I've been reading through more of the Wordplay site, and I have to say that a number of the articles are a bit dated -- but often still good advice. There's an article about how to fudge page length -- with an IBM Selectric and a Xerox machine. The writer seems to appreciate the arrival of these word processing programs everyone's so crazy about.
That doesn't mean you shouldn't look it over. Have you been doing your widow hunts? And if you're using final draft you can fudge your page length pretty substantially by going to DOCUMENT -> PAGE LAYOUT -> OPTIONS -> LINE SPACING. Then choose tight or very tight, depending on how chatty your characters are. And of course, get rid of your MORE'S and CONTINUED'S.
One article reminded me of some great lessons on how to work coincidence into your script without it seeming contrived: The Anthropic Principal. Yes, it should be 'principle', but that's how the writer spells it. At some point in your script your protagonist will probably need a lucky break. This article will tell you how. Hint: it's at the worst possible moment, when you're moving your plot forward at full speed.
What's cool about the article is that it takes the issue of coincidence and pushes it forward to something a little deeper. The Anthropic Principal is a response to the incredible set of coincidences required for life to actually exist on earth. If one constant, from the strength of gravity to the speed of light to the relative strength of electrons and protons was even slightly different, life could not have developed. The anthropic principle suggests that it's therefore INEVITABLE that we exist.
Why does this connect to screenwriting? Well, you're creating a universe. The forces need to be balanced -- sometimes in conflict and sometimes working together like a machine. You need to create this balance. It ain't easy. But build your characters correctly and give them enough time, and they'll give you a story.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Friday, June 20, 2008
Website for Screenwriters
Thought I'd share a pretty cool website with you all: Wordplay.
It's basically a collection of articles on everything from creating meaningful story to what a real contract should look like and whether to write on spec.... all those questions that fuel the screenwriting seminar industry. It's definitely worth a peek.
I found Story Molecule pretty charming. The article follows how you initially shepherd a story idea into existence, but unlike most articles, keeps going as the story molecule runs into powerful people, feasibility, dumb ideas, money, and god knows what else. If you've reached the point of working with producers, you'll understand. If not, then prepare yourself.
It's basically a collection of articles on everything from creating meaningful story to what a real contract should look like and whether to write on spec.... all those questions that fuel the screenwriting seminar industry. It's definitely worth a peek.
I found Story Molecule pretty charming. The article follows how you initially shepherd a story idea into existence, but unlike most articles, keeps going as the story molecule runs into powerful people, feasibility, dumb ideas, money, and god knows what else. If you've reached the point of working with producers, you'll understand. If not, then prepare yourself.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Eleanor Roosevelt and Mrs. Alf Landon
PBS broadcast a tremendous documentary about Eleanor Roosevelt as part of their American Experience series last night. Catch it if you can.
Mrs. Roosevelt has a lot to teach writers about character. She was a hero both in a historical sense and in a narrative sense. What made her a hero? What makes her a good character?
She began life in the shadow of a grandmother who felt she had not lived a fulfilling life. She was a woman of wealth and privilege who had raised a large family. But for some, that's simply not enough -- even for a grandma in the early 20th century. Eleanor saw this, and immediately identified what a screenwriter might call her universal desire: the need to make her life into a contribution to something larger.
Eleanor Roosevelt isn't the first or last person to feel this. We all feel it at some point. But very few of us have either the drive to make ourselves happy or the will to bend away from what's socially expected of us. Eleanor very quickly developed that will. This is what screenwriters might call a misbehavior, or a character 'flaw'. This is the trait in the character that they are unable to resist. They must fight. Or they must love. Or they must steal. That's who they are.
So Eleanor has the two very clear traits that a screenwriter might use to structure her character around in a narrative film. She's also got tremendous character sympathy, because she's fighting for her own happiness (something we don't always do ourselves..) and she's fighting for those less fortunate.
Eleanor fought to make an independent life for herself within her marriage. She fought to make a role for herself that her high social class would not allow her to have. She found her way into politics almost by accident. When she started to win battles within the New York Democratic Party, she was surprised as anyone.
And she found a new identity for herself. She found new friends and colleagues. She grew more exposed to problems of the poor and minorities in the Great Depression. And then when her husband was elected president, he asked her to give it all up. No more politics. No more charity work. No more advocacy. Time to serve tea to heads of state.
