Tell Your Story by Mary O’Hara

Mary O'Hara
Mary O’Hara

More on writing for the movies.

Los Angeles July 1922. As scenario writer to Rex Ingram, noted director, and adapter of  his two latest photoplays, “The Prisoner of  Zenda” and “Toilers of the Sea,” Mary O’Hara has climbed to a high place in the screen world. The secret of her success, she states, is contained in the words: “Tell your Story.”

Probably very continuity writer has some simple little recipe which helps him or her to get ready, set, go! A blank sheet of paper staring at one from the typewriter can be rather appalling when one realizes that it is only the first of a hundred or two blank sheets waiting to be filled up with good picture material.

My recipe is just this: Tell your story.

I have been asked so often how it is that I have mastered the trick of continuity writing in so short a time (for my first continuity, “The Last Card,” directed by Bayard Veiller, was made only a little over a year ago) that I have searched for the reason myself and have found it in my recipe, Tell your story.

I have always loved to tell stories. When I was ten I was telling stories to my nine year old sister. Many of them were serials that took six months or more to reach the end. Needless to say, it was always a happy end with the bride and groom at the altar, and the bride’s hair flowing in a cascade down the back of her satin gown. I usually, for good measure, threw in a pair of twins, born to them during their dignified walk back from the altar to the church door; twins because, if only one were bron, into which pair of arms, his or hers, should the infant drop on high? In fact, my sister and I had such heated discussions on this point that we finally settled upon twins as fairer – one for each.

In all this story telling, my greatest interest and my inspiration was my sister’s face; in scenario language, my “audience reaction.” If too many minutes passed without her eyes popping or her breath catching I would pile on the melodrama. When I thought she had giggled long enough I would try for tears.

I have never outgrown this habit of telling stories. Now I am telling them to the public with one eye on my typewriter as I compose ans the other eye, figuratively, on the face of the public, looking for its tears and laughter, its eyes popping, its breath catching.

To be a little more definite in describing my system – when I start a continuity, with the material well in mind, in imagination I place a listener in a chair opposite me. If my story is an adventuresome tale my listerner is a child. If it is a psychological drama my listener is an older person of average intelligence, for we all know that we would tell a story one way to an intellectual person and quite differently to one more simple minded.

Then I proceed to tell them the story. Introductions of characters, descriptions of time and place logically come first; then out of the characters and their relation to each other, the threads of the plot, and before I know it I am in full swing. The eye of my imaginary listener leads me on, I sense his interest or ennui, and above all, I am held to the neccessity of making the story clear – clear – clear.

Mary O’Hara (Photodramatist, July 1922)

The Making of a Good Film Comedy by Al Christie

Alfred Ernest Christie born in London (Ontario, Canada) November 24, 1881; early film career with Wilton Lackaye; as production general manager: Centaur;  Horsley Nestor Comedies (directed Mutt and Jeff series); Universal (producing over 300 comedies, 250 of wich he was author, also 5-reel B’way U features (Mrs. Plum’s Pudding).

This text (originally published by The Kinematograph and Lantern Weekly) come from the italian magazine La Cinematografia Italiana ed Estera – Turin September 30, 1915. Enjoy!

You couldn’t make all kinds of cakes or puddings, or pies with the same recipe, you know — and the same applies to comedies. I can stir up a thousand feet of fun with almost anything, if I have to do it. I can get that much out of a good drunk and an old maid, for instance. But, if you want a real, sure-fire, warranted comedy, you have to choose your ingredients carefully. I want to say here that I think the time has gone for the old-fashioned slap-stick brand of comedy. The public has been educated to something higher. We are playing to more, discriminating, more critical audiences nowadays.

