I've had two very different jobs in the last month. One was very intense -- working with a writer who agonized over every line, writing up synopses and plans of attack and random thoughts, and following that with afternoon-long consultations where we would reach consensus on how to approach every little issue. The client had very specific ideas about how every scene should go. That job felt like gem cutting -- a real precision job.
Now I'm working on the quickest, dirtiest script job I've ever had. We're changing some characters, a location, and adding some themes. The director basically wants to get an idea of what it will look like. The precision work happens later.
What's remarkable is how similar both jobs are. I've got piles of notes and some raw script. I've got all my basic screenwriting tools laid out fairly neatly (well, one more neatly than the other). While one job felt like brain surgery and the other is more like dressing a deer, both move forward most effectively when I adopt one particular perspective: the interplay between a character's intention in each scene moment, and the overall audience question of what happens next.
You can work through all the elements of your plot, character, etc. with any number of terminologies. You can pin and mount it like a butterfly until it looks exactly like the hero's journey or whatever other model you choose. It still won't write the script for you. You have to find something which a lot of otherwise smart writers somehow think they're above worrying about.
Where is my character at the beginning of the scene? What is his or her state of mind? What's in front of them? What would they do?
Often it's not actually what you want them to do. This is why a number of writers try not to look at this stuff.
But it's exactly WHY you should look at this stuff. Nine times out of ten there's a far more interesting way to let your character's internal misbehavior play out against their universal desire (or whatever terms you choose) than you'll ever map out in a synopsis. How do you find it? Character intention.
I've always found it remarkable that working from character intention always somehow leads you back to the question in your audience's head. It seems somehow obvious -- after all, the audience reads the plot through the characters. But it's fascinating to watch that interplay in action as you write.
If I don't find the character's intention leading me to the audience question by the end of the scene, I've usually done something wrong. I go back and look at my conflict, and whether I'm really listening. And sometimes I find it in my pages and pages of notes full of screenwriting mumbo jumbo. But usually I find it right there on the page in front of me, in a joke waiting to be told, or a prop sitting on a table, or in the perfect expression of that next level of meaning you dared not approach in your fancy notes.
Showing posts with label audience expectations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label audience expectations. Show all posts
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Thinking About Audience
I was reading a client script this morning when a character lifted up a piece of glass and realized it was a diamond. The writer was thinking about the clues being laid down for the plot, but there's another, equally important thing going on here. You're telling the audience what the main character can do. She's got a special skill for observation -- and it tells them how to watch her. My second thought was that I wasn't sure how you'd really nail the audience knowing the truth about the glass issue. And if it was important enough, then that needs to be really nailed down. Seems like a small issue -- but if 30% of the audience misses that point, then 30% aren't sure what to watch for. And you're sunk.
Script consulting is often like being a professional audience. It's a lot of fun, of course. But it makes you think about how people watch stories, and how clever audiences have become. It's not hard to get a little depressed that Disney can market a spoof of a fairytale to children.
Once upon a time I was a graduate student of Russian Literature in the fairytale kingdom of Stanford University. I spent my days deconstructing large books and wonderful plays. If Disney made a movie about it, I'd be the horrible ogre strapping these helpless tales of beauty to the rack. And in the end, the beauty and grace of the stories would cause a magical transformation in me, and I'd be free to love and not analyze.
I remember writing a paper on the very beginnings of drama in Russia. The Russian Orthodox church had banned drama (and in fact most art forms) outside of its own use until the end of the 1600's. So when the new audiences saw these new plays, they were absolutely, utterly caught up in them.
The plays were all very safe topics -- mostly strict allegories and morality tales. But the new audiences didn't know there was supposed to be a third wall there. They didn't understand that the audience stays on one side, and the players on the other. They would surge in outrage onto the stage when Greed would attempt to seduce Modesty. One of the first to really examine a human character was about Judith, a heroine from the Bible. Guards were needed to protect the villains from the audience. Early performances often devolved into riots. Drama was real.
Think about that at the multiplex tonight.
Script consulting is often like being a professional audience. It's a lot of fun, of course. But it makes you think about how people watch stories, and how clever audiences have become. It's not hard to get a little depressed that Disney can market a spoof of a fairytale to children.