The adjustment threw Eleanor into a depression. She was nothing like the picture of a First Lady. She wasn't pretty. She wasn't proper. She jaunted around with lesbians and a slightly too dashing bodyguard. All gone.
But only briefly. Enter the misbehavior and the universal desire. Eleanor reasserts her power in her marriage. Before anyone can say anything, she's back to advocating, and now on a much grander scale. She's pushing forward new planned communities in West Virginia, fighting poverty in Puerto Rico and supporting mine workers in Pennsylvania. America has never seen anything like her.
I don't need to recount her whole life -- most of us know that she supported her husband as he fought polio, the Great Depression and Germany and Japan. She chaired the UN committee that created the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.
But one very small moment in the documentary really struck me as getting to the heart of good character. In the 1936 election, Eleanor's unlady-like behavior became a campaign issue. The Republicans put together newsreels of her covered in coal dust hanging out with the boys, or slogging through mud and chatting with farmers while dressed almost mannishly. They opposed her to Mrs. Alf Landon, the wife of the Republican candidate. Mrs. Landon plays a harp, fondles orchids, and pats toddlers on the head while smiling demurely at the camera.
Mrs. Landon is a picture while Mrs. Roosevelt is a journey. When we start writing, often our characters look like Mrs. Landon when they should grow and breathe like Mrs. Roosevelt. I don't think Eleanor ever really planned to become the person she did become, but somehow it was also inevitable. It's scary to embrace that in a character. How can you include a free radical like that in your carefully thought out structure? But it's that uncertainty that IS drama. That's what brings a story to life. It's the reason we're writing.
Mrs. Roosevelt has a lot to teach writers about character. She was a hero both in a historical sense and in a narrative sense. What made her a hero? What makes her a good character?
She began life in the shadow of a grandmother who felt she had not lived a fulfilling life. She was a woman of wealth and privilege who had raised a large family. But for some, that's simply not enough -- even for a grandma in the early 20th century. Eleanor saw this, and immediately identified what a screenwriter might call her universal desire: the need to make her life into a contribution to something larger.
Eleanor Roosevelt isn't the first or last person to feel this. We all feel it at some point. But very few of us have either the drive to make ourselves happy or the will to bend away from what's socially expected of us. Eleanor very quickly developed that will. This is what screenwriters might call a misbehavior, or a character 'flaw'. This is the trait in the character that they are unable to resist. They must fight. Or they must love. Or they must steal. That's who they are.
So Eleanor has the two very clear traits that a screenwriter might use to structure her character around in a narrative film. She's also got tremendous character sympathy, because she's fighting for her own happiness (something we don't always do ourselves..) and she's fighting for those less fortunate.
Eleanor fought to make an independent life for herself within her marriage. She fought to make a role for herself that her high social class would not allow her to have. She found her way into politics almost by accident. When she started to win battles within the New York Democratic Party, she was surprised as anyone.
And she found a new identity for herself. She found new friends and colleagues. She grew more exposed to problems of the poor and minorities in the Great Depression. And then when her husband was elected president, he asked her to give it all up. No more politics. No more charity work. No more advocacy. Time to serve tea to heads of state.
The adjustment threw Eleanor into a depression. She was nothing like the picture of a First Lady. She wasn't pretty. She wasn't proper. She jaunted around with lesbians and a slightly too dashing bodyguard. All gone.
But only briefly. Enter the misbehavior and the universal desire. Eleanor reasserts her power in her marriage. Before anyone can say anything, she's back to advocating, and now on a much grander scale. She's pushing forward new planned communities in West Virginia, fighting poverty in Puerto Rico and supporting mine workers in Pennsylvania. America has never seen anything like her.
I don't need to recount her whole life -- most of us know that she supported her husband as he fought polio, the Great Depression and Germany and Japan. She chaired the UN committee that created the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.
But one very small moment in the documentary really struck me as getting to the heart of good character. In the 1936 election, Eleanor's unlady-like behavior became a campaign issue. The Republicans put together newsreels of her covered in coal dust hanging out with the boys, or slogging through mud and chatting with farmers while dressed almost mannishly. They opposed her to Mrs. Alf Landon, the wife of the Republican candidate. Mrs. Landon plays a harp, fondles orchids, and pats toddlers on the head while smiling demurely at the camera.
