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WHETHER the script is assembled or written, it is the director's job to translate it into a film. This is a key operation, for it is concerned with fusing techniques from the silent films with the latest technological developments and combining the unique characteristics of the movie medium with elements from theater and literature. These are not easy problems.

In any society, changes in technology and the introduction of new ideas are often accompanied by conflict and tension, since they require modifications not only of knowledge, but also of social organization, of attitudes and behavior. A familiar example is the Industrial Revolution, when machines replaced hand work. Back in prehistoric times, iron tools, when first introduced into a primitive society which had not gone beyond digging sticks and stone axes, were not always easily or quickly accepted. Many people did not know how to use the new tools efficiently, others did not like them, and makers of the old implements feared a loss of prestige. Gradually, the natives learned how to use the new tools and attitudes changed to one of acceptance.1 Only sentimentalists, in anthropology or in the movies, long to return to the earlier forms of primitive life or of films. Even if it wanted to, Hollywood could not go back to the more "pure" movie form which existed before the invention of the talkies. The real problem is not of a return to the past, but of integration of old and new. The question then is, which elements in the Hollywood social system help this integration and which retard it?

Movies introduced a new art, the essence of which is the manipulation of movement in time and space with a camera. Cutting, that

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is, the assembling of the film in balanced sequences, is one of its important skills. It was the director who first learned this. He was all-important; the producer or writer was either absent or insignificant, and actors were far less important than today. The director did everything: planned the story, directed the actors, manipulated the camera and cut the film, as well as taking care of such details as designing the costumes and sets. "Film Author" was not an inappropriate title for him in those days. He constantly experimented with the camera, shooting from different angles; then, later, he used a number of cameras, placed in various positions-on the floor, near the ceiling, and midway. The camera can seem to become the actor; the audience then sees only what the actor-and the camera-is looking at. In the cutting room the director selects the most effective "takes." If he likes none of them, he can combine bits from three or four into one. It is also in the cutting room that the tempo for telling the story and the rhythm of the movie are set. Just as the same musical notes played in two-quarter, three-quarter or four-quarter time express different moods, so, by cutting a sequence into many segments, a tense mood of expectancy can be obtained, while fewer and longer segments will produce the opposite one of tranquillity. An actor walking across a room can be taken in one long shot which is not particularly histrionic. But if the same shot is broken into many segments and each step the man takes is seen separately, it becomes highly dramatic.

In the development of the silent films, inanimate objects, or "props," were useful in helping to tell the story; this trend reached its apex at the end of the silent era. The symbolism of rain beating on a windowpane, the close-up of a hand crushing a letter, two chairs placed cozily by a fire, a large pile of unwashed dishes in the kitchen sink, could be used as effectively as actors, and sometimes even more so.

While the saying that the camera does not lie is true, behind the camera are the men who manage it and who can create, if they are skilled, an emotional effect, without the actor necessarily portraying that emotion. If, for instance, an untalented actress in the past or today is unable to express frightened surprise, the director can take different shots of her face-full face, profile, and finally a

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close-up of her eyes; and then, by cutting from one to the other, he can produce the emotional effect which the actress was unable to register. Or, a director may turn the camera on an actor's back and show it sagging or stiffening and produce the impression he was unable to get from his face. If the actors do not carry a romantic scene well, the director can shoot from them to a landscape bathed in a full moon and thus increase the romantic atmosphere. The hand of an actor tearing up a girl's photograph may express more poignantly the breaking of a love relationship, than the expression on his face.

During the first quarter of the century, directors continued to experiment with camera, props, and cutting. Then, in the mid-twenties, came the invention of talkies. The old art of directing did not disappear and camera and cutting were as important as ever. But new elements were introduced. Playwrights and novelists came to Hollywood and brought their concepts of drama, dialogue and character to a medium which had previously concentrated on action. Actors were imported from Broadway who had been trained in drama schools, or were experienced on the stage, and some of Broadway's directors likewise trekked out to Hollywood. Even the tempo of the films changed, and the brash, quick movements of the actors in the silent movies became slower and more subtle in the talkies.

