I always enjoy looking back at my notes from old writing classes. There's the nostalgia factor, of course, but it can also be quite useful because many of the ideas that I was merely transcribing at the time have much greater meaning to me now. One of the pages to which I often flip my notebook open begins with the line, "Have to earn big scenes." It's an extremely brief way of saying that the "big" scenes in your script -- the scenes that are the most pivotal, and hopefully the most memorable and satisfying -- will fall flat unless you build them up properly via good character work and plotting.
That's one of the most sacred tenets of good screenwriting, and there's little I can add to it (especially since I've covered it in some form many times before). I can, however, use it as a good jumping-off point to another topic -- because the concept of "earning" stuff is actually much more broader and nuanced than the one specific rule I was just talking about. It's actually not a rule at all, but a principle that -- when applied correctly -- can enable you to break all kinds of other rules.
Here's what I'm talking about.
Think about the scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark wherein Indy and Marion climb out of the Well of Souls and race to commandeer a plane before the Nazis take off with the Ark. But not so much the second part; think about the specific moment when they make it out of the Well. Indy shoves a stone out of this rickety little structure thingy, they climb through the hole, and they're back on the road.
Now. Really. Think about it. Indy and Sallah had to dig into the sand for hours upon hours to find the entrance to the Well of Souls... but the exit turns out to be a free-standing, easily accessible stone building a few feet off the beaten path? And in thousands of years, no one else figured that out? That's not just a plot hole; it's a giant sucking vacuum. And yet, no one's ever seemed to care. I'm not even sure that many people have noticed.
Why do you suppose that is? Perhaps because that one improbable moment comes on the heels of the amazing scene in which Indy and Marion are trapped in the Well of Souls with all the snakes. If that's not the most frightening, thrilling, skillfully executed scene in the whole damn movie, it's certainly up there. And it's followed by the great fight scene between Indy and the tough but short-lived Nazi mechanic, which itself ends in a magnificent gasoline explosion. And in the final analysis, those two scenes are good enough that the small but necessary bit of connective tissue between them -- which is clearly a cheat by anyone's definition -- turns out to be not such a big deal.
It wouldn't have worked any other way, though. Imagine if Indy and Sallah had found the Well of Souls by wandering around the desert and bumping into that little stone building. "Hey, maybe this is it. Let's take a look!" Viewers would have checked out right then and there; it wouldn't have mattered how brilliant the ensuing scenes were. But by giving us so much great stuff first, the Raiders script earns its right to cheat a little. So, if we want to get away with bending the rules in our own scripts (and there are inevitably times when we need to), this is the way to go about it.
But earning the audience's goodwill isn't only necessary for papering over iffy plot points. (And really, we should endeavor to do that as little as possible so as to minimize the chance of it backfiring.) Consider a good heist movie like Ocean's 11 or Sneakers. These films require the heroes to perform all sorts of feats that the audience really has no idea how to gauge. Sure, everyone knows that it'd be pretty difficult to break into a super-secure vault underneath the Bellagio -- but virtually nobody in the theater knows exactly how difficult, or specifically what would be required to do it. That's okay, from the writer's perspective, because we don't know how to do it either, nor do we need to. We only need to make it seem plausible. And we do that by earning it.
At a crucial point in Sneakers, Robert Redford's crew needs to get past a door that uses a voiceprint identification system. Only the right person's voice, speaking his own name and a short predetermined sentence, will unlock the door. The solution they devise is fairly ingenious (at least it was in 1992; it's probably been ripped off by at least a dozen other movies by now): they send a female friend on a blind date with the man whose office they're breaking into, and through normal conversation she gets him to say his name and the words in the security sentence, all of which are caught on tape. The crew edits the words into the right order, and voila, they've got their way inside.
Would this really work? Maybe, maybe not. But it doesn't matter. It's incredibly clever, and therefore it earns its own plausbility. That's how things work in the movies. You could have a different solution to the same problem that was, in real life, a lot more accurate (maybe all that's really required is to bang the side of the voicebox a few times) -- and audiences would automatically deem it implausible, because the writer didn't do enough to earn their goodwill.