Once upon a time I was a graduate student of Russian Literature in the fairytale kingdom of Stanford University. I spent my days deconstructing large books and wonderful plays. If Disney made a movie about it, I'd be the horrible ogre strapping these helpless tales of beauty to the rack. And in the end, the beauty and grace of the stories would cause a magical transformation in me, and I'd be free to love and not analyze.
I remember writing a paper on the very beginnings of drama in Russia. The Russian Orthodox church had banned drama (and in fact most art forms) outside of its own use until the end of the 1600's. So when the new audiences saw these new plays, they were absolutely, utterly caught up in them.
The plays were all very safe topics -- mostly strict allegories and morality tales. But the new audiences didn't know there was supposed to be a third wall there. They didn't understand that the audience stays on one side, and the players on the other. They would surge in outrage onto the stage when Greed would attempt to seduce Modesty. One of the first to really examine a human character was about Judith, a heroine from the Bible. Guards were needed to protect the villains from the audience. Early performances often devolved into riots. Drama was real.
Think about that at the multiplex tonight.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Why Do They Do That?
I went to a poetry reading last night at the 3300 Club. It's one of those bars that are hard to find outside of San Francisco. It's a working class poets' bar in the middle of the Mission district. Everyone's welcome there -- from Mexican jornaleros to dot-commers to lesbian nature poets to retired teamsters. It just works. It's been working for fifty years.
Last night's reading featured "The Marin Traveling Poets". A haughty bunch. They all teach seminars on Rilke and lead weekend poetry retreats and so on. The men all dressed like they herded sheep in a scotch ad. The women had clearly been forced to dress themselves from Maya Angelou's hand-me-downs. The first poet intoned away with a dense web of someone else's imagery in someone else's voice. Everything about him said, "I am bringing the Word to you." And we'd heard it all before.
The host, who had noticed that the less sophisticated audience members such as myself had turned their attentions to the Giants game, offered us a summary of the imagery and what it meant. Then the next poet got up. In that very same practiced, serious, poetic tone, she read a series of affirming quotes about writing that made me want to take a steal brush to the bumper stickers that must surely grace her Subaru. Then she read some poetry. Then she told us what it meant. And then the host told us what it meant. There was nothing new all night.
Why do they do that?
I went down to meet the dean and administration from Cogswell for the first time last week. I haven't had a real boss in years. I left academia in a hurry twelve years ago. I literally remembered an hour beforehand that I can't just wear my regular T-shirt and jeans. I spent the day projecting calm professionalism to hide the screaming kid inside me. And I listened as all the correct phrases seemed to exit my mouth without my control. I knew how to hit the right notes. I just had to stay out of my own way.
How did I do that?
I am a big people watcher. And sometimes it's the most 'boring' people who are the most engaging people to watch. Why? Learned behaviors. Why does a poet wear tweed and read like Dylan Thomas? Because he's been rewarded for it for years. How do I suddenly remember behavior I forgot I knew? That behavior kept me safe and employed for years. Your head doesn't just lose survival techniques.
When you see two young urban professionals on a date, there's a script there. When a teenager talks to his mom, there's a script there. When a boss talks to his new faculty, there's a script there.
Those scripts are only boring if you don't bother to interpret them. There's a reason people become poets, and it's usually full of drama. It's rarely the same reason. Some relish the power relationship of reader and audience. Some are dressing themselves up to distinguish themselves. Some have been rewarded for this. And yes, many have discovered the power of words.
Two yuppie kids on a date talk about Cancun and wine country and their jobs. What are they talking about? It depends entirely on other circumstances. But one thing is certain -- if there's risk involved, if there are stakes -- the safe way to play the situation is to stick to the script. Stick to the learned behavior. We all do it.
What does this tell a screenwriter? Most of our dialogue in the course of the day is learned behavior. And our audience knows exactly how to interpret it. They won't suddenly lose this capacity as they walk into a theater. Use it. When you're writing dialogue, or just struggling with a scene, think of the learned behavior that would structure that scene in real life. The audience will know exactly what you're doing.
Last night's reading featured "The Marin Traveling Poets". A haughty bunch. They all teach seminars on Rilke and lead weekend poetry retreats and so on. The men all dressed like they herded sheep in a scotch ad. The women had clearly been forced to dress themselves from Maya Angelou's hand-me-downs. The first poet intoned away with a dense web of someone else's imagery in someone else's voice. Everything about him said, "I am bringing the Word to you." And we'd heard it all before.
