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6. Literary Writers and Early Sound Film: Experimental Writing

verfasst von : Annie Nissen

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Abstract

This chapter studies the film industry’s re-evaluations of literary writers with the introduction of synchronised sound, together with the effect of sound on writing for film and adaptation during the late 1920s and 1930s. These simultaneously opened new possibilities for film writing and created new tensions between writers and the industry, with wider impact on filmmaking practices and theoretical discourses of media relations. As prior theories of film medium specificity were no longer valid or valued, film was temporarily freed from the aesthetic limitations that had been placed upon it by silent film practitioners and theorists. These changes produced attempts at cross-media fertilisation, as literary authors experimented with writing across media boundaries, with variable results. Writers who had previously shown little to no interest in writing for film now immersed themselves in film writing. Case studies centre on the experimental hybrid-novel film writing by H.G. Wells and George Bernard Shaw’s play-to-screenplay adaptation of Pygmalion (1912/1938). The chapter argues that writing for film had a progressive influence on literary writers, shaping and evolving them and their writing.

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Vorheriges Kapitel Literary Writers and Filmmaking Practices in Silent Cinema

Nächstes Kapitel Conclusion

For example, he prophesied that colour would be a conventional element of film and that film would be studied academically.

Bill Baillieu and John Goodchild point out that experiments involving the synchronisation of sound can be traced back to Edison in the 1890s and had been continuously taking place since then (2002, 26); Rachael Low discusses this in terms of sound development in Britain (1948, 265–9; 1971, 200–14).

Although the notion was applicable to film more widely, Ernest Betts attests with regard to British film, that by the late 1920s, it “had acquired form and character, it was on good visual terms with itself. It was a premeditated art able to bear comparison with those other arts to which it was related. The language and grammar of the film were established and its terms were in common use. These advances were of little value without a stable background of production and release and this was defeated by the revolution in sound” (1973, 62).

As with title cards, some concerns regarding synchronised sound films were aimed at the application rather than the technology of sound. For example, Sergei Eisenstein and Vsevolod Pudovkin, together with fellow filmmaker Grigori Alexandrov, released a joint statement in 1928, stating that a misconception about the new technical discovery could threaten the development of film as an art, and instead championed a contrapuntal use of sound in relation to montage, arguing that montage needed to remain the foremost aesthetic feature of cinema to be developed and perfected, engaging sound as a new element (see Eisenstein 1969, 257–60).

British Movietone and Associated Press’s archival footage has been made available via a YouTube channel, which also features a George Bernard Shaw playlist (2023). Other “World Celebrities” advertised by Movietone alongside Shaw were: Benito Mussolini, Robert Benchley, Chic Sale, His Majesty Alfonso XIII King of Spain, Charles A. Lindbergh, Joe Cook, Bobby Clark and Paul McCullough (Picture Play Dec 1928).

He does this again in a voice-over for Pygmalion in 1938, discussed later in this chapter.

See Aldous Huxley’s view in his 1929 essay “Silence is Golden.” He nevertheless overcame his initial scepticism towards sound film to write for film in Hollywood from 1937 onward (see Dunaway 1989).

Alexander Walker (1978) provides an account of the years 1926–9 in Hollywood, discussing the coming and reception of synchronised sound and discussing how the industry had to re-configure itself subsequently.

Price provides examples of these early silent-sound hybrids (2013, 130–9).

Walker argues that “the possibilities of talking pictures were barely glimpsed by the industry they were to turn upside down” and that, “like most of the developments in the talkie era, accident and afterthought were the determining factors: foresight very, very rarely played a part” (1978, 15; 60).

Tom Stempel suggests that “The new craft, in fact, was not all that different from the old” (1988, 62). Price agrees with Stempel, supporting the view that film acquired its shape during the silent period, with straightforward alterations made following the introduction of sound (2013, 3). With regard to the British industry, Ian W. Macdonald points out that there is a “folkloric assumption that many silent film writers ‘failed’ to make the transition to sound film production,” which “suggests an incompetence that may not have actually been there,” listing many writers who started before 1924 and continued into the 1930s as evidence, stating that they “were the ones who adapted to the new ideas, and to the new practices that came with them” (2011, 50–1). Adrian Brunel’s 1933 book on film production makes similar claims, pointing out that amateur film craftsmen were also not equipped for making sound pictures (1933, vii).