The invention of talkies and the resulting influences from stage and literature on the new medium might be compared to the giving of crutches to a healthy young child who was just learning to walk with his own feet. He naturally would have some difficulty in learning to use both his feet and his crutches at the same time.

A folk tale of the days when Greta Garbo was becoming a star illustrates some of the difficulties of this early period. Her director was accustomed to working with untalented actors and depending on tricks and contrivances of the camera for his effects. Garbo, however, showed him how she could create a certain feeling by merely lifting an eyebrow. The director was not pleased. A talented actress was getting a better effect than he could through

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the camera, and he felt that he was losing one of his essential functions.

Actually, talkies called for an expansion of the art of directing, but the system of movie production changed in the opposite direction and reduced the director's power. The assignment of the writer to the producer, under his authority, was probably conceived in terms of the power situation rather than in what was the best way for integrating old and new techniques of movie making. The producer's power was enhanced and, through him, the front office was better able to control both story and writer. But the director lost out, and perhaps the movie, too. In the past he "shot from the cuff" or from a briefly outlined story, depending rather much on his own ideas and inspiration of the moment. Today, he is handed a finished script which gives the structure for portraying a story of human relations. It is then the director's job to designate the manner in which the actors project them into the minds of the audience, and to so manipulate the camera and cut the film that the meaning of the script is brought out. Obviously, the director should understand and be sympathetic to the script. But this is only rarely the case. The cynical definition of a good director given by many Hollywood actors-"one who reads the script before he begins shooting"-is indicative, in an exaggerated manner, of the situation. However, custom is not uniform. A director may mechanically carry out the script's directions for each sequence; or he may direct the picture according to his own ideas and with little relationship to those of the script; or he may bring it to life and create a film through his understanding of the script and his knowledge of acting, camera and cutting.

Realistically, it would seem more sound for the writer and director to be in constant story conferences than in the present huddles of writer and producer, and for the director to have some control over the choice of story. Everyone in Hollywood, from front-office executive to script girl, joins in a refrain about how movie making is a collaborative industry. In any collaborative system of production, whether it be for primitive dances in the Pacific or for steel in Indiana, the degree of closeness of co-operation is not the same for all members engaged in it. The questions of who

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collaborates with whom, and how this is related to making a movie, are rarely raised in Hollywood. A system of production which keeps the director and writer out of contact with each other for the majority of movies is taken for granted. The norm is for the writer to work continuously under the direction of the producer; the director makes his appearance on the assembly line after the writer has left and the script is finished.

For only the exceptional director with high status is the situation any different. One of these was able to pick the story he wanted to film. A gifted playwright was then called in to do the script and he and the director worked closely together all the time. The dramatist would write a scene which the director would then read. This was followed by discussion. When they differed, they would argue until one convinced the other. Sometimes the writer convinced the director and at other times it was the other way around. When the script was finished, it represented both men's ideas and only a few minor changes were made during filming. The movie was excellent, winning critical acclaim and an Oscar, and it was a top-grossing and exceedingly profitable picture.

But the situation in which this movie was produced is rare. Even a director with considerable prestige, because of his well-known ability and because he is a producer-director at a major studio, still has to struggle with the front office. He can say, "No" to making certain pictures, but he cannot choose what he wants to make. He says, "I'm one of the boys here"-he has a seven-year contract, four years having been used-"and I have to go along and be agreeable. Sometimes I make a picture from a script which is handed to me and which I know is bad. In such a case the front office usually promises me that, if I do it, I will later be able to do one I'm really interested in." The pictures he has truly liked have been a minority of those he has made.