The host, who had noticed that the less sophisticated audience members such as myself had turned their attentions to the Giants game, offered us a summary of the imagery and what it meant. Then the next poet got up. In that very same practiced, serious, poetic tone, she read a series of affirming quotes about writing that made me want to take a steal brush to the bumper stickers that must surely grace her Subaru. Then she read some poetry. Then she told us what it meant. And then the host told us what it meant. There was nothing new all night.
Why do they do that?
I went down to meet the dean and administration from Cogswell for the first time last week. I haven't had a real boss in years. I left academia in a hurry twelve years ago. I literally remembered an hour beforehand that I can't just wear my regular T-shirt and jeans. I spent the day projecting calm professionalism to hide the screaming kid inside me. And I listened as all the correct phrases seemed to exit my mouth without my control. I knew how to hit the right notes. I just had to stay out of my own way.
How did I do that?
I am a big people watcher. And sometimes it's the most 'boring' people who are the most engaging people to watch. Why? Learned behaviors. Why does a poet wear tweed and read like Dylan Thomas? Because he's been rewarded for it for years. How do I suddenly remember behavior I forgot I knew? That behavior kept me safe and employed for years. Your head doesn't just lose survival techniques.
When you see two young urban professionals on a date, there's a script there. When a teenager talks to his mom, there's a script there. When a boss talks to his new faculty, there's a script there.
Those scripts are only boring if you don't bother to interpret them. There's a reason people become poets, and it's usually full of drama. It's rarely the same reason. Some relish the power relationship of reader and audience. Some are dressing themselves up to distinguish themselves. Some have been rewarded for this. And yes, many have discovered the power of words.
Two yuppie kids on a date talk about Cancun and wine country and their jobs. What are they talking about? It depends entirely on other circumstances. But one thing is certain -- if there's risk involved, if there are stakes -- the safe way to play the situation is to stick to the script. Stick to the learned behavior. We all do it.
What does this tell a screenwriter? Most of our dialogue in the course of the day is learned behavior. And our audience knows exactly how to interpret it. They won't suddenly lose this capacity as they walk into a theater. Use it. When you're writing dialogue, or just struggling with a scene, think of the learned behavior that would structure that scene in real life. The audience will know exactly what you're doing.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Reading a Script
The more time I spend with screenplays and screenwriters, the more I realize how many problems are tied up with a single problem: writers don't know their audience. I'm dealing with a script right now that very generously lets me know when I've come upon the inciting incident and the tragically flawed hero by indicating that directly in the script. He's also included a list of characters, scene breakdowns, and a three-page synopsis. He's got extensive action lines to give me all the backstory and drama, and, just to make sure we're up on all the details, has the characters remind us who they are, why they're here, and what the essential conflict is at the moment in their dialogue. Then there are the flashbacks, the flash forwards, and the montages so we understand the historical context.
The problem is that a movie audience doesn't have access to his copious notes of back-story, character motivation, and survey of the historical period in question.
You can't SEE the movie, because you're too busy reading the story.
A screenplay isn't a novel, of course. And screenplay readers aren't novel readers, either. In fact, they aren't big fans of reading at all. A studio reader may read 6-8 scripts a day, and is responsible for producing detailed notes and making an initial decision on the viability of a script. That's hundreds and hundreds of pages every night. How do they do this?
Basically, they watch the movie. They play out the visuals, the actions, and the set ups in their heads. The last thing they want is someone telling them what's there, or what it's supposed to mean. This just slows them down. They want to see it for themselves. If you need to explain a plot beat, it isn't going to work on screen. A good script reads quickly.
Now, how does a reader keep all the plot beats straight in his or her head? Think back to the discussion of three-act structure. A reader looks for the inciting event, and the second act complication, midpoint, etc. Everyone has their own way of looking at this stuff, and different ways of interpreting the material, of course. But there is a basic way that movie audiences watch a movie. There is a huge set of expectations that we all share. The studio reader simply applies that set of expectations, and measures your script against them.