In a 1926 letter to the poet Robert Nichols, who was trying his luck in Hollywood at the time, Huxley wrote: “I shall stick to an art in which I can do all the work by myself, sitting alone, without having to entrust my soul to a crowd of swindlers, vulgarians and mountebanks. If one could make films oneself, I’d be all for the movies.” (1970, 266).

Brian Taves details Wodehouse’s long and varied collaboration with Hollywood, pointing out that despite the “talkies” taking Wodehouse to Hollywood, it is surprising that the silent era was the most prolific in adapting his writing, given that he was an author “so dependent on dialogue and language” (2006, 22).

This was not the first, nor the last, time that Wodehouse discussed the writer in Hollywood; for example, a previous article from 7 Dec. 1929, entitled “Slaves of Hollywood” (Saturday Evening Post), had satirised the process of transitioning from writer to scenarist.

A prominent example was F. Scott Fitzgerald, whose negative experience in Hollywood is often discussed within accounts of the period (for example, by Fine 1985 and Stempel 1988, 65–68).

Wodehouse left Hollywood a few months after the 1931 interview. After this, he satirised the industry further in his fiction, such as Laughing Gas (1935), and non-fiction (all collected in The Hollywood Omnibus 1993). He returned to Hollywood briefly in 1936 under contract to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer for $2500 a week (Taves 2006, 86).

This form of shared writing was common at this time in Hollywood, though for literary writers used to working under different conditions, it would be challenging to accept.

The idea for the film originated with producer and director Edward Godal, who suggested that Wells adapt a series of his war-time newspaper articles into a film scenario. The proposed film, entitled The Peace of the World, never got past the first synopsis due to Godal declaring bankruptcy, but Wells managed to retain the script rights (Williams 2007, 99–100). He set about converting the synopsis into the book The King Who Was a King, dividing the film scenario into six parts.

Rick Altman (2004) provides a broad historical analysis of sound practices and strategies from the late nineteenth century through the early twentieth century; in their edited collection, Anna Katharina Windisch and Claus Tieber (2014) offer a cultural analysis of silent cinema in different countries, placing case studies alongside theoretical concepts. Michael Slowik (2014) provides an analysis of film music from 1926–34, exploring the different forms and ways that music was employed during the formative years of synchronised sound.

Wells believed that synchronised sound film would enable film and music to be composed together (1929, 16). In a “Note on Music,” he wrote that “[Hector] Berlioz is badly needed to co-operate in the development of this Music-Spectacle Film, and it is a great pity we cannot recall him from the silences” (1929, 106–7). In 1924, D.W. Griffith also considered that music, “one of the most perfect of all the arts,” will be the “voice of the silent drama,” with the greatest composers of the day at hand to create it (1924, 47).

Wells regarded diegetic sound as an effective, rather than permanent, element, contrasting its application to film to that of the stage: “The incessant tiresome chatter of the drama sinks out of necessity […] When once people have been put upon the actual stage, they must talk and flap about for a certain time before they can be got rid of. Getting people on and getting them off is a vast, laborious part of dramatic technique. How it must bore playwrights! But with the film the voice may be flung in here or there, or the word may be made visible and vanish again” (1929, 17). Wells here is reminiscent of film aesthetic theorists, as he demotes the necessity of sound and views it as merely another cinematic tool that needs to be purposefully implemented.

Kenneth V. Bailey remarks that if Wells’s “Prelude” was to be translated into film footage, it would bear “an uncanny resemblance” to the opening of 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), with this also being the case for his central sequence, “A Vision of Modern War,” found later in the same film (1990. 30–1).

Despite this, Wells had already benefitted substantially from film, less by writing for it than by lending his prestigious name to films and being falsely credited as a film writer when he had no direct involvement in their production. For example, he had agreed to provide scenarios for three comic shorts in 1928, which were promoted using his name, but the stories were actually written by Ivor Montague and Wells’s son, Frank (Williams 2007, 97).

The correlation of film writing to other forms of writing had already been acknowledged by film writers, including James Slevin (1912; see Chap. 4).

