GETTING THE NEW TWIST
No story is an old story if you give it a new "twist"—a fresh turn, an original surprise, an unexpected course of narration. As a matter of fact, this is what fiction writers and dramatists have been doing for hundreds of years; taking an old idea, they have twisted it about, enlarged upon it, provided a new setting for the story, and created something new, yet in truth far from new, from the idea furnished by another writer. Who evolved the "original" plot in any certain case is a question that will forever remain a question, for the earliest plays and stories are no longer extant. But this we do know: there are only a very few original or primary plots, and all the plays, novels, and short-stories that have been written are variations of these. Some writers have made the twist more pronounced, and their work, judged by present-day standards, is classed as original. Others, without trying to conceal the source of their plots, nevertheless give them new treatment, and so are not charged with plagiarism. Therefore we may conclude that that writer is entitled to be called original who is capable of so twisting and remodeling the theme used by another writer that it is, in the remodeling, virtually recreated.
1. An Example from Fiction
As a concrete example, let us compare Poe's short-story, "The Cask of Amontillado," with Conan Doyle's "The New Catacomb." In both of these the theme is revenge, brought about by having the one seeking to entomb his enemy alive—the same theme, precisely, as Balzac had used earlier in "La Grande Bretêche," and Edith Wharton in later years in "The Duchess at Prayer." In "The Cask of Amontillado," Montresor desires to be revenged upon Fortunato because the latter has both injured and insulted him. Exactly how he has been insulted we are not told; nor do we know the extent of his "injuries." It is sufficient for the purpose of the story that we know that his Latin blood has been roused sufficiently to make him eager to compass the death of his enemy—who is none the less his enemy although, up till the very moment when Fortunato realizes the awful fate that is to be his, he (Montresor) pretends friendship for his victim. After Montresor's revenge has been accomplished by walling up Fortunato in a subterranean vault, the perpetrator feels no remorse. He has completed what he set out to do, and is satisfied. He has "punished with impunity" and he has made the fact that he is the redresser felt by "him who has done the wrong."
What chiefly impresses the reader is the lack of motive for Montresor's crime—for crime it surely is, whatever his real or fancied wrongs—other than the motive of a madman. At the conclusion our sympathy for the unfortunate victim of Montresor's hate is perhaps as great as is our pity for Montresor himself.
But note that Doyle's story is not only an original piece of fiction—as we have just interpreted that expression—but also one in which we recognize that the seeker after revenge is thoroughly deserving of our sympathy, even though we do not entirely approve of his bringing about the death of even so unworthy a creature as we know his enemy to be. In Doyle's story, as in Poe's, the background is Italy, but Italy of the present day, so we feel that we understand the motives of the characters better because they are of our own time. There is a definite and grievous wrong committed against the young woman with whom the central character is in love, therefore the wrong is committed indirectly against the lover himself. We are made to realize the despicable nature, the utter heartlessness, of the young woman's betrayer, and we actually hate him as soon as the facts are made clear to us. We realize how great has been the love for her cherished by the man who finally punishes the one who has wronged her, by causing him to be entombed alive in a Roman catacomb which he himself has but recently discovered.
In Poe's story, Fortunato is chained to the wall of the vault, after which he is literally walled up and buried alive. In "The New Catacomb," the redresser of the wrong takes the evil-doer down into the catacomb and leaves him while he finds his own way out by means of a trail of cord, knowing that the other, unable to follow him, is being left in what will be his tomb.
The dramatic intensity of Doyle's story is just as great as in that written by Poe; the "hero" is as much deserving of our sympathy as the "villain" merits our condemnation; and the treatment of the theme, from first to last, makes Doyle's an absolutely original story, although there is little doubt that it was suggested, or, at least influenced, either by the one written many years before by the American master of the short-story, or by Balzac's remarkable tale referred to above.
The discriminating photoplaywright will have no difficulty in making the application of this illustration of how an original story may grow out of an old theme. But be careful not to turn this liberty into an excuse for adhering closely to a borrowed theme.
2. Plagiarism
In justice to writers in general it is only fair to believe that most cases of plagiarism are quite unintentional. The fault usually is in the writer's memory. Turn your eye inward, and form the habit of tracing the origin of your inspirations—sometimes it may chagrin you to find how near to unconscious imitation you have been. You may get the inspiration for a story and write it; it may be accepted and produced; then, after its release, some friend will casually remark that it reminds him of a Vitagraph picture that he saw a year or two ago. And only after he has called your attention to it do you realize that that Vitagraph story, seen and forgotten, was the source of your "inspiration"—and perhaps you have committed an unconscious theft.
In an earlier chapter we have urged photoplaywrights to keep in touch with the market so as to avoid writing on trite themes. But that practise will not help the conscious plagiarist. Why should he invent a new twist when he can steal one? This would seem to be his short-sighted logic. Fortunately, there are not many unscrupulous writers who deliberately attempt to sell to editors stories which are simply adaptations of more or less well-known stories or plays. A great deal has been said about editors and their assistants being familiar with standard literature and current books, plays, and magazine stories. But no editor is infallible, and once in a while a stolen story "gets by." We know of two companies, each of which within the space of six months produced stories that were plainly recognizable as adaptations of "The Adventure of the Norwood Builder," the second story in "The Return of Sherlock Holmes." Another company released a picture that was simply Maupassant's "The Necklace" so carelessly re-dressed that we wonder the editor did not recognize it after reading the first paragraph of the synopsis.
The final test of whether a story really resembles another closely enough to suggest intentional plagiarism is when the similarity between the two is recognized immediately by people in many different parts of the country—yet that is too late to help any one involved! The short-stories of "O. Henry" have been so widely read that when a new story appears that closely resembles one of his it is not long before comparisons are made. Three or four years ago a certain company made a two-part picture that so closely resembled O. Henry's "The Reformation of Calliope" that after its release one of the present writers received letters of inquiry from photoplaywrights in five different cities commenting upon it, three of the letters being from young writers who, recognizing the resemblance, asked if it were "permissible to take the principal plot-idea of a copyrighted story and, by changing it about slightly, make it into a salable photoplay." As might be supposed, they were earnestly advised to refrain from doing so.