In Ocean's 11, it's the same thing. Who knows if any of the myriad schemes employed by the star-studded cast would actually be sufficient to penetrate a massive casino security operation? (My guess is that virtually none of them would be, or else Vegas would be a lot poorer.) All that matters is that each of them are clever and interesting enough for the audience to accept their plausibility within the context of the film. This principle works both at the micro- level as each feat is pulled off, and at the macro- level as the film concludes and the audience thinks, "Well, that was pretty impressive; I'll buy that they got away with it." Which means the writer got away with it too.
One final note: Tony Gilroy, current god among writers, toys with this principle self-consciously in one scene of The Bourne Identity. Outside of a hotel where Bourne had stayed prior to his amnesia, he and Marie discuss an almost tediously intricate plan for retrieving the necessary information about his stay. Moments later, as Bourne waits pensively in a nearby phone booth for her signal, Marie comes strolling back with a piece of paper in hand. She tells him she just walked up to the hotel clerk, pretended to be Bourne's assistant, and asked for a copy of his hotel bill. On one level it's a clever reversal of expectations of the type Gilroy is known for; on another, it's a subtle jab at the notion that every single plot point in a thriller needs to be suitably convoluted in order to be plausible.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Writing vs. Typing
I still struggle with the issue of how much -- and what kind of -- pre-writing I need to do before firing up the screenwriting software and producing script pages. Certainly I'm doing more of it at this stage in my development than I ever have before. On the script I'm working on now, I did several pages of preliminary idea scribbles and research notes; three one-page character essays for the protagonists; and three progressively longer versions of an outline, the longest of which was ten pages.
After all that was done, and I'd shown the last outline to a couple of people whose opinions I value (fiancee; writing colleague), I typed FADE IN and went off to the races. As of this blogging, I'm 33 pages into the script. Much of the writing has flown quite easily because -- well, because it's not really writing; it's typing. I'm just giving new, more verbose language to the thoughts that are already in my head. And yes, there's a huge difference between the two concepts.
In previous scripts -- even working from an outline -- I ended up having to do a lot of actual writing during the scripting process. Sometimes it would be obvious that a necessary scene was missing; or a planned scene was unnecessary and needed to be replaced with something more interesting and useful; or an entire plot thread or character just plain didn't work on the script page. All of which frequently put me in the position of writing a scene, then staring at the blinking cursor until I could figure out what needed to happen in the next one. I'll be honest; sometimes this was fun. Because it was writing. It was creating something from nothing.
On the other hand, most writers know what generally happens when you create something from nothing. (Answer: it sucks.) In the pre-writing phase, wiping out the stuff that sucks and replacing it with stuff that doesn't is a fairly straightforward proposition. Why be wedded to the words you're writing in an outline? They're not for public consumption and you're not going to sell them. When you're writing real script pages, though, it's much harder to accept that a scene I've just invented and written needs to be scratched and replaced. For one thing, it's all formatted and pretty, with clever dialogue and description. It looks like a final product even if it's nothing resembling that. For another thing, I don't want to lose momentum. I can sort of take my time and get things right in the outlining stage, but writing the script itself always makes me impatient. When I'm on page 1, I want to be on page 10; when I'm on page 10 I want to be on page 30. By the time I'm on page 60, I desperately want to be done. So, even if pages 13-17 turned out to be absolute waste of time, I'm probably going to keep them and move on. Repeat that enough times and I end up with a final script that represents a writing exercise more than a workable draft.
Typing is better. Having already come up with the scene I'm currently writing, I can add nuances and thematic stuff to it as I go along; the dialogue is better because I've already thought roughly about what people are going to say to each other; and scene length stays manageable because I'm not spinning my wheels trying to figure out the point of the scene as I type. It doesn't have the same feeling of danger and excitement as off-the-cuff writing does, but I don't know of many writers who do it all for the sake of enjoying the process. Besides, any enjoyment gained from the actual keystrokes is fleeting; my true goal is to one day look at a finished product and realize that, for once, it doesn't suck.
