So many books about screenwriting are about storytelling that it's easy to forget that a screenplay is also a set of instructions for a very complex operation -- the shooting of a film. I've always believed that learning about how other filmmakers look at a script is a tremendous nuts and bolts discipline. Many, if not most, new screenwriters have little or no experience with production, and so are writing a bit blind. Not infrequently they fill that void by writing a novel.
I've been working on a short film for the last several months. It's a surreal film set in a hyper-real location designed by San Francisco installation artist Megan Wilson. We had a site visit yesterday during which the cinematographer saw the set for the first time. To my mind, the set is more or less a cinematographer's wet dream: Gorgeous floral patterns mounted inches off the wall throughout the apartment, tiny details that tell a story wherever you look, a sense of the surreal meshing neatly with a very real, homey apartment. It's comfy and claustrophobic. It's unique and familiar. It's hard to take a bad shot in there: color and patterns and careful composition wherever you look.
The cinematographer had trouble with the script. "This part here, this is normal, right? But this next scene is supposed to be... weird?" Now I wrote the script with the director, and we knew the location and most of the people we'd be working with, so we didn't really worry about "selling" the idea. We knew exactly what we wanted to do.
The cinematographer went on and on about diffusion screens and 35 mm adapters and how the relationship between light needed and depth of field was completely counter-intuitive on his fancy new HD camera. I will admit that at first I glazed over a bit. And in the back of my head, I was thinking that this guy's job was relatively simple. He has to shoot a woman getting dressed, talking on the telephone, walking down the hall. One actress. Beautiful color-saturated set. It's shooting fish in a barrel. But then I started to listen.
He was trying to work out the story. He was talking about diffusion screens and F-stops because this was his way of getting a handle on the story. This is his creative process. He thinks in terms of color palettes. He thinks in terms of natural color vs. non-natural color. He understands how a long shot contrasts with a tight shot. And as he works out how and whether to gel a light, use a practical, use a dolly or a jib, he's figuring his way into the story. He's realizing the potential of the story. He's finding more. He's thinking of similar movies and camera work. The script is becoming a movie at that moment, in his head.
Many writers dislike screenwriting because you don't have a finished project when you're done. A script is just the first step. A successful script inspires that next step. I can't begin to tell this cinematographer to do his job. And I don't have to. I just have to inspire him.
On this script, I didn't really do enough. I had a mind meld with the director, and we felt like we knew what was going on. We'd break it down later, in the shooting script. So we punted. By the end of the site visit we had the cinematographer fully aboard. But you don't usually get a chance to coax, convince, and explain. I'm rewriting the script this weekend. It's gonna be dead clear by the time I'm done. And I'll know more about it too.
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Night at the Museum
I was visiting with family and friends this weekend. I saw Night at the Museum in a small living room filled with three generations, two languages, piles of food, misbehaving kids, and no beer.
We all watched the whole thing. The two year old watched it. Her grandmother, who speaks no English, watched it. I watched it after spending nearly four hours in a minivan on a crowded California highway with aforementioned kids. If you think about it, this is pretty amazing.
Night at the Museum is a remarkable movie.
Now, by remarkable, I do NOT mean 'good'. By remarkable, I do not mean 'original'. By remarkable I just mean 'effective'. It does exactly what it sets out to do. And it does this through the awesome, awful, awe-inspiring power of the three-act structure. Love it or hate it, it must be reckoned with.
The conceit of the film is simple: a night watchman finds that the museum comes to life each night. It is, plain and simple, a vehicle for a series of comic sketches based around the conceit. There's not a lot of dramatic import unless you find suspense in hoping that the lions will devour Ben Stiller soon. The three-act structure pretty much gives us a reason to sit there, to engage his otherwise not terribly real, believable, or even sympathetic character.
At first I was a little shocked at how long the first act ran. We're treated to this unbelievably textbook protagonist set up. Ben Stiller needs a job or he'll lose the respect of his son, who's gravitating to his mom's jerk of a boyfriend. There's a suitable love interest/history docent conveniently located behind the information desk, but she thinks he's a loser who won't amount to anything, and gee, if only there was a way he could bring history to life for her.