A dozen years ago there appeared in the English edition of The Strand Magazine a story in which a retired Indian officer, at a dinner given to a party of his friends, displays a remarkably fine diamond. The jewel is unset, having been taken—as most jewels in stories of this kind are—from the head of an Indian idol. The stone is passed around for inspection. The Hindoo servant is clearing some of the things from the table, and the diamond has just been admired by an old gentleman in a rather frayed dress-suit, when the attention of everyone present is drawn away from the table for a moment or two. When they turn around, the diamond has disappeared. Naturally, the guests are embarrassed, but they all offer to allow themselves to be searched, with the exception of the shabby-genteel old gentleman. While he protests that he knows nothing of how the stone has disappeared, he stubbornly refuses to allow them to search his clothes. The effect upon the other guests may easily be imagined. Later, however, one of the guests having followed him home, it is discovered that the poor old man has merely filled his pockets with different delicacies from the table, and has taken them home to his sick grandchild. Subsequently it is discovered that the Hindoo servant has taken the jewel, and he is arrested and punished. In the moment that the attention of the guests was directed elsewhere, after the old gentleman had laid it on the table, the servant had snatched up the jewel and dropped it into a half-filled water glass, where it remained undiscovered while the servant was searched with the others. It is pretty generally known that an unset pure diamond, if dropped into a glass of water, becomes invisible.
Some time during 1911, one of the producing companies released a picture entitled "The Class Reunion." To get the plot of the photoplay story, simply substitute an impecunious professor for the old gentleman in the short-story. Instead of the Hindoo servant, have one of the pupils—if our memory serves—turn out to be the thief, and have him drop the jewel—which is a ruby, and not a diamond—into a glass of red wine instead of into a glass of water. In all other particulars the two stories were identical.
Only a few months later, this plot cropped up again—in fiction form—in a prominent American magazine. Then, in the release of another well-known company, of January 13, 1913, it again did service in the photoplay "The Thirteenth Man," where the inevitable banquet is the annual reunion of "The Thirteen Club." The theme has now become so hackneyed that, as the list given in [Chapter XVI] shows, it is no longer serviceable for photoplay purposes.
Obviously, these facts are cited not to discredit the companies referred to, but solely to emphasize the difference between the genuinely new twist as exemplified in Conan Doyle's "The New Catacomb," and the dangerously close similarity as exhibited in at least one of the two photoplays just referred to as following the plot of the Strand story.
It must not be inferred, however, that all cases in which the themes of short-stories are developed into photoplays with very little change are plagiarisms, either conscious or unconscious. Many important companies are negotiating constantly with the magazines for the right to photodramatize their most suitable short-stories. Sometimes this is done with the consent of the author and the plot of the story used substantially without change, while in other instances the plot is freely changed, only the germ being used. It is particularly in such cases that we must be careful not to charge plagiarism.
In this connection it is important to note that the photoplaywright cannot be too careful in respecting the rights of publishers and authors in their fictional properties. To many writers it is not clear precisely what rights an author parts with when he, without any other stipulation, sells a short-story or a longer piece of fiction outright to a magazine, so he must be careful in offering moving-picture rights to a company unless he is sure, from a clear understanding with the magazine publisher, that he is at liberty to do so. If these points are not altogether in the clear to you, nevertheless it is certainly wise to be definite in securing your own copyright on stories, when that is possible, by agreeing with your publisher for the release to you of all dramatic rights.
To return once more to the subject of originality, in W.W. Jacobs's story, "The Monkey's Paw," the thrillingly terrible crisis begins when the father, much against his will, makes use of the second wish granted to him as the possessor of the fatal paw and wishes his dead son alive again. In the night he and his wife are aroused by a familiar knocking on their door. The mother, believing it to be their son returned to life, rushes to let him in, but while she is trying to unlock the door, the husband, remembering the terrible condition of the son's body, he having been crushed to death by some machinery, utters the third and last wish. The knocking ceases, and when the woman succeeds in getting the door open, the street lamp flickering opposite is shining on a quiet and deserted road.
Substantially the same plot is used in a story published in The Blue Book, "The Little Stone God," the principal difference being that, when those in the house hear the knocking on the door, they refuse, in utter terror, to answer the summons. The knocking ceases; and the next morning they learn that a telegraph messenger boy called at the house with a message on the previous night and, after knocking several times in vain, went away again.
The foregoing are only a few examples of plots which strongly resemble one another. How it comes that they resemble one another it is not our province to discuss any further—the point is that if your story is inspired by the work of another writer, give it such an absolutely original treatment that you can conscientiously refer to it as original.
"Don't waste time in rewriting other people's brain-children, for the scenario-editor goblins will catch you sure as fate, and once you get a reputation for plagiarism, not a film-maker will dare to buy any manuscript from you for fear it is copyrighted."[33]
In photoplays as in novels and short-stories nothing is so disappointing as a story whose title is inviting, and the first few pages—or scenes, as the case may be—interesting, but which soon begins to reveal itself as nothing more than a story with which we are already familiar, though slightly changed in a few particulars in the hope that it may be welcomed as an original work. We say "slightly changed," for if the all-important new twist is not given the story cannot escape detection as being what it is—a mere copy of the original.
"The formula upon which the plot is built is of venerable antiquity," says Frederick Taber Cooper, in The Bookman, in reviewing a certain novel. Then, although he commends the purpose of the story, he concludes: "But the book is not really an important one, because there have been scores of books equally well written which have already said much the same thing. The author has not had any new twist to give to the old theme—and, worst of all, we know from wearisome past experience just how the plot will work out, just how inevitable it is that Kenneth will achieve fame, and his father will be reconciled, and Jean, convinced of her injustice, will tearfully plead for forgiveness." Don't lay yourself open to such a criticism.
3. What Is Originality?
"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]
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 association 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 Illustrated
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 Passes"—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.
Preparing to Take Three Scenes at Once in a Daylight Studio
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.
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 passes beneath the window of Luca's house, singing:
God'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 bloody 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 mediæval 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 assumed 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]
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 entitled "The Trimmed Lamp." Read the story—read it until you are thoroughly familiar with its every word. Read it analytically. 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 title is governed by so many factors that it need only be said that the alternative title was given as possessing a greater advertising and drawing power.[36]
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 sex 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 rôle 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 documents; 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.
He is treated like all her other cavaliers at the time and place of parting—she goes home alone. He returns to his apartment with a new idea of the city's possibilities.
That same evening Florence finds an intruder unceremoniously invading her room—a "gang" leader who believes the shot he has just fired at an adversary has been fatal in its effect. He tells her his story, but says he did not do the shooting. She believes him, and when the police come to her door in their search for the culprit, she pretends that the man opposite her at the table is her brother.