Unlike writing, cutting was not a new element in the production of talkies. But here, too, authority was taken from director and given to producer and front-office executive. Again the power situation shaped the structure. In the interests of the movie, it would seem that the closest relationship should be between the director and the cutter, with the director in authority. The usual

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routine is for the director to see the rushes every day and indicate to the cutter which he wants and which can be discarded, which are his pet ones, and how he wants certain sequences. A rough cut is thus made day- by-day, but without fade-outs or dissolves, which are marked in red. Then after the camera has ceased turning, the director does the first assembling of the entire film. This right was won by the Directors' Guild. Before that, producers were interfering even in the first assembling. Many times the cutter has had to be a diplomat in handling his various bosses. A producer and director looking at the various "takes" would differ on which was best, the producer saying, "Use Take 2," and the director, "Take 4." The cutter might agree with the director's choice and when the producer left the cutting room, decide to use Take 4 and gamble on the producer's not knowing the difference. Today, although the director does the first cutting, the producer can make changes after him and the front-office executive always has the final say. If he orders the omission of certain sequences, the meaning of the movie may be considerably altered.

The director is, of course, not necessarily always right. Some have developed a special angle and insist on it constantly, whether or not its repetition is advisable. There are producers and executives who can and do make helpful suggestions about cutting. But whether their ideas are helpful or destructive, the Hollywood system gives them the final authority over cutting, in which lies so much of the art of movie making, and relegates the director, whose special skill it is, to a subsidiary position.

Unless a director has great prestige, it is difficult for him to defy a producer and front-office executive, for he runs the risk not only of being fired, but of gaining a reputation of being "difficult" or hard to work with, which is not desirable. While the director is not continuously under the thumb of the producer, as is the writer, a continuous struggle for power and control is waged, openly or concealed, between them. The status relationship is, however, not a fixed one. Nominally the producer has the higher status, but an important director often outranks him. In the film I Remember Mama the director became executive producer and

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the credits read: Executive Producer and Director . . . George Stevens, Produced by Harriet Parsons.

Casting is also part of the power struggle with front-office executives. The director who works most closely with actors has usually little to say about choosing them, and the final authority is never his. Again the question of who collaborates with whom seems to have been decided for reasons other than the interests of movie production. These would indicate that the director chooses actors he considers suitable for the roles. But it is the producers and the front-office executives who have this power. Directors may argue with the front office, but they rarely win. There are many cases in which a director was suspended because he questioned the suitability of the studio's casting for the leading roles.

Directors work on the same kind of option contract as does everyone else and have the same anxieties about whether the studio will take up the option, and difficulties in breaking the contract when they have a better offer. One such conflict was resolved by the director's buying up his contract and paying a large sum each month (reported as totaling $100,000) out of his earnings from another studio. They also have the same problem as do actors in being loaned out to other studios at a profit to their home studio but none to themselves, and in the same impersonal kind of package deal. One director with an excellent reputation was loaned out to another studio without his knowledge, in exchange for a story which the latter studio had purchased. Although being loaned out means that he is in demand and increases his prestige, yet he feels that it is insulting to be swapped about as a piece of property. He and others naturally object, also, to not sharing in the profit which the studio makes on the deal.

The able director suffers from the same aspects of the system which irk the talented writer, namely the lack of freedom to utilize his talents to the best advantage. Directors also think that most of the executives and producers, with a few notable exceptions, have neither the intelligence nor ability to choose a good story or produce a good movie. Over and over again they say that the activity of these men is primarily in playing studio politics, dominating other

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people for the sake of domination, and, of course, accumulating their own fortunes. It is only the exceptional producer or executive, they add, who gets really excited about movies as a medium, who knows what constitutes a good picture, and who is interested in making one, as well as in making money.

But while the director's power is challenged in choice of story, script and cast, and in the final cutting, he is at least the boss on the set.