Mrs. Landon is a picture while Mrs. Roosevelt is a journey. When we start writing, often our characters look like Mrs. Landon when they should grow and breathe like Mrs. Roosevelt. I don't think Eleanor ever really planned to become the person she did become, but somehow it was also inevitable. It's scary to embrace that in a character. How can you include a free radical like that in your carefully thought out structure? But it's that uncertainty that IS drama. That's what brings a story to life. It's the reason we're writing.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Bird by Bird
I'm coming up with plans for a creative writing class I'm teaching this fall at Cogswell College. I'm going through all the things a good writer goes through as they enter into a new project: neurosis, insecurity, mental block, self-doubt. No fun. Screenwriting is so different from prose and poetry. I do write in all three forms, but hey -- who died and left me the expert? I'm not even much of a fan of writing classes. I took one once when I won free tuition in a competition. Writers with academic training tend to impress me like good Swedish furniture. Well made and little boring. Writing's always been an anarchic process for me. All the really good stuff comes from the weird characters and memories you forget you have. The structure of a screenplay more of less tells you where to put it. But if you let it guide too much of your creation, you're predictable.
I needed a textbook. I never used a textbook. I've certainly read a lot of writers discussing their creative lives, but I don't know if William S. Burroughs running far afield -- to drug use, geopolitics and god knows what is going to bring a lot of structure to class time. I'd love to read William Gass' On Being Blue because I think it's an essential view into a writer's mind. But it doesn't explain how to get there. Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet might be perfect, except if you've never written creatively before (because you're unlikely to start after reading it).
After a few days of what-the-hell-did-I-get-myself-into, I found exactly one book that might work to build a class around: Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott.
Lamott highlights two invaluable pieces of advice: short assignments and, as she calls them, "shitty first drafts". Just for today, let's talk about short assignments.
This is breaking off something you can actually chew. It's limiting your scope to what's manageable, but also what's at the right level of magnification, if you will. You can find the right details without them overwhelming you or your story. It's the sweet spot.
I had a dream last night. It was fairly apocalyptic but not well remembered. I know I was on a Soviet-era passenger jet, and it had to get somewhere like New York in time, but there wasn't enough fuel and we were flying from the past. Or something. I remember best the icy clouds out the window, and the cold seeping in around the windows, and little cushions and too much metal and the smell of strange cigarettes.
So where's the small assignment? I sat down with my notebook and recalled flying out of Tbilisi in Soviet Georgia in 1987. I remembered one single moment: getting off the bus on the tarmac in front of the plane that was supposed to carry me back to Moscow. It struck me as the strangest looking plane I'd ever seen: low to the ground, with gigantic engines on short, stubby wings, it looked like a plane morphed from a wrestler. It sat in the middle of an almost endless tarmac of weird looking Soviet planes ringed by the Caucasus mountains. And I was there.
I sat down and described that moment. It felt good to get it out, of course, but as I wrote, I remembered so much more. This all happened over twenty years ago. But one detail brings the whole story back into focus.
The runway in Tbilisi is (or, at least, was) rather short for large aircraft. I remember sitting over the wing as the pilot set the brakes and revved the engines up to maximum. I thought the engines would tear the wings off. As he released the brakes, I was thrown back against my seat and before I knew it there was a mountain perilously below, speeding by much too fast and somehow horizontal.
I needed a textbook. I never used a textbook. I've certainly read a lot of writers discussing their creative lives, but I don't know if William S. Burroughs running far afield -- to drug use, geopolitics and god knows what is going to bring a lot of structure to class time. I'd love to read William Gass' On Being Blue because I think it's an essential view into a writer's mind. But it doesn't explain how to get there. Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet might be perfect, except if you've never written creatively before (because you're unlikely to start after reading it).
After a few days of what-the-hell-did-I-get-myself-into, I found exactly one book that might work to build a class around: Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott.
Lamott highlights two invaluable pieces of advice: short assignments and, as she calls them, "shitty first drafts". Just for today, let's talk about short assignments.
This is breaking off something you can actually chew. It's limiting your scope to what's manageable, but also what's at the right level of magnification, if you will. You can find the right details without them overwhelming you or your story. It's the sweet spot.
