it over?” “In an hour and a half.” Jenes hung up the receiver and then called his wife. “Sue,” said he, ‘I just got an crder to write a story.” Ideas count mest in picture ereation. I have spoken of the idea hatched by Messrs. Schenck and Berlin in a Turkish bath. That very same day a brother producer offered Schenck $150,« 000 for a play he owned. Schenck let the play go at that price, but he would not have parted with the idea. The other studio probably, wanted that play so badly because it fitted & star. Which brings up another point. One of the main causes of strain between the writing machine and the department of produc- tion is the effort to fit vehicles to the stars and featured players. And no relief can be fore- cast. The star system has been a matter of stocrmy argument since the halcyon days of Lillian Russell, and while it is killed off every year in solemn imterviews, it goes merrily om and seemingly will flourish forever. Of the 60 or more writers on a studio staff, just a few do most of the work. There are many—and some of considerable renown—om short options of three and six months. The options are often patiently renewed. It s hoped they will ring the bell—some bell. In the mean time the wheel horses—the adaptable abilities—carry the overload. I know of ene writer, two years in Hollywood, who has yet to play his third game of golf, and who considers it an occasion to greet his family at dinner. The finished and acceptable script of a pice ture story ‘may be gimpsed in two ways. If an adaptation of a novel, it is a sort of mosaic, a cleverly constructed pattern of many large and tiny bifs in which the story and its figures stand forth Interwoven with many pieces of color essential to the entire story. Again, as a whole, it is a sort of emotional overtone of the novel, short story or play. Of all the elements of successful picture writing, the ability to arouse emotion stands foremeost; for the simple reason that most all people emotional sppeal. Some want timeli- some grandeur—but all want s the main string on the ter’s Bow; 0 make it vibrate is his real job. “What are you