"Popularly, we call that man original who stands on his own feet, uses the thoughts of others only to stimulate and supplement his own, and who does his best to color borrowed thought with the hue of his own personality. Such a man, if he be not a creator, is at least a thinker, and a thinker need never be a literary thief. The entrance of any thought that will set the mind to working should be welcome indeed."[34]

[Footnote 34: J. Berg Esenwein, _Writing the Short-Story_.]

Speaking of the way in which a writer may take an old plot and work it over, Frank E. Woods, the former "Spectator" of the _Dramatic Mirror_, says:

"That is precisely what every author does in nine cases out of ten. He utilizes and adapts the ideas he has gained from various sources. It is when he follows another author's sequence or a.s.sociation of ideas or arrangement of incidents so closely as to make his work appear to be an obvious copy or colorable imitation, that he is guilty."

_4. The New Twist Ill.u.s.trated_

As an example of the way in which an old theme may be given a new twist, let us compare the plot of Browning's "Pippa Pa.s.ses"--which, by the way, was wonderfully well produced in motion-picture form by the Biograph Company in 1909--and James Oppenheim's photoplay, "Annie Crawls Upstairs," produced by the Edison Company.

In each, the theme is the spiritual redemption of several different characters through the influence of the heroine, who in each case accomplishes this worthy end quite unconsciously. Pippa, the mill-girl, spends her holiday wandering through the town and over the countryside, singing her innocent and happy-hearted songs. It is the effect of those songs upon those who hear them that gives the poem-story its dramatic moments and makes up the plot. In Mr.

Oppenheim's story, the heroine, Annie, is a tiny, crippled child who, wandering out of the tenement kitchen where her half-drunken father is quarreling with his wife, crawls painfully up one flight of stairs after another, innocently walking into each flat in turn, and in each doing some good by her mere presence. On one floor a wayward girl is so affected by meeting with the crippled child that she remains at home with her mother instead of going out to join a party of friends of questionable character; on another floor she is instrumental in preventing an ex-convict from joining his former pals in another crime; in the flat above, she brings together two lovers who are about to part in anger; in the next flat she comforts a busy dressmaker who has lost patience with and scolded her little girl for being in her way while she is at work, and who realizes on seeing Annie that she should at least be thankful that her child has health and strength, and does not, therefore, add the care and worry of sickness to the burden of poverty. Finally, on the top floor, a young man, heart-sick and weary of the vain search for work in a strange city, coming out of his room finds little Annie asleep, her head resting against the frame of the door. As he carries her down to her own flat, he picks up courage, banishes the thoughts of suicide which a few moments before had filled his brain, and resolves to try again. The picture ends with the mother and father, their quarrel forgotten, bending over the child.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Preparing to Take Three Scenes at Once in a Daylight Studio]

Thus, consciously or unconsciously, Mr. Oppenheim has used the same theme that Browning used; but he has given it a new twist with the introduction of each new incident in the story. The little lame child of the tenements does not seem to speak a word in the picture, and the scene between the two young lovers parting after their quarrel is totally unlike the scene between Ottima and Sebald in Browning's poem, yet we feel that the good influence that changes the heart of the burglar, as he sits there planning the new crime, is the same as that which shakes the guilty wife and her lover when Pippa pa.s.ses beneath the window of Luca's house, singing:

_G.o.d's in his heaven-- All's right with the world!_

We have read of a Western script in which the outlaw, wounded and bleeding, is given shelter by the heroine. When the sheriff arrives, he sees the basin containing the b.l.o.o.d.y water and inquires how it comes there. Even while he is looking at it, the girl cuts her hand with a knife, and declares that, having cut herself before the Sheriff's arrival, she has just washed her hand in the basin.

This incident, or situation, is almost identical with one in the Ambrosio Company's "After Fifty Years," which won the first prize of twenty-five thousand francs ($5,000) at the Turin Exhibition, and which showed as one of its many thrilling situations the Italian heroine gashing her hand with a knife held behind her back, to explain to the Austrian soldier who is in search of her lover the presence of blood on her sleeve.