If you're a screenwriter, you're groaning. And for some reason, the first act just won't end. But as soon as the second act gets rolling, you realize why. The audience will be getting NOTHING but Ben Stiller playing fetch with T-Rex, spanking monkeys, and arbitrating fights between dioramas for the next 45 minutes. They WANT the story to be as simple as possible. The simpler it is, the more that question is out of the way. The story here is nothing more than the stakes that hold up the tent. When this is the case, all you have to do is drive them deep into the ground.
I hear lots of people, often very new screenwriters, say that "they could write something better than that". And it's true sometimes. Why does Hollywood hire these morons? Well, because they aren't morons. They realize when a simple, painfully obvious story is the goal. What separates the men from the boys is mostly a matter of how conscious you are of your story elements, and how you exploit them as tools. And in that sense, Night at the Museum is no less remarkable a film than Magnolia, or Midnight Cowboy, or even Shaun of the Dead.
We all watched the whole thing. The two year old watched it. Her grandmother, who speaks no English, watched it. I watched it after spending nearly four hours in a minivan on a crowded California highway with aforementioned kids. If you think about it, this is pretty amazing.
Night at the Museum is a remarkable movie.
Now, by remarkable, I do NOT mean 'good'. By remarkable, I do not mean 'original'. By remarkable I just mean 'effective'. It does exactly what it sets out to do. And it does this through the awesome, awful, awe-inspiring power of the three-act structure. Love it or hate it, it must be reckoned with.
The conceit of the film is simple: a night watchman finds that the museum comes to life each night. It is, plain and simple, a vehicle for a series of comic sketches based around the conceit. There's not a lot of dramatic import unless you find suspense in hoping that the lions will devour Ben Stiller soon. The three-act structure pretty much gives us a reason to sit there, to engage his otherwise not terribly real, believable, or even sympathetic character.
At first I was a little shocked at how long the first act ran. We're treated to this unbelievably textbook protagonist set up. Ben Stiller needs a job or he'll lose the respect of his son, who's gravitating to his mom's jerk of a boyfriend. There's a suitable love interest/history docent conveniently located behind the information desk, but she thinks he's a loser who won't amount to anything, and gee, if only there was a way he could bring history to life for her.
If you're a screenwriter, you're groaning. And for some reason, the first act just won't end. But as soon as the second act gets rolling, you realize why. The audience will be getting NOTHING but Ben Stiller playing fetch with T-Rex, spanking monkeys, and arbitrating fights between dioramas for the next 45 minutes. They WANT the story to be as simple as possible. The simpler it is, the more that question is out of the way. The story here is nothing more than the stakes that hold up the tent. When this is the case, all you have to do is drive them deep into the ground.
I hear lots of people, often very new screenwriters, say that "they could write something better than that". And it's true sometimes. Why does Hollywood hire these morons? Well, because they aren't morons. They realize when a simple, painfully obvious story is the goal. What separates the men from the boys is mostly a matter of how conscious you are of your story elements, and how you exploit them as tools. And in that sense, Night at the Museum is no less remarkable a film than Magnolia, or Midnight Cowboy, or even Shaun of the Dead.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Revisiting a script.
I have a couple scripts slowly winding their way toward production. It's a lesson. I was hired for a rewrite on a gay love story. They wanted a psychological drama instead. And it's to be set in the U.S., and not Brazil. Then it got moved to Brazil for tax reasons. Then it got moved again. Then there was supposed to be a happy ending for the straight couple. And the whole gay love issue, which got pushed into the subtext, well, it was okay to use a bit more of that to turn up the tension. There's still another rewrite coming before it gets shot.
Sound awful? It isn't. If you're thinking about your settings and characters, you'll find more there than you ever will slogging through dialogue. And each of those changes, as drastic as they sound, is an opportunity to explore your characters, learn more about the set ups, and find more dramatic ways to bring your story to the screen. While writers naturally have a lot of "ownership" of their work, a screenwriter doesn't have the luxury of it the same way a novelist does. We're just the first step. And a good storyteller needs to be able to use the tools he has available.
I talked about one of those tools -- synopsis -- at length a few weeks back. Once you have that technique down, it's AMAZING how simply reworking the sentences to bring forward one aspect or another, or to brainstorm uses of new locations, can tell you more about the story than you knew existed before.
