In the latter part of 1837, Charles Dickens published the first portion of a book that he would finish piece-by-piece in a magazine. He was twenty-five the year he ended each successive part on a cliffhanger. His audience waited, often jittery through half-contained excitement for the next issue. Bit-by-bit he orchestrated a novel whose last words greeted public eyes in 1838. They later compiled the book into the single volume we know as Oliver Twist. Commoners could afford the weekly installments while the aristocracy enjoyed complete volumes.

Sixty-four years after Oliver, Georges Méliès complimented his career as an illusionist with Le Voyage Dans La Lune. The innovation of Trip to the Moon shattered the time-boundary of two-minute shorts with its then stunning fourteen-minute runtime and later inspired Selznick to sketch Hugo. Granted, moving pictures eventually added enough film to keep an audience seated for a couple of hours plus intermission but there was enough room on the screen for short films all the way through Chaplin’s era. People paid a cheap price for several shorter films and then talked about them over ice-cream at the nearest diner. With the rise of the television, however, short films tapered off. Rising ticket prices made it unfeasible to go to short films. The industry exiled small-budget directors to festivals and college film classes. Feature films made the money. Good news for the average joe, bad for the struggling screenwriter.

In the late fifties, the paperback revolution made it cheap and easy to buy a full novel. Why pay for shorts or serials when you can get the whole thing for a dollar? Book production skyrocketed, despite the hollow warning from Publisher’s Weekly. The serial novel fell into… well… novelty. No, more than a novelty. Serials became a thing for antique road shows and pawn stars to get their grubby paws on. Good for the common man, bad for the struggling author.

Continue reading →