Later she learns that he has told her a falsehood, but she does not deliver him to justice, and when she finds that the man who was shot is not fatally injured, she sends the shielded one away in safety; for which display of her fine sense of loyalty he becomes a veritable watchdog, never intruding his presence upon her, but being always near to observe the quality of the companions she still allows herself.
Blinker meets her by appointment the next evening, and the faithful Watchdog follows them to Coney Island, vigilant, feeling sure than a man of the evident social status of Blinker can mean no good to a girl in Florence's station.
On the boat, coming home, Blinker tells Florence that he loves her. So accustomed is she to this display of sentimentality in her cavaliers that she merely laughs. He persists, and she indicates a belief that he is just like the rest. Mention of "the rest" awakes question in Blinker. He learns that she meets men indiscriminately. He has a horror of this evidence of what he considers to be moral laxity, and when Florence sees this she is amazed. He has met her in the same way, yet he is shocked that she should meet others! In justifying her course she explains what sort of place "Brickdust Row" is, and how the girls are driven out.
A fire is discovered on the boat, and in the excitement Blinker and Florence are separated and the Watchdog is unable to find the girl he worships. She has jumped into the water as the flames drew too close to her.
Later she is found at home by the Watchdog, safe though suffering from shock. He discovers that the shock is less from exposure than from her discovery that Blinker was serious, and that he refused to condone her mode of meeting men.
Blinker is visited by his lawyer, and in their conversation, a reference to "Brickdust Row" gives Blinker the knowledge that he is the owner of that tenement—that it is his own fault which gives rise to such unconventional practices as Florence has innocently indulged in. It is too late, he thinks, now—too late to change things. His dream of love is rudely dispelled.
However, after a visit from the Watchdog, in which the gangster loyally champions Florence's character and "lays down the law" to Blinker, the latter sees Florence again, realizing his own great fault in being too quick to judge—and the reconciliation is made sweeter by his willingness to have Florence do her will with the remodeling of the tenement, while the Watchdog finds comfort in the smiles of Ella.
CAST OF CHARACTERS[37]
| FLORENCE | A sweet, innocent girl, whose environment shapes her conduct; sympathetic type. |
| BLINKER | Rich, idle, careless of responsibility, and as much a victim to his own station as is Florence; slightly affected; but must not lose sympathy or create distaste. |
| ELLA | Snappy, shop-girl type; keen contrast to Florence, and used to build up and emphasize the fine nature of Florence. |
| BILL[38] | A typical slums character—gang leader; generally living by his wits, but possessed of a deep-rooted devotion to anybody who is "square" with him. |
| FRANK | A typical street-flirt. |
| LAWYER OLDPORT | A quizzical man of the "old school." |
| Types of the tenement district. Police, etc. | |
| Typical crowds at Coney Island, and on boat. |
SCENARIO, OR CONTINUITY OF SCENES
Leader—
THUS DOES FLORENCE COAX A FEW RELUCTANT DOLLARS INTO HER WEEKLY PURSE.
1—Interior small hat-trimming shop.
The diaphragm opens to show Florence trimming a hat. She is a pathetic figure as she looks down at the hat and realizes that such finery is beyond her owning. She looks up and smiles gratefully as the owner of the place comes from paying others in view, and drops an envelope on table before her.[39]
Leader—
THE SHOP GIRL'S CONSTANT PROBLEM—MAKING ENDS MEET—HELPS FLORENCE WEAR OUT MANY A PENCIL.
2—Boarding house steps.
Florence is discovered sitting on step, figuring out her accounts with a stubby pencil on back of an old envelope. She looks disconsolately at her figures. Then as she glances up her eyes brighten and she waves a hand.[40]
Leader—
FRIEND ELLA, OF THE SHOE-STORE CASHIER'S CAGE.
3—Street near boarding house.
Ella, whose face is piquant with recognition, waves in a snappy, "Oh! Hello, Kid" manner, and goes toward boarding house.
4—Boarding house steps, as in 2. Close-up of two girls.
Ella comes on and greets Florence in breezy way; Florence is pleased, but her manner of salutation is more quiet, though equally sincere. Ella drops on step, looks at figures, and grins. Florence indicates her depression, due to the figures that will not balance with her meager income. Ella makes a proposition, saying:
Cut-in leader—
"WHY NOT SHARE A ROOM WITH ME? WE MIGHT EACH SAVE ENOUGH TO ADD A DILL PICKLE TO OUR LUNCH."
Florence is impressed, and Ella bids her come along and see the place.[41]
5—Wider view of steps.
As Florence rises, she hesitates, and seems to be averse to putting her friend to inconvenience. Ella grins gayly, and says:
Cut-in leader—
"WHEN YOU SEE 'BRICKDUST ROW'—WHERE I LIVE—YOU WON'T THINK I'M DOING YOU ANY FAVOR."
She urges Florence to come along. Two girls leave scene.[42]
6—A street corner.
A blind man is selling pencils. Ella and Florence come on. Florence pauses, fishes coin from her purse and buys a pencil. Then, as Ella keeps right on, turning corner, Florence smiles gently and pauses again.
7—Street corner—close-up of hands.
Florence gently slips the purchased pencil back into hand of blind man, allowing her hand to rest commiseratingly on his arm an instant.
8—Wider view of street corner.
Ella turns to see what is keeping Florence, who is hurrying away to avoid the man's "Bless you, and the Saints protect you!"[43]
Leader—
"BRICKDUST ROW," WITH ITS DREARY MONOTONY AND CRUMBLING DECAY, IS A PLACE TO SIGH OVER—NOT TO LIVE IN.[44]
9—Long view of street with typical tenements.
Showing the dreary atmosphere of the place as Florence and Ella come along street and pause at a doorway.
10—Closer view doorway.
Emphasis of atmosphere. Ella unlatching door as Florence touches side-rail of low stoop and looks downcast, shuddering a bit. They go in.
11—Lower hall of tenement.
A worn whisk-broom hangs on wall. There is a comedy touch as Ella and Florence come in, and the latter notices the whisk-broom.
12—Bust view. Wall.
Showing whisk-broom.
13—Wider view of hall.
Ella laughs, and says:
Cut-in leader—
"THE FIRST TIME YOU START OUT FROM THIS DUST-FACTORY YOU'LL KNOW WHY THAT'S THERE!"
Florence is dubious about liking the place, but follows Ella up the rickety, dust-laden stairway.