Directors vary not only in their ability but also in their techniques. Some, called cinematic directors, carry on the traditions of the past, depending more on the potentialities of the camera than on the actors. They might be compared to French Impressionist painters, and get their effect primarily by a juxtaposition of human beings and studio props, manipulated by the camera. This kind of director envisages the movie in terms of certain pictorial and emotional effects and he tells the actors exactly what they are to do down to the smallest detail. He is unconcerned with the why of the acting and does not explain the meaning of roles to the actors. He merely says Do this and Do that. If he is good he knows every camera trick and all the devices of cutting. In his films the story is of secondary importance and the audience tends to remember certain scenes pictorially, and their emotional impact.

For the cinematic director who also has the writer's ear the script is important too, and he visualizes the finished film in terms of story and dialogue as well as pictorial effects. A director of this kind is able to integrate the story with the manipulation of actors and props. The story holds together and the audience remembers it as a whole. Writers who become directors are apt to fall into this category, which represents a blend of old and new elements.

The actors' directors are those who depend more on the actors and who spend considerable time in explaining to them the meaning of the script as a whole and their particular role. If the actors are well trained, the director leaves the interpretation to them. Those without training he will coach. This kind of director has a thorough understanding of acting, although he may be better in the directing of one sex than the other. The actors' director frequently has a

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background of stage directing, or of being an actor, and he prefers to work with trained people, while the cinematic one may prefer untrained ones who are docile and do exactly as they are told. The "situational" director, who may fall into any of the classifications, is particularly gifted in creating situations so powerful and telling that they become the determining factors more than either actors or props.

No director today who is considered tops is limited to any one of these categories. It is more a matter of which he emphasizes. The classification, of course, applies only to directors with real ability, and, as in the other talent groups, their number is small. Of the 280-odd Hollywood directors, not more than 5 or 6 per cent were rated by the directors themselves as being gifted. Actors, the group who work closest with them, give them the same or slightly lower rating. By "gifted" is not meant the occasional genius, but the men with known ability who can be depended on to turn out better than average pictures. The large majority were described by their fellow directors and by actors as "traffic cops," men with some technical knowledge of their craft but with limited, if any, knowledge of drama, of acting and of people. They work mechanically, giving the green signal to go ahead and the red one to stop. They are primarily unconcerned with the meaning of the script and concentrate only on movement. Naturally, they get the best neither from the script nor from the actors. Below the traffic cops is a smaller group who are regarded as completely inept. One of these will begin a picture without any planning and let the actors wander through their parts with practically no help of any kind. This director is a nonentity and his pictures turn out poorly-unless the cameraman happens to be very good and takes over the direction.

Many directors have little understanding of storytelling, of the movie medium, or of human beings. These emphasize lavish sets, and, with enough help from cameramen, actors, editor-cutter, and others, their pictures come off in some way or other, in spite of them, rather than because of them. They work mechanically and shoot from every possible angle in the hope that one will be usable. They take an almost infinite number of retakes without any idea of what they are striving for.

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There is a story about one of these directors who took forty takes of one sequence. An executive took the first, last, and the one the director had chosen as best, and asked the director to choose from these three. He was unable to differentiate between them.

Some of these mediocre men hold their positions because they are relatives of an important executive; others through playing the Hollywood game; a considerable number, particularly of those who started in the past, were actors in vaudeville or in silent movies; still others came up accidentally. One of these began as a barber, became a make-up man, then a property man; then he was assistant director, and finally director, which he still is.

It is the backgrounds and personalities of the able directors which are of particular interest and help in understanding what makes a good one. Some, with a long history in the industry, have held many jobs from the lowly one of prop boy to the skilled one of cutter, and it is this last position which they consider the most important in their training. Others have come from directing in the theater. Still others have been successful movie actors or writers, and added directing to their other functions.