I'm adding a character to a different script for the same director now. He's got an exciting actress to play a part. She's good for investors in the first script, and adding her to the second is a smart strategy. I've learned enough at this stage that I'm thrilled at the opportunity to go back to my old work, find what needs work, and use the new tool I have wherever possible to make it better. I can't talk about the specifics too directly, but suffice it to say that she's a comic character, and everything the main bad guy envies. She'll be in a few scenes, tell a few jokes, and drive the bad guy to distraction. And it'll add exactly the kind of depth that the main character needs.
It's moments like this that make me glad to be a screenwriter...
Sound awful? It isn't. If you're thinking about your settings and characters, you'll find more there than you ever will slogging through dialogue. And each of those changes, as drastic as they sound, is an opportunity to explore your characters, learn more about the set ups, and find more dramatic ways to bring your story to the screen. While writers naturally have a lot of "ownership" of their work, a screenwriter doesn't have the luxury of it the same way a novelist does. We're just the first step. And a good storyteller needs to be able to use the tools he has available.
I talked about one of those tools -- synopsis -- at length a few weeks back. Once you have that technique down, it's AMAZING how simply reworking the sentences to bring forward one aspect or another, or to brainstorm uses of new locations, can tell you more about the story than you knew existed before.
I'm adding a character to a different script for the same director now. He's got an exciting actress to play a part. She's good for investors in the first script, and adding her to the second is a smart strategy. I've learned enough at this stage that I'm thrilled at the opportunity to go back to my old work, find what needs work, and use the new tool I have wherever possible to make it better. I can't talk about the specifics too directly, but suffice it to say that she's a comic character, and everything the main bad guy envies. She'll be in a few scenes, tell a few jokes, and drive the bad guy to distraction. And it'll add exactly the kind of depth that the main character needs.
It's moments like this that make me glad to be a screenwriter...
Sunday, March 25, 2007
The Actor's Job
Years ago I took a beginning stage acting class. The teacher one day asked us to play the part of someone looking for a five dollar bill. We looked around, put index fingers to chin in looks of questioning and sudden realization, jumped into action and looked behind the chair. Then the teacher said, "Okay. I've actually hidden a five dollar bill in the room. Find it." You've never seen a room full of grad students move so fast.
The lesson: acting is not imitating. It's doing. Actors want a role they can get inside: something that makes sense, holds drama, and lets them experience life from a new perspective. The last thing they really want is a screenwriter to act like a puppeteer. They don't want you to tell them what to do. They want you to create a compelling character through a series of actions. Then THEY want to interpret them.
Let's take the scene we talked about earlier, when Ratso Rizzo invites Joe Buck to stay with him. Do you think it's full of action lines telling us about the subtle details of their faces? Nope. Do you think it's full of dialogue where they hash it out? Nope. It's dead simple. Six lines or so. Then screenwriter Waldo Salt hands it off to Dustin Hoffman and Jon Voight. And he wins the Academy Award for screenwriting.
What he's handing off to these genius actors is, of course, some genius writing. These are great characters not because of how they're described, but because of the situations they're in. Rizzo is dead lonely. He's broke and starving. The only guy talking to him wants to kill him. He needs to convince him to stay with him, or he'll die alone. Joe Buck's more or less in the same situation, and he's finally got a place to live if he can push his pride down one more time.
Don't tell the actors what to imitate. Just give them juicy roles to explore for themselves. That's what makes the drama spring to life.
Screenwriting is just the first step in a long creative and collaborative process. Working with filmmakers quickly teaches you that EVERYONE, from the actors, to the directors, to the gaffer, is trying to tell the story using their own creativity. Screenwriters have a very special role at the beginning of this process. You're creating the space for these other professionals to express their own creativity.
The lesson: acting is not imitating. It's doing. Actors want a role they can get inside: something that makes sense, holds drama, and lets them experience life from a new perspective. The last thing they really want is a screenwriter to act like a puppeteer. They don't want you to tell them what to do. They want you to create a compelling character through a series of actions. Then THEY want to interpret them.
Let's take the scene we talked about earlier, when Ratso Rizzo invites Joe Buck to stay with him. Do you think it's full of action lines telling us about the subtle details of their faces? Nope. Do you think it's full of dialogue where they hash it out? Nope. It's dead simple. Six lines or so. Then screenwriter Waldo Salt hands it off to Dustin Hoffman and Jon Voight. And he wins the Academy Award for screenwriting.