It's ruthless. It's unfair much of the time. But a good reader doesn't measure how close you are to hitting that perfect formula. She's much more interested in how you exploit those expectations to tell us a good story.
It's stressful giving up action lines and dialogue that tell the reader directly what's going on. But when you start using action lines to SHOW the story -- to bring it to life in front of your audience -- you'll never look back.
The problem is that a movie audience doesn't have access to his copious notes of back-story, character motivation, and survey of the historical period in question.
You can't SEE the movie, because you're too busy reading the story.
A screenplay isn't a novel, of course. And screenplay readers aren't novel readers, either. In fact, they aren't big fans of reading at all. A studio reader may read 6-8 scripts a day, and is responsible for producing detailed notes and making an initial decision on the viability of a script. That's hundreds and hundreds of pages every night. How do they do this?
Basically, they watch the movie. They play out the visuals, the actions, and the set ups in their heads. The last thing they want is someone telling them what's there, or what it's supposed to mean. This just slows them down. They want to see it for themselves. If you need to explain a plot beat, it isn't going to work on screen. A good script reads quickly.
Now, how does a reader keep all the plot beats straight in his or her head? Think back to the discussion of three-act structure. A reader looks for the inciting event, and the second act complication, midpoint, etc. Everyone has their own way of looking at this stuff, and different ways of interpreting the material, of course. But there is a basic way that movie audiences watch a movie. There is a huge set of expectations that we all share. The studio reader simply applies that set of expectations, and measures your script against them.
It's ruthless. It's unfair much of the time. But a good reader doesn't measure how close you are to hitting that perfect formula. She's much more interested in how you exploit those expectations to tell us a good story.
It's stressful giving up action lines and dialogue that tell the reader directly what's going on. But when you start using action lines to SHOW the story -- to bring it to life in front of your audience -- you'll never look back.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Shaun of the Dead
If you've never seen this spoof of a zombie film, you owe yourself as a writer to see it. Why? Not because it's brilliant, although it does have its moments, but because it's a great example of all those things that screenwriters are supposed to do. You want a three-act structure, with internal and external conflicts linked inexorably in a life-and-death struggle through the main character? He's right there. Trying to figure out how to build a main character around a strong desire and a single misbehavior? There he is. Want to see how to exploit character to develop backstory? Make him a bored, lazy TV salesman who doesn't actually hear what's being reported on the 32 televisions in the room.
One good thing about both spoofs and zombie films is that a key to their success is playing to audience expectations. You can't spoof a genre unless you portray it accurately. You can't have a zombie film without references to all the other zombie films.
This is valuable because the same basic three-act structure is used in everything from romantic comedies to action-adventures and historical epics. If you don't believe me, try a little experiment. Watch Shaun of the Dead. Stop the DVD every ten minutes or so, and write a sentence or two to describe what you've seen. You should have ten to twelve sentences. Now watch "Young Guns". Do the same thing. Now try "How Stella Got Her Groove Back." Look at when and how the main problem is introduced. Look at how the problem escalates every ten minutes. Look at how the main character grows. Look at the climax, and how it resolves the internal and external conflicts. Even when the problems are different, the answers all come from the same basic place.
I could also point to any number of really bad films with the same structure. It's not the fact of using this three-act structure that makes a film work. It's how you use it. If it's a tool that helps you develop something original and new, you're doing your job as a writer.
One good thing about both spoofs and zombie films is that a key to their success is playing to audience expectations. You can't spoof a genre unless you portray it accurately. You can't have a zombie film without references to all the other zombie films.
This is valuable because the same basic three-act structure is used in everything from romantic comedies to action-adventures and historical epics. If you don't believe me, try a little experiment. Watch Shaun of the Dead. Stop the DVD every ten minutes or so, and write a sentence or two to describe what you've seen. You should have ten to twelve sentences. Now watch "Young Guns". Do the same thing. Now try "How Stella Got Her Groove Back." Look at when and how the main problem is introduced. Look at how the problem escalates every ten minutes. Look at how the main character grows. Look at the climax, and how it resolves the internal and external conflicts. Even when the problems are different, the answers all come from the same basic place.
I could also point to any number of really bad films with the same structure. It's not the fact of using this three-act structure that makes a film work. It's how you use it. If it's a tool that helps you develop something original and new, you're doing your job as a writer.
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