He or she also makes the sounds of footsteps, the slide into third, the thud of a body slamming into a wall and the like.

The quintessential Foley artist story comes from the @Brian @DePalma film, "The @Untouchables," where we see @Robert De @Niro as @Al @Capone whack somebody on the head with a baseball bat. So how do you create a sound to match the visual, and make it believable, without actually doing someone bodily harm? After many experiments and many failures, the Foley artist found the right tools: a bowling pin hitting a raw turkey. You could try it yourself. 

Almost all end credits, and the order in which they appear, have been settled for years by union contract and general industry convention. When there are massive amounts of special effects, as in the 1997 film, "@Titanic," the credits can run for what seems like hours. You and I are not expected to stay for them, but people in the business need to claim proper credit for whatever they did on a film, and end credits are the only thing they have to point to as an acknowledgment of their work. 

And now we come to the stars' credits, especially the ones you see in newspaper ads. This is a world so difficult, so overloaded with the sight and sound of certain egos crashing toward oblivion while others ascend to heaven, that for a while in the 1980s it created a whole new cottage industry of movie ad credit designers. Let's start with what we may for the sake of argument call the "good old days," which we'll call any time prior to 1970. For much of that time -- certainly until the late 1950s -- most actors were under contract to their studios; it was the studio that decided who got top billing, who was billed above the title and so on. When the studio system collapsed, it was only natural for actors and their agents to fight for billing on a film-by-film basis, and by the 1970s most stars were writing into their picture contracts a description of how they were to be billed. 

This wasn't a problem as long as only a few stars had the power to control the billing for any particular film. Perhaps your name was the only one with glitter enough to go above the title, though if my name was also a draw, it was pretty easy to advertise us as "you and me" (above the title) in (the film's name here). But then, in the 1980s, things got complicated. Stars began to write more things into their contracts, such as that their name had to be advertised above the title, but in letters no smaller than those of the title itself. Well, OK, that could be handled. But what if each of us had the same clause in our contract? And what if our names had more than, say, two letters, which has been known to happen? What if, say, our names were @Renée @Zellweger and @Leonardo @DiCaprio? Could they both fit on one line in the ad and be the same height as the letters in the film's title? Not unless the film's title was as long as, say, "The @Unbearable Lightness of Film Credit @Machinations," and the distributor bought six consecutive pages in the paper to advertise it. 

So here's where the new designers came in. They found a way to make type faces so skinny, but with letters so tall, that they could fit the very longest names into a space no larger than a studio accountant's heart. Still, if you work in the industry, either above- or below-the-line, and you see your name up on the screen, it makes all the hard work and effort seem entirely worthwhile.