What he's handing off to these genius actors is, of course, some genius writing. These are great characters not because of how they're described, but because of the situations they're in. Rizzo is dead lonely. He's broke and starving. The only guy talking to him wants to kill him. He needs to convince him to stay with him, or he'll die alone. Joe Buck's more or less in the same situation, and he's finally got a place to live if he can push his pride down one more time.
Don't tell the actors what to imitate. Just give them juicy roles to explore for themselves. That's what makes the drama spring to life.
Screenwriting is just the first step in a long creative and collaborative process. Working with filmmakers quickly teaches you that EVERYONE, from the actors, to the directors, to the gaffer, is trying to tell the story using their own creativity. Screenwriters have a very special role at the beginning of this process. You're creating the space for these other professionals to express their own creativity.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
STICKING WITH THE CONCRETE
One thing I find repeatedly, both in my own writing and with clients, is that there's a huge tendency to explain what's going on. This is especially true when the script is emotionally intense. Bob can't just sign the divorce papers in the third beat of act II. No. Bob, driven by his irrepressible rage at his unfaithful wife while subconsciously also allowing himself to begin thinking about Maizie, the sincere but homely doughnut shop clerk, in a new way, heads to the lawyer's office, almost gets in an accident, where his rage bubbles to the surface, and then he suddenly realizes he's at peace.
It goes without saying that the first is easier to write. And easier is always better.
But there's a deeper reason for STICKING WITH THE CONCRETE. That's what's on the screen. That's what the audience sees. Not only does the human mind gauge actions and characters. It does it better than you can explain. And it does it instinctively.
When you explain the internals in the synopsis (or, horrors! in the action lines), you're working against yourself. You're actually sapping energy from the structure of your story.
GENTLE READER
It goes without saying that the first is easier to write. And easier is always better.
But there's a deeper reason for STICKING WITH THE CONCRETE. That's what's on the screen. That's what the audience sees. Not only does the human mind gauge actions and characters. It does it better than you can explain. And it does it instinctively.
When you explain the internals in the synopsis (or, horrors! in the action lines), you're working against yourself. You're actually sapping energy from the structure of your story.
GENTLE READER
But it's right there on the page!
RICH
But the movie viewer doesn't have your
script in his lap.
Take a look at Joe Buck and Ratso Rizzo. What do they do? Not a lot. Steal some food. Go to a party. Try to get paid for sex. What we all do everyday, right?
We're drawn in by what they don't say. There's a series of actions, and they're written with a strong through-line. This tells the writer how they'll react. It tells the actor how to approach the part. And it tells the viewer how to look at the movie. The single biggest reason Midnight Cowboy works is that we know what drives the characters. Once you get that nailed down, step back, and just let the characters steal fruit, or sign the divorce papers, or flirt with the doughnut girl. It's a whole lot easier.
It's hard to let go of that level of control, of course. That's why I'm going to talk about the actor's job in the next post.
script in his lap.
Take a look at Joe Buck and Ratso Rizzo. What do they do? Not a lot. Steal some food. Go to a party. Try to get paid for sex. What we all do everyday, right?
We're drawn in by what they don't say. There's a series of actions, and they're written with a strong through-line. This tells the writer how they'll react. It tells the actor how to approach the part. And it tells the viewer how to look at the movie. The single biggest reason Midnight Cowboy works is that we know what drives the characters. Once you get that nailed down, step back, and just let the characters steal fruit, or sign the divorce papers, or flirt with the doughnut girl. It's a whole lot easier.
It's hard to let go of that level of control, of course. That's why I'm going to talk about the actor's job in the next post.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
MIdnight Cowboy
I watched Midnight Cowboy last night. It's a wonderful film, and the screenplay won the Oscar in 1969. It made me think about tools and character, and just how important it is to REALLY think about character, and then use what you've learned to bring your character to the screen.
Midnight Cowboy tells the story of Joe Buck, a vain and naive kid from Texas, who moves to New York to try his hand as a gigalo. Once there, the rich women aren't the easy pickin's he'd been planning on, and he sinks into a seedy world with probably the only friend he truly ever had, the hopeless loser and petty thief Ratso Rizzo, played by Dustin Hoffman.