When I started in the film game, all that was needed to raise a laugh was to have a man fall into a mill pond with a new suit of clothes on, or if he carried more than the average avoirdupois, you could count on the audience shrieking with merriment if his chair collapsed under him. You didn’t need brains, or actors, in those days. All you needed was a man in your cast who knew how to take a bad fall without having to be sent to a hospital afterwards. But all that is changed now. The public demands a comedy with a real plot, a more subtle sense of humour, and, at least, an average degree of intelligence and good taste in its construction. Personally I believe it is an excellent sign. Poor comedies have done more to lower the standard of the films and arouse criticism than any other class of production. And by poor comedies I mean that type of play which relies on coarse vulgarity, questionable wit, and an outraging of every sense of decency to get it over. A good comedian can still be a gentleman. He doesn’t have to forget the dictate of good breeding to make a laugh. If he treated a woman in real life as some of our film comedians do on the screen, he would be booted out of town — and deserve to be. I am very happy to note that the public demand is gradually forcing this class of comedians out of business.

I have found that the best-liked of the Nestor comedies have been those with a strong romantic and love interest. There is no more general appeal than the love of a man for a maid, and I try to base most of my plays on this foundation — with complications, of course. True love never runs smooth, whether in real life or reel life. It is wonderful how many complications of the old plots you can build on a love interest. Either the stern father does not approve of the young man who is making passionate love to his daughter, or the suitor bumps into jealous rivals, or the girl in the case rebuffs him, or — but you might go on indefinitely.

It used to be that they would tell you a good comedy could have no plot at all — that anything in the nature of a plot was fatal. But the film producers have found out their mistake. The better the plot the better the comedy, provided, of course, the plot lends itself to comedy situations. People want to laugh, and they don’t want to have to burrow through a lot of dry details to find the laugh. If the writer with ambitions to do comedies would hear this fact in mind always, he would have one of the first essentials of success. Make your laugh apparent on the instant. Make your action lead up to it naturally and logically, and, if possible, have the comedy climax come as a surprise. This is where the good plot-builder gets in his work. A comedy plot can always be made of the embarrassing situations into which a would-be philanthropist gets in trying to do good — or of the compromising scrapes which fall to the lot of the husband trying to keep a secret from his wife, or from the misadventures of the tired business man seeking a day of rest. There are possibilities for plots from all of these foundations. Or take the theme of mistaken, or assumed identity — one of the stock situations of popular fiction since people learned to buy books. A really clever writer can weave all kinds of legitimate comedy situations from such a basis on which to build. And if the love interest can be woven in, the production is almost certain to pass muster.

You must hear always in mind, of course, that a comedy, more than any other type of play, must depend as much on the final analysis on the actor and producer as on the writer. The most ingenious comedy can be ruined by an actor who cannot understand the possibilities of humour, and, on the other hand, a really clever comedian can save an otherwise mediocre production. Any film manufacturer or director will tell you that a good comedy is the hardest type of play to secure. Probably higher rates are paid for first-class comedy writers than any other in the business for this reason. But writing comedies for the movies and writing comedies for the magazines are two entirely different propositions. On the printed page the style of the author may itself be so inherently funny, and may combine so many comical expressions and dialogues that the plot of the story is of secondary importance. The reverse is true on the screen.

Some of the best comedy stories of recent years in the magazines would be impossible for the films. The humour lies almost entirely in the style of the writer. A comedy for the screen must be a story of action — where the development of the story carries its own laughs. It doesn’t make any difference whether the scenario is neatly typewritten, or written with a lead pencil on wrapping paper, if the plot of the story is one of logical, sustained humour — humour by action and not by style or dialogue — such a scenario will be in demand.

Personally I believe that the good comedy writer is born and not made. It is impossible for some people to be funny, or to see the humour in any kind of situation. They can’t help it. They were born without a funny bone. On the other hand, it is just as natural for some people to see fun in everything. When they can make others see it through their eyes, it is a safe bet for them to go into the profession of writing funny stories or scenarios. They are sure to make good.

Acrostiche Méliès 2011

Buon 150 Georges Méliès! Messa in scena @inpenombra – Musica: frammento di Movie Rag di J. S. Zamecnik Attribuzione – Non commerciale – Condividi allo stesso modo 3.0 Italia (CC BY-NC-SA 3.0)

Se vi piace la musica: Let’s Go In To a Picture Show Silent cinema recordings 1907-1922  A compilation issued for the 25th edition of Le Giornate del Cinema Muto. Produced by Ron Magliozzi and Eric D. Bernhoft.