14—Ella's tiny but neat room—window on fire-escape.
Ella brings Florence in. Ella throws out hands in gesture of "Here it is—not much, I'll admit." Florence exclaims in reassuring affectation of delight and says she will take Ella's offer.
Diaphragm out.
Leader—
WE NOTE ONE BLINKER—ALEXANDER BLINKER—OWNING TENEMENTS GALORE, AND LEADING A GENERALLY USELESS LIFE BECAUSE HE HAS BEEN BROUGHT UP THAT WAY.
15—Oldport's legal office. Close-up at door.
Diaphragm in to a close view of Blinker, introducing him in a very unpleasing humor, evidently sour about something.[45]
16—Oldport's office—wider view.
Showing Oldport looking quizzically at the fuming Blinker as the latter advances, saying:
Cut-in leader—
"IF I MUST SIGN THOSE DISGUSTING LEASES, LET US GET IT OVER. I HAVE A GOLF TOURNAMENT ON—"
He advances and slumps pettishly into a chair by desk.
17—Close-up of Oldport.
Oldport looks around at Blinker, with an expression showing more pity than annoyance.
18—Close-up of Blinker.
Blinker makes a gesture of impatience and shifts in his chair.
19—Ella's room. A few touches indicating the refining influence of Florence.
Ella is getting ready to go out. Florence questions. Ella says, "I got an afternoon date." Then she vents her annoyance at the owner of the buildings by saying:
Cut-in-leader—
"THE DUB THAT OWNS THIS DUST-BIN IS SO MEAN THAT HE RENTS THE PARLORS—SO US GIRLS HAS GOT TO MEET OUR GENTLEMEN FRIENDS SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE—WE CAN'T ENTERTAIN IN OUR ROOMS, CAN WE?"
Florence shakes her head, and refuses an invitation to accompany Ella, who goes out.[46]
20—Oldport's office.
Blinker signing papers. Finishing, he rises. Oldport lays a restraining hand on his arm, taking another paper. Blinker shudders in distaste, as Oldport turns and says:
Cut-in leader—
"THERE IS A MATTER CONCERNING THE RENTING OF THE PARLORS IN ONE OF YOUR BUILDINGS—YOUR FATHER HAD INTENDED TO REMODEL THEM, SO—"
Blinker shrugs, and rises, protesting, imploring Oldport to let him get away. Oldport rises, and follows him to door, where he stops him.
21—Close-up door of Oldport office.
Oldport is serious, almost pleading, as Blinker wheels. Oldport says:
Cut-in leader—
"BECAUSE THE PARLORS ARE RENTED AS ROOMS, THE GIRLS, MOSTLY SHOP WORKERS, MUST DO THEIR ENTERTAINING OF MEN—ELSEWHERE—"
Blinker turns deprecatingly, and says:
Cut-in leader—
"DEAR OLD MAN—ANOTHER TIME, PLEASE!"
He hurries out. Oldport frowns with annoyance, then shrugs.
Diaphragm out.
Diaphragm in:[47]
22—Front of hat-shop where Florence is employed.
Frank, a typical street-flirt, is lounging, watching some girls pass; they laugh and nudge each other; then Florence comes out of shop and Frank, lifting cap, falls into step beside her. Depict innocence on Florence's part—she does not "get his drift."[48]
23—Exterior of golf club.
Blinker arrives in haste, to find friends and players waiting. Emphasize his egotism and self-centeredness as they start off for the golf links.
24—Street in tenement district.
Frank is keeping up with Florence as she comes on. He takes her arm. She stops dead still. Sudden fear shows in her face. Tearing herself free, she fairly runs from the scene, Frank staring in surprise, and indicating "Holy Mackerel—stuck up little skirt!"
25—Door in Brickdust Row.
Florence comes hurrying on, looks over her shoulder to be sure she is not followed, and rushes into house.
26—Golf course.
Blinker tees up and drives. He shows satisfaction as he watches the flight of the ball, then sets off, smiling at his caddie's muttered "Some drive!"
27—Ella's room.
Florence is coming in. She is panting. Still shaking with fright and mortification, she flings herself across the bed.
28—A street corner.
Ella is parting from a "gentleman friend" and thanks him for a "swell time," then starts for home as he turns, hat lifted, and goes.
29—Golf course.
Show Blinker's egotism as he wins match amid plaudits of his friends.
30—Ella's room.
Florence still on bed as Ella comes in. "What's up, Kid?" Florence explains. Ella laughs, and tells her the lad meant no harm, then rising in denunciation of their environment, she exclaims:
Cut-in leader—
"LORD, KID! A GIRL CAN'T STICK IN THE HOUSE AND BE A DRIED PRUNE WITHOUT NO FRIENDS. IF SHE CAN'T BRING 'EM HOME—SHE HAS TO MEET 'EM WHEREVER SHE FINDS 'EM."
This is a new idea to Florence, and it impresses her, though she is dubious about it. Finally, reconciling herself, she agrees, saying:
Cut-in leader—
"YES, A GIRL HAS GOT TO HAVE SOME FUN. I GUESS IT'S NO HARM TO LET NICE FELLOWS SPEAK, AND TAKE YOU OUT SOMETIMES."
Ella assures her that it is no harm. Florence is less dubious.
Leader—
DUN, DREARY MONOTONY DRIVES FLORENCE TO THE ONLY ENTERTAINMENT HER ENVIRONMENT PERMITS.
31—A park entrance.
Florence allows a neat chap who has been flirting to take her arm, and they go off together.
Leader—
SOMETIMES THE MOVIES—
32—Outside moving picture house. Night.
Florence is laughing as she comes on with ANOTHER nice-looking chap who takes her in to see the show.
Leader—
SOMETIMES MOONY SPOONING—
33—Park seat near lake. Moon on water for pretty view.
Florence is allowing a different fellow to sit close and hold her hand. (No inclination to get "fresh.")
Leader—
BUT ALWAYS THE SAME TACTICS, AND EACH TIME WITH A DIFFERENT CAVALIER.[49]
34—Front door, Brickdust Row. Evening.
Florence comes on, with an impatient swain, but she gives absolutely no indication that this is where she lives, and they pass off.
35—Street corner.
Florence and companion come on. She says "good night" and refuses to let him go further. When he is gone around the corner she retraces her steps toward home.
Diaphragm slowly out.
Leader—
AH, THE TRIBULATIONS OF BLINKER!
36—Oldport's office.