Both characters are defined by their inability to see their problem. Neither can admit that they're truly lonely, and that they, in many ways, hate themselves and have no real prospects. This is what keeps them in the plot. When a religious closet case asks Joe if he's lonely, he can only bristle at the questioner's directness.
A lot of screenwriters get their characters asking about each other's problems because that seems like the easiest way to get them out in the open. But that dialogue homogenizes the characters, and makes it too easy for them. If they can describe the problem, it just isn't that big. Worse yet, the answers are clear.
How does Waldo Salt (the screenwriter) use his characters to get over this problem? Neither have any real prospects. Neither have a good reason to leave their condemned apartment except to steal some food. Neither can admit his place in the food chain. These are some hard characters to write.
Take the movie's opening. You get this long sequence of Joe trying to say goodbye to a town that's not really interested. You get a long bus ride to New York, with more more or less meaningless contacts. And Joe listening to his portable radio. At first you think: what the hell. Nothing's happening. Then you realize it's all coming from Joe's perspective. The greatest sop to his loneliness was the young mother asking for a piece of gum for her child, and the old woman who won't let him turn the light off. He's frickin' lonely. Does he say he's lonely? Nope. And before you know it, old Waldo's got his main character in New York with very little dialogue.
Let's take Ratso Rizzo. The guy's more or less scum. He hustles Joe for twenty bucks the first time we see him. He invites Joe into his house. Very few characters could explain why he does this. Rizzo definitely not. But he does it, and WE understand why. He says it's ostensibly to make up for ripping off Joe. But he's just made it clear he doesn't really care about that. When Joe pushes him, he plays the respect card: I'm inviting you. I don't do that kind of thing. How dare you refuse? And Joe, who's got nowhere to go, accedes. In five minutes or less, Joe Buck goes from wanting to kill Rizzo to living with him. No attempt to explain. But it makes perfect sense.
Take another plot point. By the midpoint of the film, it's been established that Joe just isn't going to make it as a gigalo with women. But that's what the movie's about. So what are you going to do? What's a character trait that Joe has that can move this forward? His clownishness -- the cowboy hat and the bandana around his neck -- actually work to his favor in a certain setting, and it gets him an invitation to an underground party full of whackos. There he meets a woman who's enough of an explorer and free spirit to more or less take Joe up on it on a whim. It's twenty bucks. No big deal. It gets us to the next plot point, and it makes perfect sense.
By solving the problems by turning to his characters' main traits, the screenwriter made sure that both his story and his character were true to themselves and entertaining within every ten page beat.
Midnight Cowboy tells the story of Joe Buck, a vain and naive kid from Texas, who moves to New York to try his hand as a gigalo. Once there, the rich women aren't the easy pickin's he'd been planning on, and he sinks into a seedy world with probably the only friend he truly ever had, the hopeless loser and petty thief Ratso Rizzo, played by Dustin Hoffman.
Both characters are defined by their inability to see their problem. Neither can admit that they're truly lonely, and that they, in many ways, hate themselves and have no real prospects. This is what keeps them in the plot. When a religious closet case asks Joe if he's lonely, he can only bristle at the questioner's directness.
A lot of screenwriters get their characters asking about each other's problems because that seems like the easiest way to get them out in the open. But that dialogue homogenizes the characters, and makes it too easy for them. If they can describe the problem, it just isn't that big. Worse yet, the answers are clear.
How does Waldo Salt (the screenwriter) use his characters to get over this problem? Neither have any real prospects. Neither have a good reason to leave their condemned apartment except to steal some food. Neither can admit his place in the food chain. These are some hard characters to write.
Take the movie's opening. You get this long sequence of Joe trying to say goodbye to a town that's not really interested. You get a long bus ride to New York, with more more or less meaningless contacts. And Joe listening to his portable radio. At first you think: what the hell. Nothing's happening. Then you realize it's all coming from Joe's perspective. The greatest sop to his loneliness was the young mother asking for a piece of gum for her child, and the old woman who won't let him turn the light off. He's frickin' lonely. Does he say he's lonely? Nope. And before you know it, old Waldo's got his main character in New York with very little dialogue.