Many of these able directors seem to belong to the industry in an organic sense. Mr. Proficient, in his early forties, who has been working in movies for twenty-odd years, is one. Among his many jobs have been prop boy, assistant cutter, cutter, and cameraman. His first directorial assignment was for B pictures, which meant working with a poor story, second-rate actors, and doing it all very quickly. He did the best he could, but thought the job hopeless. He was earning between twelve and fifteen thousand a year, but eventually he could stand it no longer and quit. He had saved sufficient money to live until he found another job, still not on A pictures but with better resources for B ones. His big opportunity came when he did exceptionally well with a cheaply made picture on a timely subject, which brought in big financial returns and received excellent reviews. Then he was given an A picture to direct, and this, too, turned out very successfully both at box office and in terms of

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critical acclaim. He was made as a director of A pictures and he has consistently turned out better than ordinary pictures, which have also made money for his studio. His aim is to do pictures in which the story springs from the characters, rather than those which consist of a string of incidents strung about a peg called a character. To do this more often, he wants to become a producer-director.

Mr. Proficient plans everything in advance down to the most minute detail, usually gets his effects in five or six shots, works well with different types of actors, from those whom he has to coach to the talented ones for whom only a word is necessary. In his work he gives the impression of potency and power, springing out of ability and real knowledge. He says he learned the "hard way"; that he did not know the right people, or play the usual Hollywood game, but that in twenty-odd years he has learned the ingredients which go into making a film. He has confidence in himself and in his work, without being conceited.

He is an ambitious man but his major drive or goal does not seem to be to gain power over men or to accumulate a huge fortune, but rather to do what he considers important pictures, which he can respect. He is engrossed with his job, works hard and enthusiastically within a well-thought-out plan, which reduces crises. He feels that he belongs to the medium and thoroughly enjoys what he is doing. He has never grown "soft" either from the climate or from success. His theory is that people who have grown up with the climate as he has are better able to resist it than those to whom it is a new experience. He rejected the usual Hollywood values from the beginning and never seems to have been much tempted by them. Mr. Proficient's values are as important in the making of his pictures as are his knowledge, technical skill and ability.

Mr. Well Adjusted, a writer and director, holds about the same position as does Mr. Proficient in the upper group of directors, and he, too, came up through the industry during the last twenty years. His calm, well-ordered manner of working stands out as exceptional in the midst of the usual Hollywood frenzy.

He became interested in the theater in college and took part in

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amateur plays. About twenty years ago, he came to Los Angeles and his first studio job was as property boy. At that time this job was not as subdivided as it is now and he learned not only about moving furniture and putting things together but also about painting sets, and was allowed to go into cutting rooms. One day the proper actor could not be found for a minor role and he was given the part. Then, a bit later, when the studio was doing a picture about college life, he was given a chance to work on the script since he knew about this from experience.

For a while Mr. Well Adjusted alternated between writing and directing and for a fairly long period free-lanced, going from one studio to another and making a number of successful pictures, both from the box-office point of view and that of critical reviewers. About four or five years ago he went to a large studio on contract as a director and writer. He likes best to direct what he writes, but he can also enjoy directing films written by others whose work he respects.

Well Adjusted is very proud of his relationship with everyone on the set from the stars to the carpenters. While shooting a picture he begins at eight in the morning with the crew of workingmen, all of whom call him by his nickname. He enjoys being "one of the boys" and feels that he understands their problems because he has been "through the mill" himself. He is noted for never "bawling out" anyone in public, not even a minor actor. He handles all his extras with consideration and understanding and he is also known for getting the best out of different kinds of actors. He says that one needs his confidence built up, while another, an old hand at acting, needs something quite different, and so he treats them all individually.

Mr. Well Adjusted enjoys his work, but also has a large number of outside interests which include painting and gardening. He seems to have more than the usual security, financially and personally, and so the threat of suspension does not scare him, and the studio knows it. If they want to suspend him he says "Fine!"-and he means it, because it gives him a chance to work on some of his other interests. For many people the threat of suspension is sufficient to bring them to heel, not only because they do not want to

lose their salaries but also because the studio is their whole life and apart from it they do not know what to do with themselves. Mr. Well Adjusted is one of the few people in Hollywood who gives the impression of being comfortable within themselves and who might have been equally successful outside of the movie industry.