Blinker comes in, disgusted. Oldport laughs at him somewhat sardonically as Blinker says:
Cut-in leader—
"WILL THOSE PAPERS NEVER BE DONE WITH? WELL—HURRY. I'M PACKED TO START FOR THE NORTH WOODS TONIGHT."
Oldport grins cheerfully, saying:
Cut-in leader—
"THE WORST HAS NOT BEEN TOLD YOU. THE PAPERS WILL NOT BE READY TILL MONDAY—SO YOU WILL HAVE TO AMUSE YOURSELF FOR A DAY AND A HALF—"
Blinker flings out, disgusted.
37—Ella's room.
Florence comes in, in her work-day clothes, and prepares to get out a quite new summer frock.
38—Blinker's apartment.
Blinker in, and man taking off coat, etc. Summer garb. Blinker disgusted with life. Reads paper. Man obsequious—comedy touch with proffer of numbers of varieties of cigarettes.
39—Ella's room.
Florence dressed in summer frock. Wonders what to do with herself—plans, counts money—decides and goes out.
40—Apartment.
Blinker reads "ad." in paper and suddenly says to his man:
Cut-in leader—
"SIMONDS, I'M GOING TO CONEY ISLAND."
Man bows as if he had said he was going to drown himself. Blinker bids man fetch some cool outing flannels—he acts as if he were preparing to go to be shot, but must face it. Ennui driving him.
Leader—
FOR ONCE HOI-POLLOI JOSTLES, BUSTLES AND HARASSES THE ARISTOCRATIC BLINKER.
41—Dock, gangplank.
Comedy with Blinker in a mob of "kidders" on the way to a Coney Island boat.
42—Deck chair or camp stool, on Coney Island boat.
Florence is staring out over water. Turns. Sees something.
43—Deck location.
Blinker coming out of mob—catching hat, effect of tipping it.
44—Deck, wider view.
Florence affects to be freezing. Blinker notices her, and is abashed.
45—Close-up of Florence.
Florence freezing, says:
Cut-in leader—
"HOW DARE YOU LIFT YOUR HAT TO ME, SIR?"
Haughty.
46—Close-up of Blinker.
Blinker stammers:
Cut-in leader—
"I DIDN'T—"
Then starts, admiring.
47—Close-up of Florence.
Florence freezing, yet eyes twinkle.
48—Wider-angle view.
Blinker quickly corrects himself by adding:
Cut-in leader—
"I DIDN'T SEE HOW I COULD HELP IT—AFTER I SAW YOU."
She appears mollified. He sits.
49—Closer view, toward water.
Florence says:
Cut-in leader—
"I DON'T ALLOW GENTLEMEN TO SIT BESIDE ME TO WHOM I HAVE NOT BEEN INTRODUCED."
Comedy as Blinker rises, then sits as he sees she is joking. They begin to "get together."
50—Same scene, different angle.
He asks Florence:
Cut-in leader—
"ARE YOU GOING TO CONEY ISLAND?"
She comes back at him:
Cut-in leader—
"CAN'T YOU SEE I'M RIDING A BICYCLE UP THE WOOLWORTH TOWER?"
He is abashed, then gets her idea, and says quite attentively:
Cut-in leader—
"I'VE NEVER BEEN TO CONEY. MAYN'T WE SEE IT TOGETHER?"
She is surprised, then appraises him and temporizes.
Leader—
IN DUE COURSE ONE IS DASHED INTO THE WALKS AND AVENUES OF FAIRYLAND GONE INTO VAUDEVILLE.
51—Steeplechase Amusement Park.
A long view to show the "atmosphere."[50] Florence and Blinker in the crowd.
52—Closer view.
Blinker and Florence. "Tough" with girl. "Tough" blows cigar smoke in Blinker's face. Florence tactfully prevents a "scrap." She can't afford to have cavalier "pinched." Off they go.
53—Some open-air amusement, as "The Whip."
Blinker and Florence on—he is disgusted. She is aflame with excitement. He looks disgustedly at the amusement, and she, divining—dejectedly—goes off with him.
Leader—
FLORENCE IS DIVINELY HAPPY—FOR IS SHE NOT WITH HER MAN—KEEPER OF THE KEYS OF FAIRYLAND?
54—Front of a show.
Florence in ecstasy. Overcomes chagrin. Goes in with disgusted but subdued Blinker—subdued by a battle royal with the mob around ticket wicket.
55—Inside the show.
As Blinker helps Florence into a seat, an Italian woman with bunch of candy-sticky kids comes along. In they pile, candying Blinker, who disgustedly hops out, with Florence, somewhat discomfited and provoked at him, following. He backs away, and she after him.
56—Closer view of the two.
Florence sizing up Blinker—delivers her opinion:
Cut-in leader—
"IF YOU EXPECT TO HAVE ANY FUN, YOU'VE GOT TO JUMP IN AND ACT AS NUTTY AS THE REST OF THEM."
Blinker is subdued, but hard to convince. Then he looks at the wistfulness of Florence's eyes, and somehow he decides he will try to enter into the spirit of the thing. She sees, is starry-eyed—drags him off, ecstasy in her face.
57—The flying horses.
Blinker about to get on, with Florence pulling him. They get on. "They're off!"
Leader—
BY THE MAGIC OF FLORENCE'S ENTHUSIASM BLINKER SUDDENLY SEES CONEY ISLAND IN ITS TRUE GUISE.
58—Flash on horse.
Florence all ecstasy.
59—Another horse—parallel.
Blinker watching Florence—sudden change to delight.
60—Horses on track in Steeplechase, running parallel.
The two horses are going away from the camera, and as Blinker turns to smile at Florence, she smiles at him, and—
The scene interposes into—
61—A rolling open field.
Taking the place of the Steeplechase horses, we see Florence and Blinker riding at a gallop on real horses, typifying their imagined visualization. The scene interposes back into—
62—Steeplechase horses.
Blinker laughs merrily at Florence, and both "work" as hard as they can to send the horses faster.[51]
Leader—
NO LONGER DOES BLINKER SEE A RABBLE. HE IS AMONG HIS BROTHERS, ALL SEEKING AN IDEAL.
63—Front of tawdry amusement place.
Blinker is with Florence. As they come up and listen to the "ballyhoo" man—
The scene interposes into—
64—Front of fairy castle.
Florence and Blinker as Prince and Princess.
The scene interposes back into—
65—Front of amusement place.
Blinker and Florence rush in with crowd, all gay and hilarious.