Let's take Ratso Rizzo. The guy's more or less scum. He hustles Joe for twenty bucks the first time we see him. He invites Joe into his house. Very few characters could explain why he does this. Rizzo definitely not. But he does it, and WE understand why. He says it's ostensibly to make up for ripping off Joe. But he's just made it clear he doesn't really care about that. When Joe pushes him, he plays the respect card: I'm inviting you. I don't do that kind of thing. How dare you refuse? And Joe, who's got nowhere to go, accedes. In five minutes or less, Joe Buck goes from wanting to kill Rizzo to living with him. No attempt to explain. But it makes perfect sense.
Take another plot point. By the midpoint of the film, it's been established that Joe just isn't going to make it as a gigalo with women. But that's what the movie's about. So what are you going to do? What's a character trait that Joe has that can move this forward? His clownishness -- the cowboy hat and the bandana around his neck -- actually work to his favor in a certain setting, and it gets him an invitation to an underground party full of whackos. There he meets a woman who's enough of an explorer and free spirit to more or less take Joe up on it on a whim. It's twenty bucks. No big deal. It gets us to the next plot point, and it makes perfect sense.
By solving the problems by turning to his characters' main traits, the screenwriter made sure that both his story and his character were true to themselves and entertaining within every ten page beat.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Tools and Character
Now we've identified a set of problems in our story with X's. And, by describing and building out our characters, we've got some solutions. Wha?! We do?!
Yes, we do. One more rule for a good story, not only must the story be identifiable throughout, so must the character. Think about it. What would happen if you watched an action film all the way to the climax, and then the hero got himself out of his pickle because of something that wasn't established earlier? It would seem like a cop out, right? Characters need to be organic, and they need to grow. The audience wants to explore them, whether they're fighting aliens or dealing with a divorce.
So take your X's. And take your list of character traits. What can your character DO to solve the problem? Find a trait and try matching it to a problem, then brainstorm possibilities.
Inevitably, action and visual convey information much better than dialogue. They are also more entertaining. Let's go back to the hedge fund trading issue -- an issue that's complex and difficult for the audience, but necessary for the plot.
What's the hedge fund trader like? He's ambitious, driven, ruthless, greedy. He's a womanizer and he's got a penchant for expensive gadgets. His weak spot? He feels guilty about his mother, who lives alone and misses him, but he never has time for.
How do you match these two problems?
Bob the hedge fund manager is in his office. He stares at his computer screen.
His secretary arrives with an important file. He tells her to get out.
He watches the numbers on the screen tumble.
His wife calls. He doesn't answer.
The numbers fall further. Beads of sweat form on his forehead.
His mistress calls him from the restaurant. He's late.
As the price on the fund drops to 25,000, he sends in his order.
As it goes through, he holds up his hand in triumph. The phone rings again.
He picks it up, expecting his wife.
"What do you want?"
His mother answers, "Bobby? Is that you?"
He shuffles to get off the phone, but fails to notice that the price is now moving in the wrong direction.
We know all we need to know, and we've learned more about him.
Next time: The instinct to go with dialogue.
Yes, we do. One more rule for a good story, not only must the story be identifiable throughout, so must the character. Think about it. What would happen if you watched an action film all the way to the climax, and then the hero got himself out of his pickle because of something that wasn't established earlier? It would seem like a cop out, right? Characters need to be organic, and they need to grow. The audience wants to explore them, whether they're fighting aliens or dealing with a divorce.
So take your X's. And take your list of character traits. What can your character DO to solve the problem? Find a trait and try matching it to a problem, then brainstorm possibilities.
Inevitably, action and visual convey information much better than dialogue. They are also more entertaining. Let's go back to the hedge fund trading issue -- an issue that's complex and difficult for the audience, but necessary for the plot.
What's the hedge fund trader like? He's ambitious, driven, ruthless, greedy. He's a womanizer and he's got a penchant for expensive gadgets. His weak spot? He feels guilty about his mother, who lives alone and misses him, but he never has time for.
How do you match these two problems?
Bob the hedge fund manager is in his office. He stares at his computer screen.
His secretary arrives with an important file. He tells her to get out.
He watches the numbers on the screen tumble.