I had a dream last night. It was fairly apocalyptic but not well remembered. I know I was on a Soviet-era passenger jet, and it had to get somewhere like New York in time, but there wasn't enough fuel and we were flying from the past. Or something. I remember best the icy clouds out the window, and the cold seeping in around the windows, and little cushions and too much metal and the smell of strange cigarettes.
So where's the small assignment? I sat down with my notebook and recalled flying out of Tbilisi in Soviet Georgia in 1987. I remembered one single moment: getting off the bus on the tarmac in front of the plane that was supposed to carry me back to Moscow. It struck me as the strangest looking plane I'd ever seen: low to the ground, with gigantic engines on short, stubby wings, it looked like a plane morphed from a wrestler. It sat in the middle of an almost endless tarmac of weird looking Soviet planes ringed by the Caucasus mountains. And I was there.
I sat down and described that moment. It felt good to get it out, of course, but as I wrote, I remembered so much more. This all happened over twenty years ago. But one detail brings the whole story back into focus.
The runway in Tbilisi is (or, at least, was) rather short for large aircraft. I remember sitting over the wing as the pilot set the brakes and revved the engines up to maximum. I thought the engines would tear the wings off. As he released the brakes, I was thrown back against my seat and before I knew it there was a mountain perilously below, speeding by much too fast and somehow horizontal.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Jumping the Chasm
If you've ever struggled to get a script both true to your vision and into production, you understand the basic problems with 'development'.
Writers are an odd breed. They don't think like most people -- and especially development executives. It's almost as if development developed as a counterweight to the writing process. Good writing is fueled by risk. The development process is intent on removing risk. It's a cliche, but development generally produce a more broadly accessible but less original story. As long as film is an industry this will probably be the rule. It's the same as any other industry. If your market can't identify your product quickly as something they want, you're out of business. It's just the way it is, and no amount of writing brilliance is likely to change that.
So it was with great joy that I read this article by Barbara Schock in Filmmaker magazine. Not only does she lay out the basic genetic divide between writers and the industry, she also prescribe a fairly tremendous solution for the situation. It's an education for all of us.
So read it.
Writers are an odd breed. They don't think like most people -- and especially development executives. It's almost as if development developed as a counterweight to the writing process. Good writing is fueled by risk. The development process is intent on removing risk. It's a cliche, but development generally produce a more broadly accessible but less original story. As long as film is an industry this will probably be the rule. It's the same as any other industry. If your market can't identify your product quickly as something they want, you're out of business. It's just the way it is, and no amount of writing brilliance is likely to change that.
So it was with great joy that I read this article by Barbara Schock in Filmmaker magazine. Not only does she lay out the basic genetic divide between writers and the industry, she also prescribe a fairly tremendous solution for the situation. It's an education for all of us.
So read it.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Cleverness
I went to see The Life Before Her Eyes last night. It's Uma Thurman's latest performance, and it's well worth seeing. The script must be a fascinating read.
I'd actually wanted to go see one of the blockbusters -- Indiana Jones or Iron Man -- but Rafael vetoed that. So I dutifully sat down in my little independent cinema seat and... got swept up. While the script does start a bit slowly -- establishing the main characters as fairly standard high school friends -- it quickly finds new meaning and depth in ways you simply don't expect. It's one of those movies where you end up watching backwards and forwards at the same time, with new layers of meaning revealing themselves the deeper you sink into it. And I wanted to see Iron Man!
When I sat down to blog, I meant to write about how remarkable it is to find a script that has BOTH surprise twists and a great degree of emotional depth. That's certainly true of this movie. What's delightful here is that the writer, Emil Stern, took his time and worked out a beautiful web of truth that connects Uma Thurman's 30-something character to the 17-year-old who suffered the traumatic event that defines her life.
I've been extolling the virtues of the three-act structure as a heuristic guide on this site for a while now. It's time for me to eat some crow here. While it's absolutely present in The Life Before Her Eyes, I bet it's not that central to the creation of the piece.
I bet the key for Mr. Stern (a new writer, if imdb is any guide) was knowing why he wanted to write the script. He knows what's important to him. It matters. This is how you choose a good strategy. It's how you find the feel. It's how you make a piece your own.