Leader—
SO BLINKER ROLLS UP THE SHIRTSLEEVES OF HIS MIND, AND BECOMES AN IDEALIST TOO.
66—A show (Slide).
Good comedy to get some people coming down a slide, with Blinker and Florence among them.
67—Bottom of slide.
Blinker and Florence get out, gay as can be—and as they stroll off, there is a touch of sentiment.
Leader—
THE PARTING.
68—Park entrance. Night.
Blinker and Florence. She stops him. He wants to go on with her, but she says:
Cut-in leader—
"I MUST LEAVE YOU HERE. I DON'T WANT TO SPOIL THE FAIRYLAND BY SHOWING YOU—'BRICKDUST ROW.'"
He tries to persuade her. She is firm. Another "date" for tomorrow. Off she goes. He the other way.
69—Room.
Florence in—lights up. Sits to dream of happy day.
70—Blinker's apartment. Lit up.
Blinker in to find Simonds waiting. Dismisses man, who might interrupt dream of happy day by proffer of something—comedy chase out, then Blinker back to smoke and smile.
71—Florence's room. Gas-lit.
Florence rises to remove dress, pauses to look at herself in mirror—girlish vanity.
Leader—
WHEN GANG-LEADER MEETS GANG-LEADER—
72—Front of "Brickdust Row." Night.
Bill sauntering. Pauses to light cigarette. A rival gang-leader comes on. Flash—pistols—bang—other man fires first. Bill wings him and turns.
73—Corner. Night.
"Cop" hears shooting. Listens to locate it.
74—Front of "Row." Night.
Bill hides gun in coat. Dodges into door.[52]
75—Corner. Night.
"Cop" looking around—sees—
76—Front of "Row." Night.
Man lying still.
77—Corner. Night.
"Cop" blows whistle and runs off.
78—Hall. Gas-lit.
Bill listening. Up the stairs! He may get away!
79—Front row. Night.
"Cop" and others gather about man. Several "cops" on at a run.
80—Ella's room. Gas-lit.
Bill looks in doorway. Florence at mirror, about to loosen dress. Turns. Bill comes in. He says:
Cut-in leader—
"LISTEN, SIS—A GUY CROAKED ANOTHER FELLOW—A COP THINKS I DONE IT—I DIDN'T—SO HELP ME GOD!"
He is so pathetic in his fright that she is torn with sympathy.
81—"Cops" before "Brickdust Row." Night.
"Cops" decide to look in house—go in.
82—Ella's room. Gas-lit.
Florence moves close to Bill and finds gun. He nods—says:
Cut-in leader—
"THAT'S WHY I'M SCARED—IF THEY FIND IT THEY'LL PINCH ME—"[53]
She nods. Both start, as at a sound.
83—Hall. Gas-lit.
"Cop" bounding up the stairs.
84—Ella's room. Gas-lit.
Bill in terror. Florence sees the abject fear in his eyes, and the tenderness and protective sympathy of her nature are instantly roused. Dropping the gun in a table drawer, and sitting down, she motions Bill to sit opposite, and command himself. She picks up needlework, and proceeds to chat with Bill as unconcernedly as if he were a constant visitor at the place.
85—Outside the door of Ella's room. Gas light in room; dimmer light in hall.
The "cop" comes softly to door, listens, and then pushes door quietly inward.
86—Ella's room. Gas-lit.
As the police officer opens the door and looks in, Florence is quietly sewing, and Bill is leaning back, at his ease, though it is an effort for him to be unconcerned. He is smoking. The officer hesitates. Hold suspense of situation.
87—Front of "Row." Night.
Ambulance attendants busy over man. Street crowd being driven away by several policemen.
88—Ella's room. Gas-lit.
The officer moves forward, his eyes on Bill. Florence does not betray the slightest sign of dismay. She looks at the intruder as much in reproof as in surprise. Her steady look disconcerts the policeman; he shuffles, clears his throat, and explains his search, glancing toward Bill. Florence says:
Cut-in leader—
"LIVING IN THE BACK OF THE HOUSE WE DON'T HEAR MUCH—OR MY BROTHER WOULD HAVE GONE DOWN TO SEE WHAT WAS UP."
Bill takes up the lead she gives by pretending eagerness as to what happened, but the officer, after a hasty look out over the fire escape, turns and hurries from the room. Bill sighs relievedly, and looks at Florence with the same sort of light in his eyes that one sees in those of a faithful dog. This dog-like devotion is to be the developing keynote of Bill's character.
89—Roof of house. Night.
Policeman comes up on roof, looking around.
90—Ella's room. Gas-lit.
Bill is thanking Florence. She tells him that she will go down and see whether the coast is clear, and he sits down with a grateful look as she goes quietly out.[54]
91—Front of "Row." Night. From the tenement doorway.
The injured man is being made to stand. Florence comes into the scene, pausing on stoop of the "Row" and watches as the injured party feigns great pain, and gasps:
Cut-in leader—
"HONEST—HE NEAR CROAKED ME. I'M DYIN'—ALL SHOT TO PIECES. AN' THE WORST IS I DIDN'T GIT A CHANST TO SHOOT BACK AT HIM."
The ambulance men laugh and tell him to be on his way; he is more scared than hurt. Florence's face becomes tense. Her lips form the thought that flashes into her mind. "He lied—to me!" She turns and goes into house.
92—Ella's room. Gas-lit.
Bill looks up eagerly as Florence comes in. Then he stares as she goes swiftly toward the table drawer. He is quick, but not swift enough, in his rush to forestall her as she gets his revolver and "breaks" it, so that the empty cartridge and five loaded ones drop into her hand.
93—Bust of hand holding discharged cartridge.
Register the fact that it has been fired.
94—Back to 92.
Florence looks up slowly. Bill figures that she will give him up now, and gives a quick, hunted look around as Florence closes the weapon and lays it on the table, fully convinced that she has been lied to. She stands looking down at the weapon, her face brooding. Suspense. What will she do about it?
95—Roof of house. Night.
"Cop," with another. No use looking further. Separate, one going down into tenement again, other across roof toward another descent.
96—Ella's room—looking toward door. Gas-lit.
Bill in an agony of terror as he hears policeman tramping toward door. Florence looks up, and moves toward Bill, who cowers. The door starts to open. Florence pities Bill now.
97—Ella's room—from hall, through opening door. Gas-lit.