Mr. Prestige is at the top of the talented group and is a relative who made good. He entered the movie industry about twenty-five years ago when he was in his early twenties through a relative who was then head of the studio. But he did not start with a big position. He too came up from the bottom and had many different jobs, among which were stock boy, publicity writer, assistant director and cutter. His first directing job was on two-reel Westerns and later he did five-reelers and other B pictures. Although without previous experience in directing, his Westerns immediately became better than the others. He was distinguished from the beginning by his careful study of the script, by thinking and pondering on the set before he decided what to do, and then re-shooting many times. He created a sensation on the set by coming in, sitting down, and, when the cameraman said something to him, answering "Yes" in a noncommittal tone which meant nothing except that he had heard. But he would continue to sit and ponder the particular problem, and eventually come up with an answer to it. This was most unusual, and maddening to some of the people who worked with him, who were more accustomed to directors who continuously shouted directions without ever stopping to think. He was considered unique because he demanded good actors for his Western pictures and took longer to do them than was customary. The budget director would "tear his hair" at the mounting expense incurred by the time in shooting and by the cost of the cast. It is unlikely that Mr. Prestige could have got away with this if he had not been related to the executive head of the studio, who was known not only for his loyalty to relatives, but also for giving them considerable leeway in learning how to make pictures. Although there was a great deal of talk about the expensiveness of Mr. Prestige's directing, this was later forgotten when his pictures received excellent reviews and made a lot of

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money. He was given A pictures and soon other studios were bidding for his services. Today he is at the top of the skilled directors, hierarchy.

It is, of course, not possible to get at all the factors contributing to his success. But among them are that he is a man of infinite patience, who thinks through problems before beginning to work and has a capacity for waiting around and holding out for what he wants, whether from people or the camera. His patience is evident in the infinite pains he takes in shooting.

A strange part of Mr. Prestige's directing is that he is unable to communicate to the actor what is the matter and what he wants, him to do differently. He is definitely not an "actors' director." But, although actors may curse while they work with him, they are glad to be in his pictures because the final results are always excellent and their reputation is enhanced.

Another of Mr. Prestige's characteristics is his capacity to learn from other people. Very early he began to work with writers, and while he is still not a writer, through constant contact with them he has acquired what might be called the "writer's ear." He does no writing, but he is with the writer from the beginning. But the relationship is quite different from that of the usual producer-writer, since Mr. Prestige is not concerned with domination and really understands the meaning of collaboration. He is particularly good in suggesting situations in which average people can identify themselves and in giving them, on the set, realistic touches, so that members of an audience murmur to themselves, "How true!"

Just as he is with the picture in the beginning so also is he there at the end. He supervises every detail of the editing and cutting, and does not leave the film until it is ready to be released. He started this habit when he directed two-reel Westerns, which, he says, he took as seriously as he does his big A pictures today. The same patience and habit of keeping his goal well in mind comes out not only in working with actors and writers, but also with front-office executives. With them, too, he discusses and argues, and usually but not always manages to get his way because of his capacity of holding out. Tales circulate around Hollywood that he is not on speaking terms with the executive head of the studio at

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the end of one picture, which later wins an Oscar and is top box-office.

Mr. Prestige's interest is not limited to doing pictures on any one theme, but he will not work on any picture whose subject matter does not appeal to him. While he wants to make successful movies, ones which will be seen by a large number of people, the money motive is not the only one and seems not to be primary. He likes best, he says, to make serious pictures which people will remember and think about after they leave the theater. He leaves his stamp on the picture not just out of an egocentric drive to dominate, but out of the need which an artist feels to create. Like any artist he is completely serious about his work, and the end goal is not primarily the financial one. He truly cares about his pictures in the way that many others care only about themselves and their bank accounts.