After all that was done, and I'd shown the last outline to a couple of people whose opinions I value (fiancee; writing colleague), I typed FADE IN and went off to the races. As of this blogging, I'm 33 pages into the script. Much of the writing has flown quite easily because -- well, because it's not really writing; it's typing. I'm just giving new, more verbose language to the thoughts that are already in my head. And yes, there's a huge difference between the two concepts.
In previous scripts -- even working from an outline -- I ended up having to do a lot of actual writing during the scripting process. Sometimes it would be obvious that a necessary scene was missing; or a planned scene was unnecessary and needed to be replaced with something more interesting and useful; or an entire plot thread or character just plain didn't work on the script page. All of which frequently put me in the position of writing a scene, then staring at the blinking cursor until I could figure out what needed to happen in the next one. I'll be honest; sometimes this was fun. Because it was writing. It was creating something from nothing.
On the other hand, most writers know what generally happens when you create something from nothing. (Answer: it sucks.) In the pre-writing phase, wiping out the stuff that sucks and replacing it with stuff that doesn't is a fairly straightforward proposition. Why be wedded to the words you're writing in an outline? They're not for public consumption and you're not going to sell them. When you're writing real script pages, though, it's much harder to accept that a scene I've just invented and written needs to be scratched and replaced. For one thing, it's all formatted and pretty, with clever dialogue and description. It looks like a final product even if it's nothing resembling that. For another thing, I don't want to lose momentum. I can sort of take my time and get things right in the outlining stage, but writing the script itself always makes me impatient. When I'm on page 1, I want to be on page 10; when I'm on page 10 I want to be on page 30. By the time I'm on page 60, I desperately want to be done. So, even if pages 13-17 turned out to be absolute waste of time, I'm probably going to keep them and move on. Repeat that enough times and I end up with a final script that represents a writing exercise more than a workable draft.
Typing is better. Having already come up with the scene I'm currently writing, I can add nuances and thematic stuff to it as I go along; the dialogue is better because I've already thought roughly about what people are going to say to each other; and scene length stays manageable because I'm not spinning my wheels trying to figure out the point of the scene as I type. It doesn't have the same feeling of danger and excitement as off-the-cuff writing does, but I don't know of many writers who do it all for the sake of enjoying the process. Besides, any enjoyment gained from the actual keystrokes is fleeting; my true goal is to one day look at a finished product and realize that, for once, it doesn't suck.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Show vs. Tell (but not that kind)
Ira Glass did an interview shortly after the TV version of "This American Life" debuted in which he talked about the difficulties of translating his hugely popular radio show to television. (I wish I could find it online, but I can't; at least, not this specific one.) He said that there were a lot of things he wanted to do with the show that his producers and director assured him couldn't be done (or at least done well) on TV, but that in many cases he couldn't accept their opinions at face value, and they had to show him that these things couldn't be done (presumably by actually attempting them).
I realized the other day that screenwriters go through the exact same process all the time. We figure out an idea that we think is absolutely killer. Could be as big as a whole movie; could be as small as a line of dialogue. Someone else, someone we trust, tells us that it won't fly.
"You're wrong," we say. And we go off and write it.
And it doesn't work.
And we say to ourselves, "Well... at least now I know it doesn't work," and move on.
Sure, this kind of scenario is bound to happen from time to time. And sure, sometimes the other person really is wrong and the thing totally works. But not usually. Only through experience can we develop the instincts that will tell us when to listen to feedback and when to go full speed ahead, damn the torpedoes -- and those instincts are among the most valuable assets a screenwriter can possess.
I recently sent an outline of my latest script to a screenwriter friend. After reading it, he suggested I take a different tone with it. I bristled at the notion at first, because the movie I'd planned was pretty serious and he wanted me to make it funny. But as I thought more about it, and came clean with myself about the problems I knew already existed in my approach, I realized that his idea wasn't just good -- it was very possibly the specific change I needed to make to make the script work. Probably saved myself months of painful rewriting, just because I knew good advice when I saw it.
Ira Glass's second season of the TAL TV show was much better than the first. Hopefully my script will follow suit.