A “color vogue” in films occurred between 1929 and 1931, followed by more standardised Technicolor practices in the early to the mid-1930s (Bordwell 1988, 593–8). Paolo Cherchi Usai (1996) discusses colour processes during the silent period.

Williams cites Sylvia Hardy (2002, 250), but also refers to contemporary reviews by Dorothy Richardson from 1929, and Paul Rotha from 1930, that say much the same thing.

The published book includes an introduction, where Wells discussed film’s future potential as an art form, its need for special effects, and its relation to other media, as well as pointing out, before and after the scenario, the difficulties that could be encountered if his film were ever developed.

Low, for instance, dismisses his approach as “highly intellectual and verbal,” arguing that his presentation indicates that he had “little understanding of film as visual-storytelling,” and criticises his decision to disregard synchronised sound in favour of silent film action (1971, 242).

The overall production cost is estimated at around £300,000. Alexander Korda bought the film rights from Wells for £10,000, plus royalties, and agreed to a contract that “virtually conferred dictatorial rights” to Wells (Williams 2007, 107).

Confirmed by actor Raymond Massey, who stated that “[n]o writer for the screen ever had or ever will have such authority as H.G. Wells possessed,” Williams notes how Wells gave his opinion on every aspect of production in his almost daily visits to the set (2007, 106–7).

Christopher Frayling (1995) offers a close study of the film in terms of its modernist aesthetics and visual culture.

By 1936, however, Wells expressed that he was “more than a little disillusioned with films,” stating that “They could be magnificent art, but all the art has still to be learnt.” Turning from film, he championed the directness of prose writing: “the temptation to go back to writing books with nothing between you and your reader but the printer—no producers, directors, art directors, camera men, actors and actresses, cutters and editors—is almost irresistible.” Despite the attitude expressed here, Williams points out that Wells did not give up on writing for the cinema, indicating his ongoing enthusiasm for it (2007, 128; emphasis in original).

Cartmell (2015), in her discussion of classical film adaptations in the first decade of sound, addresses how these comparative adaptation discourses carried over into critical discussion, with lasting consequences for academic adaptation study.

Within the same article, featuring an “exclusive interview”, Wells expressed his dissatisfaction with two previous sound adaptations of his work, The Island of Dr Moreau (1932) and The Invisible Man (1933), saying the former was “handled with a complete lack of imagination.” He continued to say that “no film can be produced correctly unless the author of the book is present to supervise production” whilst making reference that in Britain this was now possible with Shaw being able to supervise the treatment of his work (Screenland July 1935).

Nicoll likened the opposition and position of film in the early twentieth century to that of theatre in the sixteenth century, lamenting and criticising the fact that, despite its possibilities and positive achievements, little attention had been paid to film by theatre scholars (1936, 6–7).

Contrary to the notion that sound film was detrimental to theatre, Balázs believed in 1930 that sound film was “rescuing the theatre,” arguing that theatre would be forced to revert back to “its pure form, its essence, which is not visual (or even auditory!), but imaginative.” He reasoned that a certain form of theatre had been rendered obsolete by sound film, which had “pushed its way onto the stage,” but that this would enable theatre to “become theatre once again.” By renouncing all claims of naturalism and realism to film, theatre could “resume the development of its own autonomous existence” by drawing attention to its own mechanisms and forms of expression and performance, in order “to represent abstraction [and] the purely imaginative,” cardinal high modernist aesthetic values (142–3).

Manvell was the first director of the British Film Academy in 1947.

A later “Sample Licence for Film Rights” is also reprinted in Dukore (1997, 173–80), showing how meticulously Shaw protected and dictated his legal rights.

The first adaptations of works by Shaw provide case studies of the failings of a full fidelity approach.

Reprinted in full in Costello (1965, 36–7) and Dukore (1997, 76–7).

Cecil Lewis, a friend of Shaw and co-founder of the BBC in 1922, worked as a director on both films. He provided the foreword to Donald P. Costello’s book on Shaw in 1965, where he comments on the adaptation: “I had never directed a film in my life, but this was clearly nothing more than a licence to film a stage play” (1965, x).