What distinguishes this man from so many others is again not just his talent, but his knowledge, his capacity for thoughtful planning and his goals.

Mr. Newcomer, unlike the other directors described, has no long history in the movies but a few years ago came from the Broadway theater where he had directed a number of successful plays. He says that he had difficulty in adjusting when he first arrived for two reasons, one in getting used to working with the camera and thinking in camera terms, and the other because of a feeling that the environment was hostile to him, or more specifically, to his interest in the theater as an art. His Broadway plays were not only box-office successes but had been acclaimed as good theater and it was for these reasons he was brought to Hollywood. But, he says, his employers at the studio are interested only in "how to make a buck, or rather millions of bucks." He knows that commercial goals dominate over art ones in the Broadway theater too, but, he adds, not to the same degree as in Hollywood, and he thinks that Broadway producers on the whole are not so ignorant of, or so hostile to, dramatic standards as are Hollywood producers.

When he first came to Hollywood, he agreed to do a certain picture and he was told that he would be given the opportunity of

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reading the script and suggesting any necessary changes before the shooting. While the script was being written, or rather re-written, by the second writer under the second producer assigned to it (the original one having been "let out" because of a reorganization at the top of the studio), Mr. Newcomer was at the studio, under contract, but not working. The script was sent to him piece meal, but he was asked to hold his criticisms until the writer had finished, the producer saying that criticisms would disturb the writer's creativeness. (The producer, however, did not take this counsel for himself.) Mr. Newcomer piled up pages of criticism in the desk drawer. Then, when the script was finished and before he had any opportunity to talk to the writer, he was told that shooting would begin in a week's time.

Mr. Newcomer was very angry and said that this was impossible and that the script must have many changes which could not be made in one week's time. He wrote a fifteen-page letter to the front office explaining in great detail the faults of the script and later discovered that this letter had not even been read by the people for whom it was intended. He then blew up and won certain concessions, the postponement of shooting for three weeks and a new producer and new writer. He had been completely unable to communicate with the former producer who talked some kind of cryptic language which Mr. Newcomer could not understand. For three weeks he, the new producer and the writer worked together incessantly and ended with a much-improved script. Newcomer was dissatisfied with the actress who was to play the lead, but had been unable to get any concession on the casting. The part called for a rather sophisticated love relationship which was completely beyond the powers of the star, who was chosen primarily for her photogenic quality and whose concept of marriage and love was limited to "fun."

However, Mr. Newcomer did the best he could and the front office was impressed when he finished it four days before it was due, thus saving a considerable amount of money. The picture was decidedly better than the average, received good reviews from critics, and was successful at the box office. Although the film did not really please him, he had some satisfaction from feeling that he had

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done the best he could with what was initially a very poor script and with an untalented star.

Mr. Newcomer's prestige rose. On the next picture he gained more control over both script and casting, and his power continues to increase. He is definitely an actors' director, but becomes increasingly excited about the potentialities of the camera. He has other satisfactions, too. He saves twice as much in a half year in Hollywood as he earned on Broadway in a year. He has bought a house; and while he does not live in luxury, he has more comfort than he has ever known. He plans to remain in Hollywood, but hopes also to direct plays occasionally in New York.

Most of the men in this prestige group have special gifts, but they all also have certain other qualities in common which set them off from the "traffic cops." Whether they fall into the cinematic or actors' type, they all have the capacity to plan in advance, to select good people and to work with them. All of them are skilled in cutting, directly supervise it, and struggle to have as much control over it as possible. All refuse to work within the normal Hollywood system which would completely divorce them from the writing. Instead, they work with the writer or, when possible, refuse a story in which they have no faith and which they cannot change. By the time one of these top directors is ready to begin shooting, he has an intimate and sympathetic understanding of the script.