His wife calls. He doesn't answer.
The numbers fall further. Beads of sweat form on his forehead.
His mistress calls him from the restaurant. He's late.
As the price on the fund drops to 25,000, he sends in his order.
As it goes through, he holds up his hand in triumph. The phone rings again.
He picks it up, expecting his wife.
"What do you want?"
His mother answers, "Bobby? Is that you?"
He shuffles to get off the phone, but fails to notice that the price is now moving in the wrong direction.
We know all we need to know, and we've learned more about him.
Next time: The instinct to go with dialogue.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Getting Started
Putting pen to paper is difficult whether you're writing a short story, a letter, a poem, a play or anything else. Screenwriting is no exception. In fact, screenwriting offers the writer unique opportunities for resistance and procrastination. While the short story writer can bang his head against the wall over what his character is thinking at a certain point in time, the screenwriter gets to bang her head against the wall figuring out what her character is thinking, and then again the next day figuring out how to communicate this on film. A poet determines his own formatting, and can vary it poem to poem. A screenwriter needs to communicate clearly with a ridiculous variety of professionals, from directors, to actors, to producers, to art directors, etc. The novelist produces a complete character. A screenwriter produces a great role -- a place for an actor to bring his own creativity. That seemingly subtle difference is worth nights of worry all by itself.
So how do you get started? One word: STORY.
So many of my clients get a decent idea, then jump straight into a script. And they get a great 30 pages. And then they get dug in. And then there's thirty pages of great scenes, but you aren't quite sure how to get from one to the next. And then they write another thirty pages of dialogue and exposition. And you know you shouldn't, but you'll think of something better later. And then you get depressed. Then you put it away for a few months. Then it's New Year's and you're drunk enough to resolve to finish it this year. And now it's February and you're still casting around for straws. Sound familiar? There's an easy way to avoid this problem, and it's called a synopsis.
A story that doesn't work on a single page is almost never compelling on 120. It HAS to make sense. (And it has to make sense without your characters taking breaks every 10-20 pages to tell each other and the audience what they're feeling and why.)
We'll explore synopsis over the next few posts. But just for today, ask yourself the hard question you've been avoiding:
What the hell am I trying to say?
What drives you to write this particular story? Can you put it into a few words? A single sentence? Write it down, and put it away somewhere.
Next, write your story, in just regular old words. There are no points for style here: just get it down. But there are a couple rules.
* Don't talk about themes. No "this is a story about good and evil" or "in an epic battle between the average Joe and City Hall".
* Don't generalize.
All you're going to write is WHAT THE AUDIENCE SEES ON SCREEN. What actually happens?
If you're in the middle of a script, write what you've got.
If you're trying to figure it out, just let fly. Don't censor yourself. Just get whatever comes out down onto the page.
More soon...
So how do you get started? One word: STORY.
So many of my clients get a decent idea, then jump straight into a script. And they get a great 30 pages. And then they get dug in. And then there's thirty pages of great scenes, but you aren't quite sure how to get from one to the next. And then they write another thirty pages of dialogue and exposition. And you know you shouldn't, but you'll think of something better later. And then you get depressed. Then you put it away for a few months. Then it's New Year's and you're drunk enough to resolve to finish it this year. And now it's February and you're still casting around for straws. Sound familiar? There's an easy way to avoid this problem, and it's called a synopsis.
A story that doesn't work on a single page is almost never compelling on 120. It HAS to make sense. (And it has to make sense without your characters taking breaks every 10-20 pages to tell each other and the audience what they're feeling and why.)
We'll explore synopsis over the next few posts. But just for today, ask yourself the hard question you've been avoiding:
What the hell am I trying to say?
What drives you to write this particular story? Can you put it into a few words? A single sentence? Write it down, and put it away somewhere.
Next, write your story, in just regular old words. There are no points for style here: just get it down. But there are a couple rules.
* Don't talk about themes. No "this is a story about good and evil" or "in an epic battle between the average Joe and City Hall".
* Don't generalize.
All you're going to write is WHAT THE AUDIENCE SEES ON SCREEN. What actually happens?
If you're in the middle of a script, write what you've got.
If you're trying to figure it out, just let fly. Don't censor yourself. Just get whatever comes out down onto the page.
More soon...
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