The policeman is going to be crafty; he opens door, very softly, and as he peers in, he sees—Florence slipping her arms about Bill's neck, giving him a sisterly kiss as she says:
Cut-in leader—
"GOODNIGHT, BUDDY. GIVE THE KIDDIES A KISS FROM ME."
Convinced, the officer draws away and goes from scene. Bill can be seen touching cheek Florence kissed, looking at finger as if expecting it to show the mark of contact.
98—Close-up in room, from another angle, to get Florence in profile.
Bill slowly and reverently takes Florence's hand, and with devotion in every line, says fervently:
Cut-in leader—
"KID—YOU'RE CERTAINLY WHITE! AND YOU ARE 'LITTLE SIS' TO ME FROM NOW ON!"
Saying nothing more, but looking at her with devoted eyes, as she stands smiling her gentle smile, he goes to fire escape, and as he descends—Fade slowly out.
Leader—
BILL BECOMES THE FAITHFUL WATCHDOG, ASKING ONLY A PAT, AND IS ETERNALLY VIGILANT LEST HARM COME TO THE OBJECT OF HIS DEVOTION.
Diaphragm in:
99—Park entrance.
Florence waiting. Bill is coming down path. He sees her and advances—but she meets Blinker, who is gay and delighted. They go.
100—Close-up of Bill.
No jealousy—but suspicion. Bill thinks such a man can mean no good. He starts off.
101—Wider view.
Bill seen to be shadowing Blinker and Florence.
Leader—
CONVINCED THAT "A GUY" OF BLINKER'S APPARENT AFFLUENCE CAN MEAN NO GOOD TO A "SKIRT LIKE SIS," THE WATCHDOG INVADES FAIRYLAND.
102—Steeplechase Pier.
Crowd coming off boat. Florence and Blinker. After them, shadowing, comes Bill.
Leader—
THIS TIME, THERE IS NO TIME LOST BY THE INFATUATED BLINKER, IN GETTING INTO THE SPIRIT OF THE REVELRY.
103—Any different amusement device.
Blinker with Florence—having a grand time. Show Bill aloof but watchful, evading discovery carefully.
Leader—
THE WALKING BEAM OF A CONEY ISLAND BOAT MAKES JUST ENOUGH NOISE TO ENABLE TWO TO CONVERSE COZILY ALOOF FROM THEIR NEIGHBORS.
104—By walking beam.
Wide enough to show several couples—Florence and Blinker among them; narrows down to those two, after Bill is established in background, watchful but not interfering.
105—Close-up of Blinker.
Blinker, in spell of love, says:
Cut-in leader—
"FLORENCE—I—LOVE YOU!"
Waits, breathless.
106—Close-up of Florence.
She laughs a little tremulously but recklessly and says:
Cut-in leader—
"THAT'S WHAT THEY ALL SAY."
She begins to hum.
107—Close-up of Blinker.
He is a little impatient, and says:
Cut-in leader—
"I AM RICH. I CAN GIVE YOU MANY THINGS—"
He is interrupted.[55]
108—Close-up of Florence.
She laughs a little, and says:
Cut-in leader—
"THAT'S WHAT THEY ALL SAY."
She is playing with him, and yet telling truth.
109—Close-up of Blinker.
He is impatient at this repetition. Says:
Cut-in leader—
"I DON'T LIKE YOU TO KEEP SAYING THAT!"
He is annoyed. She is not taking him seriously.
110—Close-up of Florence.
She looks at him—wonders—says:
Cut-in leader—
"WHY SHOULDN'T I SAY IT? THEY DO!"
He is puzzled.
111—Close-up of Blinker.
Surprised—puzzled—angered—says:
Cut-in leader—
"WHO ARE—'THEY'?"
Jealous and anxious.
112—Close-up of Florence.
Surprised—innocent. Says:
Cut-in leader—
"WHY, THE MEN I MEET."
What is he driving at?
113—Both—in wider view.
Florence wondering. He changes expression. Growing tension. Asks her:
Cut-in leader—
"WHERE DO YOU MEET—THESE MEN?"
She looks wide-eyed—surprised—answers:
Cut-in leader—
"I MEET THEM—AS I DID YOU—"
Blinker aghast. Asks:
Cut-in leader—
"DO YOU KNOW SO MANY?"
She allows herself a laugh—says:
Cut-in leader—
"WELL I'M NOT EXACTLY A WALL FLOWER."
He turns away.
114—Close-up of Blinker.
Growing tension—it is sinking in, and finally his expression grows harder.
115—Close-up of Florence.
She wonders—finally asks:
Cut-in leader—
"WHAT'S WRONG?"
Her lips part in amazed terror.
116—New angle. Close-up of Blinker.
Swings upon her and cries:
Cut-in leader—
"EVERYTHING'S WRONG! WHY DON'T YOU SEE THESE—THESE MEN—AT YOUR HOME? IS IT NECESSARY TO MEET EVERY TOM, DICK AND HARRY—OUTSIDE?"
He is growing furious. So that is the sort she is!
117—Profile close-up of Florence.
She laughs. Her voice is brassy-hard, saying:
Cut-in leader—
"IF YOU COULD SEE 'BRICKDUST ROW' YOU WOULDN'T ASK THAT. THE FELLOW WHO OWNS IT DOESN'T GIVE US ANY PLACE TO RECEIVE—AND WE CAN'T TAKE FELLOWS TO OUR ROOM—SO—"
Shrugs.
118—Wider-angle view, with Blinker nearest camera.
Tension. Big scene as he gets over his horror and disgust and she realizes it, and rising, disillusioned—exactly as he feels that he is disillusioned about her—Sudden pause—
119—Deck, ad lib.
Fire! Excitement. "Where?"—"What'll we do?"[56]
120—Deck, another part.
Panic. Woman screams.
121—Walking beam.
Excited scattering of crowd. Florence turning away—Bill coming forward—Blinker listening. He grabs Florence by arm. She draws away. He compels her to go.
122—Deck.
Tension. Wild scene.
123—Walking beam.
Bill follows, crowd intervening, as Blinker takes Florence off. Bill gets after them.
124—Boat davits.
Wild scene. Officer. Sailors. Fire and smoke. Blinker with Florence. Takes her away—another boat!
125—Another boat.
Crowd more orderly. Women being helped into boat. Blinker on with Florence. Takes her to boat.
126—Boat davits.
Sailors shot at by officer. Surge away and off.
127—Fire blazing. Sailors lose heads—dash back from fire and toward—
128—Other boat.