Yet this could not be called a theft, or even a re-arrangement of another writer's plot. The plot, characters, and setting were entirely different in each play--it was only that one situation that was made use of; and it seems likely that it was from the Ambrosio picture, or the account of it, that the author of the Western story got his inspiration. Yet who can really tell? Thoughts are marvellous things, and both writers may have gotten their ideas from some other original--or even conceived them in their own brains.

After all, as has been pointed out, the trouble with many young writers is that they are not content with copying a single situation.

They have not been "in the game" long enough to realize either the risk that they are taking or the wrong that they are doing a fellow writer, so they not only adapt to their own needs a strong situation in another's story but precede and follow it with other incidents and situations which are substantially the same as those surrounding the big situation in the original story.

But giving an old theme a new twist is a trick of the trade that comes only with experience, and experience is gained by practice. Experience and practice soon teach the photoplaywright not to rely too heavily upon the newspaper for new ideas, for almost every day editors receive two or more plots which closely resemble each other, simply because the writers, having all chosen the same theme, have all worked that theme up in the same way--the _obvious_ way, the _easiest_ way, the way that involves the least care, and therefore the least ingenuity.

"Where do the good plots come from, anyhow?" asks John Robert Moore.

"We people in universities often amuse ourselves by tracing stories back to their origins. The trouble is that we often reach the limit of our knowledge, but rarely find the beginning; for the _plot_ seems to be as old as the race. What, then, has been changed in a story which has been raised from a mediaeval legend to a modern work of art?

"In such cases, the setting and the moral content are almost invariably altered. An absurdly comic story about an Irishman and a monkey, which was current a couple of centuries ago, became 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue' in the hands of Poe. The central plot remained much the same, but the whole of the setting and the intellectual content a.s.sumed a new and vastly higher significance.

'The Bottle Imp' harks back to the Middle Ages; but Stevenson made a world-famous story of it by giving it the flavor of the South Sea Islands which he knew so well."

So there are both discouragement and cheer for those who accept the Wise Man's dictum that there is nothing new under the sun. In the one aspect, there seems little chance for the novice since the primary plots are really so few; but in the other view, fresh arrangements of old combinations are always possible for those who see life with open eyes, alert minds, warm hearts, and the resolve to be as original as they can.

CHAPTER XX

COMPLETE FIVE-REEL PHOTOPLAY SCRIPT "EVERYBODY'S GIRL"

Adapted from "O. Henry's" Short-Story, "Brickdust Row," by A. Van Buren Powell, and Produced in Film Form by The Vitagraph Company[35]

[Footnote 35: Used by permission. Copyright, 1918, by the Vitagraph Company of America. All rights reserved.]

The mere reading of the following photoplay script will not do you any good. To get any benefit from it you must _study_ it.

The script, which is an adaptation--the short-story of a famous author, "O. Henry," translated into screen technique--is in the form in which it was accepted for production. An adaptation rather than the script of an original idea is chosen for two reasons: the story from which it was made is accessible in every library, and the translation into production-form offers certain problems which make it a more effective lesson in idea-building.

Pretend that you are a staff writer, and that you are to "do" a certain story by "O. Henry." Get from your library the book of short-stories by the famous author which contains "Brickdust Row"--the volume is ent.i.tled "The Trimmed Lamp." Read the story--read it until you are thoroughly familiar with its every word. Read it a.n.a.lytically.

You are to make an adaptation of it. What must that adaptation have for its fundamental purpose?--the preservation of "O. Henry's" charm of atmosphere; the utilization of his cleverness with words, wherever possible in leaders; the emphasizing of his purpose in writing the story. What was that purpose? Was it not to show how a man's code of ethics, mistakenly clung to, resulted in his misjudging a perfectly innocent girl, with resultant tragedy? And, contributory to this, was it not the aim of the original author to emphasize and excuse the conduct of the girl--conduct arising naturally from her environment and station in life?