Mr. Stern found the power of metonymy (basically a fancy word for association), and it allowed him to sew up the storylines of the Uma Thurman character as an adult and a teen seamlessly. It's masterful stuff. There's conscious metonymy on the part of the characters: a character encounters a reminder of the past, and the script moves to that moment. There's metonymy on the level of structure, as when the young Diana reconciles with her best friend in front of the house the adult Diana lives in. It's delicate, subtle -- and it provides all the structure and coherence the audience needs to engage the story on many levels.
Getting that metonymy working is no easy task. As with any kind of structure, you have to be consistent and you have to plan it out. I bet I caught about half the clues. But somehow I was still overwhelmed by the twists at the climax. I was still caught up in the drama right up to the end.
When you know a bit about screenwriting, it's not easy to get bored with climaxes. You figure that this, that and the other element is going to come roaring back. There's usually an obvious way to do it, and the end result is usually pretty close to that.
Every once in a while a movie wakes us up to what real storytelling is. We don't take a story somewhere. It takes us to where it wants to go. Listening and knowing what that path is is hard under the best of circumstances. In a world of emails and work and too much TV and thirty-two other distractions, it's nearly impossible. But it's worth it. Take half an hour. Write. Find something to hold with you through the rest of the day.
I'd actually wanted to go see one of the blockbusters -- Indiana Jones or Iron Man -- but Rafael vetoed that. So I dutifully sat down in my little independent cinema seat and... got swept up. While the script does start a bit slowly -- establishing the main characters as fairly standard high school friends -- it quickly finds new meaning and depth in ways you simply don't expect. It's one of those movies where you end up watching backwards and forwards at the same time, with new layers of meaning revealing themselves the deeper you sink into it. And I wanted to see Iron Man!
When I sat down to blog, I meant to write about how remarkable it is to find a script that has BOTH surprise twists and a great degree of emotional depth. That's certainly true of this movie. What's delightful here is that the writer, Emil Stern, took his time and worked out a beautiful web of truth that connects Uma Thurman's 30-something character to the 17-year-old who suffered the traumatic event that defines her life.
I've been extolling the virtues of the three-act structure as a heuristic guide on this site for a while now. It's time for me to eat some crow here. While it's absolutely present in The Life Before Her Eyes, I bet it's not that central to the creation of the piece.
I bet the key for Mr. Stern (a new writer, if imdb is any guide) was knowing why he wanted to write the script. He knows what's important to him. It matters. This is how you choose a good strategy. It's how you find the feel. It's how you make a piece your own.
Mr. Stern found the power of metonymy (basically a fancy word for association), and it allowed him to sew up the storylines of the Uma Thurman character as an adult and a teen seamlessly. It's masterful stuff. There's conscious metonymy on the part of the characters: a character encounters a reminder of the past, and the script moves to that moment. There's metonymy on the level of structure, as when the young Diana reconciles with her best friend in front of the house the adult Diana lives in. It's delicate, subtle -- and it provides all the structure and coherence the audience needs to engage the story on many levels.
Getting that metonymy working is no easy task. As with any kind of structure, you have to be consistent and you have to plan it out. I bet I caught about half the clues. But somehow I was still overwhelmed by the twists at the climax. I was still caught up in the drama right up to the end.
When you know a bit about screenwriting, it's not easy to get bored with climaxes. You figure that this, that and the other element is going to come roaring back. There's usually an obvious way to do it, and the end result is usually pretty close to that.
Every once in a while a movie wakes us up to what real storytelling is. We don't take a story somewhere. It takes us to where it wants to go. Listening and knowing what that path is is hard under the best of circumstances. In a world of emails and work and too much TV and thirty-two other distractions, it's nearly impossible. But it's worth it. Take half an hour. Write. Find something to hold with you through the rest of the day.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Mr. Gary playing at Artsfest
For those of you near Harrisburg, PA, my most recent collaboration with director Lise Swenson, Mr. Gary on the Feedback Show, is showing in the John Waters-centric Artsfest. More info here:
Artsfest
Programming is always a mystery to me, and since Mr. Gary is such a unique piece, I'm happy to see it on any program. Nevertheless, it's heading up a collection of shorts about identity, surviving ovarian cancer, and Zorro in the workplace.
Enjoy!
Artsfest
Programming is always a mystery to me, and since Mr. Gary is such a unique piece, I'm happy to see it on any program. Nevertheless, it's heading up a collection of shorts about identity, surviving ovarian cancer, and Zorro in the workplace.
Enjoy!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