Fire coming. Florence by boat. Sailors rush on and fight. Get officer's gun. Surround Florence and Blinker.
129—Different angle.
Blinker fighting to save Florence.
130—Different view.
Fire coming on. Bill fighting way toward Blinker and Florence.
131—Other boat.
Blinker fighting. Florence separated from him. Bill fights way to his side. They notice one another as men with same idea—join back to back. Florence forced away. They try to get to her. Surge of sailors over-runs them.[57]
132—Deck rail.
Florence staggers on. Flames coming. Great God! What shall she do? Off she races.
133—Boat davits.
Flames leaping. Florence just in time to see boat lowered away. Too late. Driven back.
134—Other boat.
Bill and Blinker together. Several sailors done for, others lower boat and go. Men peer about, but smoke too thick for them to see.
135—Rail.
Florence in terror. Sudden blast of flame. On rail. Leaps.
Diaphragm out.[58]
Diaphragm in:
136—Blinker's apartment.
Man caring for Blinker, somewhat burned. Sad and downcast. Man admits Oldport. Lawyer listens to story.
137—Hospital entry.
Bill comes out, discharged—head bandaged. He takes a card out of pocket—looks and puts back. He does not know what to do, then decides, and goes off.[59]
138—Ella's room.
Florence in bed. Ella attending. Bill knocks, is admitted.
139—Blinker's apartment.
Oldport sees Blinker is able to talk business. He assumes quizzical air, says:
Cut-in leader—
"MAYBE I CAN KEEP YOU HERE LONG ENOUGH TO TAKE UP THAT DEFERRED MATTER—"
Blinker wearily assents. Oldport begins:
Cut-in leader—
"YOUR FATHER INTENDED THAT THE PARLORS OF CERTAIN BUILDINGS SHOULD BE USED BY THE GIRL-TENANTS AS PLACES WHEREIN TO ENTERTAIN THEIR MALE CALLERS."
Blinker gives start of surprise—query—agony—cries out:
Cut-in leader—
"'BRICKDUST ROW,' FOR A MILLION!"
Oldport smiles:
Cut-in leader—
"I BELIEVE THE GIRLS HAVE SOME SUCH NICKNAME FOR IT. WHAT SHALL I DO?"
Horrible! Blinker in spasm of anguish:
Cut-in leader—
"BURN IT! RAZE IT! DO WHAT YOU LIKE—BUT I TELL YOU—IT'S TOO LATE, MAN—IT'S TOO LATE!—"
He flings away.
140—Ella's room.
Bill chatting with Ella. Seems to have good feeling for her—devouring hot-cake she has made as he talks with Florence, who is sitting up. He takes out card, says:
Cut-in leader—
"THAT GUY YOU WAS WID—IS HE ON THE SQUARE?—HE AST ME TO CALL ON HIM—"
Florence suddenly recalls all that has happened. She turns her face away, unable to control tears of despondency.
141—Blinker's apartment.
Oldport goes. Blinker "chases" his man, sits in bad mood, sour and lovelorn by turns.
142—Ella's room.
Bill dismayed—demands what he has said. Florence sits up—controls herself. Says, gently:
Cut-in leader—
"HE—HE ISN'T GOING TO—SEE ME ANY MORE—I GUESS."
Bill is all anger—"Why?" She tells him:
Cut-in leader—
"I DON'T THINK—OUR—WAYS OF LIVING—"
She breaks down.
143—Close-up of Bill.
"The son of a brat!"—so he has chucked "Little Sis" has he, the rich piker? Well, Bill can see about that! Of course he thinks the worst of Blinker.
144—Wider-angle view.
Bill rises and tiptoes out. Florence weeping softly with Ella comforting—rough yet tender.
145—Blinker's apartment.
Man admits Bill and is dismissed. Blinker hearty—then sees Bill's anger. Rises. Big scene where Bill denounces him, saying:
Cut-in leader—
"YOU GOT TO BE SQUARE WITH THAT KID!"
Blinker misunderstands. Bill comes near to throttling him, before Blinker can gasp:
Cut-in leader—
"YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND—IT WAS ONLY A DIFFERENCE OF—OPINION—"
Bill waits to find out. Blinker hesitates, then, seeing threat, begins to explain.
146—Ella's room.
Florence seems to be asleep, and Ella sneaks off for some milk or something. Florence gets up, sad and despondent. Slowly begins to dress.
147—Blinker's apartment.
Bill amazed at Blinker, who ends up:
Cut-in leader—
"IT'S A QUESTION OF ETHICS—"
Bill glowers and snaps:
Cut-in leader—
"ETHICS BE DAMNED! IT'S A QUESTION OF—ARE YOU GOIN' TUH BLAME HER FOR THE VERY THING YOU MADE HER DO?"
Blinker begins to consider.
148—Ella's room.
Florence dressing (suspense: Does she recall that revolver and want to add her tragedy to the dreary ones of "Brickdust Row?")
149—Blinker's apartment.
Big realization—"All my fault." Blinker goes off with Bill.
150—Ella's room.
Ella soothing Florence. Latter does not wish to live. All life is black before her.
151—Hall outside door.
Comedy relief as Bill and Blinker come on and latter draws back in a natural suspense as to his reception and Bill tells him to "beat it on in!" Blinker knocks, and goes in. Bill pauses.
152—Ella's room.
Florence looks up. Ella surprised. Blinker pauses. Ella seems to be attracted by something.
153—Crack of open door.
Bill is making violent gestures to get Ella out.
154—Ella's room.
Ella catches Bill's idea, and moves unostentatiously out. Then Blinker strides to Florence. He says:
Cut-in leader—
"IT'S ALL WRONG. I'VE COME TO SQUARE IT."
Florence is reserved, chilly, as she says:
Cut-in leader—
"YOU MEAN—ABOUT THE PARLORS?"
Blinker is beside her, and catching her hands he cries:
Cut-in leader—
"I MEAN—ABOUT YOU!—AND ME!"
In spite of herself, Florence is forced to lift her eyes, and as she reads the look in his own she is compelled to realize that the air is cleared at last and that the happiness that seemed dead is again alive—palpitant happiness that draws her into his ready arms.
155—Hall outside Ella's room.
Bill "fixes it up" with Ella to "travel double." She wants to rush in and tell her chum, but Bill stays her: "Nix—let 'em do some clinchin' first!"
156—Ella's room.
Florence and Blinker embracing.
Circle diaphragm closes to blackness.[60]