This pattern of planning in advance is not common in an industry which so prides itself on crises and believes so strongly in luck and the breaks. Although the able director has planned in great detail how to interpret the script through actors, props, and camera angles, this does not mean that he never changes the plan, or that he does not experiment on the set and make use of an inspiration of the moment. The best directors combine careful planning with brilliant improvisation. The mediocre directors improvise all the time. Exactly the same way of planning plus taking the inspiration of the idea which comes at the moment of execution, as compared to complete improvisation, is true probably for all good creative work, and certainly so for writing a book or giving a lecture. In

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one case improvisation consists of altering a plan to improve it; in the other, the changes spring out of uncertainty as to what to do next, without relationship to any goal.

Another characteristic which all these top directors appear to have in common is that they are primarily motivated by the desire to produce an excellent film, and more concerned about their craft and art than with profits. These men are not disinterested in what they earn or in their bank accounts. It is the place that the latter occupies in their values and total satisfaction, which sets them off from the majority of their fellow directors and other Hollywood workers. And with the usual irony, the profits from their pictures are generally very big.

Today there is a tendency among the younger and able directors to imbue others with ideas and to learn from the people they enrich. These are the men who understand that collaboration is a two-way process, which very few executives or producers have yet learned. In the past, able directors, some of whom are still directing, tended to be very domineering. They "raised hell" at the slightest provocation and people obeyed out of fear.

The old argument of who is the most important in making a movie is futile. But the director has a pivotal position in fusing the many crafts and arts of storytelling, old and new, into a finished movie. Technology has forced him to change and broaden his techniques and learn new skills. Yet the Hollywood system of production has lagged behind him and suits best the mediocre directors, the "traffic cops." The power hierarchy is fearful of the gifted man's originality.

Mr. William Wyler, regarded as one of the very top directors, said in a newspaper interview:

"Mediocrity in films is the direct result of playing it safe.
And audiences are not interested in mediocre films. A picture
without an idea is a picture without vitality. There is still fear
in some quarters of Hollywood. Until that is gone, we can
never have the greatness of which we are capable." . . . He
has bunked up against a situation where the top men were
forced to decide between two stories and asked the question-

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which is the safest' "The man who makes the selection should
ask which is the best. Because the best is always the safest." To
fear quality, Wyler believes, is to exhibit a fundamental distrust
in the public. "A lot of people in Hollywood distrust the public.
They think an artistic film is too good for them. Their idea is
that you've got to feed them junk." 2

These men who fear quality and ideas stem from the past days. They find it difficult to accept changes which they do not understand and therefore fear; and they tend to see the audience in their own image, which is not a flattering one.

The directors' problems are those of the whole industry and involve the acceptance of new ideas, new standards, new concepts of audiences, as well as new technology. Today, Hollywood is not unlike a primitive society when it first comes in contact with the ideas and technology of a modern one. For a time, the opposing patterns exist side by side, sometimes running along in parallel lines and not touching, at other times in conflict with resulting maladjustment. This may go on indefinitely, or one may win out over the other and become predominant, or a new form may emerge combining elements from both the old and new, but different from either. Changes are brought about by a few individuals more daring and courageous than others. Gradually, the exception may become the norm. The first women who went to college were nonconformists and not regarded favorably by their community. Today, college education for women is an accepted social pattern.

In Hollywood, it is the gifted directors, and others with ability, who dare to take chances with new ideas and standards. They stand out conspicuously among the many mediocre men. But the system of production is against the gifted, because at its top are too many scared gamblers, who can take chances on horses and cards, but not with ideas. This is to be expected, because only those at home with ideas, and accustomed to implementing them, can psychologically afford to take chances with them. A few talented directors attempt to combine the unique movie techniques of camera

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and cutting with a meaningful script and trained actors. The result is new, differing from both the silent films and theater. The men who do this are the exceptions and their courage and goals are as important as their ability. They, too, are successful in spite of the system, rather than because of it.

1 Ralph Linton, The Study of Man, p. 34~. New York: D. Appleton-Century.

2 Variety, October in, 1949

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