Based on letters, diaries, press reports, and witness accounts, The First Night of Pygmalion (1969) focuses on the dynamic between Shaw and his two principal actors, Mrs. Patrick Campbell and Herbert Beerbohm Tree.

To date, this has made him the only person to receive a Screenwriting Academy Award and the Nobel Prize for Literature (1925).

Due to Shaw’s age and Pascal’s obscurity, scholars often puzzle over how he achieved this. Brunel records his surprise at Shaw’s choice, stating his own wish to have been selected (1949, 33).

Shaw and Pascal continued working together, less successfully, on other adaptations: Major Barbara (1905) in 1941 and Caesar and Cleopatra (1901) in 1945 (see Dukore 1980; Costello 1965, 83–146).

He finally managed to form a syndicate in 1937 called “Pascal Films,” and started to produce Pygmalion (Costello 1965, 51).

Pascal, however, did retain copies of the censored scenes and appealed successfully for their reinsertion a decade later (Dukore 1980 76–7).

The International Movie Database finalises this list with a sixth name for “additional dialogue (uncredited),” that of Kay Walsh. Walsh was in a relationship with David Lean at this time, who was the editor of Pygmalion, before he began his directing career, so this might explain why she wrote dialogue and yet was not officially credited for it (McFarlane 2011).

Dukore discusses differences between the American and English version (1980, 75).

The preface was transcribed in The New York Times, on 11 Dec. 1938 (129), with the title “Oh, Shaw Again.” It is also reprinted in Dukore 1980, 478–9.

The speech is no longer included with the film, possibly because of Shaw’s criticism of Hollywood. Dukore attests to it being “anti-Hollywood”, with some contemporary reviews also commenting on this (1980, 86).

Costello provides a comparative analysis between the film and the play (1965, 55–77). The scenario is published in Dukore (1980, 223–72), prefaced with a short explanatory note: “This scenario is not technically complete; but it indicates exactly what the producers had to work on in the studio, with all the omissions from and additions to the text of the original play. These are so extensive that the printed play should be carefully kept out of the studio, as it can only mislead and confuse the producer and the performers.”

Two of the earliest advocates of the literary value of the screenplay were John Gassner and Dudley Nichol, who published their first collection of The Twenty Best Film Plays in 1943, including an essay on “The Screenplay as Literature” by Gassner (xxviii).

Daniel Barrett (1999) points out that plays were popular reading throughout the eighteenth century and until the 1820s when, due to various reasons, including the rise of the novel, the changing nature of the drama, the proliferation of acting editions, and uncertainties of copyright laws, this practice faded. Both Barrett and Nicoll also reference playwright Henry Arthur Jones, who believed that if drama was issued more habitually in book form “the theatre inevitably would gain in prestige and the authors would take greater pains in the penning of their works.” Jones wrote an article in 1921, “The Dramatist and the Photoplay,” championing the art of film writing for the dramatist, considering that it provided infinite opportunities in contrast to the stage (The Mentor 9.6: 29).

Shaw’s initial motivation for publishing his plays is given by Anthony Jenkins as arising from the frustration at the actors and conditions of theatres, as well as a wish for his plays to be read by a wider public than the theatres would bring (Jenkins 1991, 260). Martin Meisel (1963) explores how nineteenth-century theatre, its conventions, techniques and genres, influenced Shaw in his ideas and dramaturgy.

For example, only seven of the fourteen new variations for the film appeared in Shaw’s printed version (Manvell 1979, 66).

Shaw’s earlier sentiment that film could be greater than theatre is also inadvertently echoed in his prefatory note, which laments that most theatres were inadequately equipped to stage the new version. However, Nicoll points out that “[b]elief in the future growth of an artistic, penetrating and emotionally arresting cinema is not antagonistic to an equally firm belief in the future development of the theatre” (1936, 23), which appears to be the stance that Shaw himself took after the successful transferral of his work to the screen.

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Titel: Literary Writers and Early Sound Film: Experimental Writing
verfasst von: Annie Nissen
Verlag: Springer Nature Switzerland
Buch: Authors and Adaptation
Print ISBN: 978-3-031-46821-6

Electronic ISBN: 978-3-031-46822-3

Copyright-Jahr: 2024
DOI: https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-46822-3_6