These things must be conveyed, then, through the medium of characterization, with the help of little human touches. The girl must be shown as sweet, clean, without a wrong thought; the man must be clearly depicted, his reason for being so seemingly churlish and careless of the duties imposed upon him by his ownership of many tenements must be handled in such a way that he will not be an unsympathetic character.

Then we are confronted with certain studio conditions. The story must be made of feature length--five or more reels. Again, tragedy is not welcome on the screen. Arguments might be offered to show that the original story will lose strength through the addition of the "happy ending." We cannot help that--in fact, we must surmount that obstacle.

We must _make_ the story equally strong and try, if we can, to add to its lesson. We cannot air our ideals, and write just as we wish; we must conform to the set rules of our particular studio, as well as to the general rules covering screencraft.

The change of t.i.tle is governed by so many factors that it need only be said that the alternative t.i.tle was given as possessing a greater advertising and drawing power.[36]

[Footnote 36: In Mr. Van Buren Powell's new book, _The Photoplay Synopsis_, published uniform with this volume in "The Writer's Library," he explains why this t.i.tle was changed.]

Now we have dissected "O. Henry's" original story. We have decided what we must do with it. Comes the director for consultation. He feels that the story is not long enough. It need not be padded, but an additional character might be introduced to bring out and emphasize the true character of our leading woman, and at the same time the required dramatic element and the contrasting of his character with that of the leading man may be achieved by his presence.

So, agreeing with the director, we write our script.

Throughout, notes will call your attention to certain points that will help your understanding of the technical purposes of certain material.

"EVERYBODY'S GIRL"

SYNOPSIS

Florence is a shop girl, of the quiet, sweet, clean type. She finds it hard to make ends meet. Her more practical, more worldly-wise friend, Ella, the shoe-store cashier, suggests that they share her present quarters in "Brickdust Row"--a decaying tenement block. By this division of expense they can both save "enough to buy an extra pickle for lunch once in a while."

When Florence sees "Brickdust Row" she is depressed by its dull aspect, its dreary environment. But she accepts Ella's proposal, and the two girls begin their sharing of the tiny room as cheerfully as possible.

Through a terrifying experience with a male flirt Florence comes to learn that Ella has long been used to accepting attentions and escort from men outside the home atmosphere. Ella explains that since the owner of "Brickdust Row" is so avaricious that he allows the parlors to be rented out, no place is provided where the girls may entertain men properly, and so the society of the opposite s.e.x must be sought and enjoyed "here, there and everywhere."

The idea is repugnant to Florence, who is unusually fine in her ideas of propriety; but she comes to see that Ella's way is the only outlet for youth and the desire for companionship, brightness, life.

She is very choice in her selection of escorts, and never permits any young man she meets to discover even where she lives.

The owner of the tenements is a bored, money-spoiled young man--Alexander Blinker. His lawyer tries to make him take enough interest in his tenements to change the leases so that the girls can have a place to meet gentlemen with the shield of propriety. Blinker is too anxious to get to a golf tournament even to listen.

Florence grows used to her role of "Everybody's Girl," and while she is decidedly decorous, she learns the arts and affectations of the "street meeting."

Blinker has to come to his lawyer in order to sign some important doc.u.ments; they are not prepared. He must stay in the city over Sunday. The idea fills him with disgust; he longs for the hunting trip he has planned. In sheer desperation he decides to do that which his butler considers equivalent to jumping from the window, in view of his social status--Blinker determines to go to Coney Island.

His experiences may be imagined as he is pushed and jostled by the rough-and-ready pleasure-seekers. He gets on the boat and is seen by Florence, who regards him as a prospective escort and so conducts herself that he is virtually forced into conversation, and with no experience to guide him in this strange method of introduction, he manages to bear himself suitably, to the end that the two debark at the island of pleasure-seeking and set out to enjoy themselves, Florence being the guide, by virtue of her experience.

At first Blinker feels entirely out of his element, but Florence shows him the spirit in which to accept the tinsel and the rude fun-making.

He soon comes to like it--and to think very well of the naively "different" girl beside him.