I realized the other day that screenwriters go through the exact same process all the time. We figure out an idea that we think is absolutely killer. Could be as big as a whole movie; could be as small as a line of dialogue. Someone else, someone we trust, tells us that it won't fly.
"You're wrong," we say. And we go off and write it.
And it doesn't work.
And we say to ourselves, "Well... at least now I know it doesn't work," and move on.
Sure, this kind of scenario is bound to happen from time to time. And sure, sometimes the other person really is wrong and the thing totally works. But not usually. Only through experience can we develop the instincts that will tell us when to listen to feedback and when to go full speed ahead, damn the torpedoes -- and those instincts are among the most valuable assets a screenwriter can possess.
I recently sent an outline of my latest script to a screenwriter friend. After reading it, he suggested I take a different tone with it. I bristled at the notion at first, because the movie I'd planned was pretty serious and he wanted me to make it funny. But as I thought more about it, and came clean with myself about the problems I knew already existed in my approach, I realized that his idea wasn't just good -- it was very possibly the specific change I needed to make to make the script work. Probably saved myself months of painful rewriting, just because I knew good advice when I saw it.
Ira Glass's second season of the TAL TV show was much better than the first. Hopefully my script will follow suit.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
The pad and the pen
I'm a child of the digital age. I've lived with at least one personal computer in the house for most of my life. Although I learned proper handwriting in elementary school, I started typing my assignments as soon as I was allowed (probably around seventh grade -- back then, it was WordPerfect 5.1 on a bright blue MS-DOS screen). From then on, my proficiency with writing on computer increased in direct proportion to my impatience with pen and paper. These days I never hand-write anything at length unless I absolutely have to -- not just because typing is faster and easier, but because my thoughts genuinely flow more smoothly that way.
As a screenwriter, this is hardly abnormal behavior: the profession itself is as dependent on computers as Pixar is. However, in terms of the entire process of screenwriting, the only step that really needs to be typed out is the formatted screenplay itself -- which, as we all know, often represents a relatively small amount of time and energy in the grand scheme of things. Nonetheless, it's natural for a laptop-addicted screenwriter (especially a tech whore like me) to want to hash out the whole thing digitally, from spitballing initial ideas to doing character sketches to outlining to re-outlining to finally -- and thankfully -- firing up Final Draft to crank out the script. (Or CeltX. I use CeltX these days and love it and highly recommend it. Ask your doctor if CeltX is right for you. Member FDIC. Some restrictions apply.)
Are there downsides to that approach, though? For a long time I never thought so -- especially once Google Docs came out, and I could easily resume my brainstorming on any internet-connected computer at any time (even my phone!).
But then, while I was rewriting my last script, a few things hit me:
1. I can't really use my laptop on the couch. Any prolonged period of couch-based typing inevitably causes me back pain later on. (This is because I'm very, very old.)
2. Lugging a laptop to a coffee shop -- despite the highly romanticized nature of doing so in Los Angeles -- sucks. Searching futilely for a seat near an outlet. Struggling to fit your laptop, drink, and arms on a tiny, rickety table. Getting muffin crumbs or water drops on your keyboard. Trying to connect to the WiFi. Debating the need for locking your laptop to the table while you get up to pee. (It's a pain to lock it, but you'd feel like such an idiot if it got stolen just because it was too much of a pain to lock it... or do you just take the laptop in there with you? Or do you just try to hold it until it's time to leave. Screw it, maybe it's time to leave now.)
3. The computer isn't always the greatest medium for just jotting down bits of ideas. Writing on the computer is a relatively formal process. Even if all you're doing is spitballing names for your main character, you still have to create a new document, give it a name, and then save it. (Sure, you have the option of not saving it, but who ever does that in the era of 200 gig hard drives?) You can keep all your scribblings in a single document, but it becomes mighty difficult to parse after a while. So, for the most part I've ended up with a huge list of documents that I have to check out individually each time I resume brainstorming. I'm plagiarizing about a dozen in-flight magazine columnists when I say this, but -- wait for it -- weren't computers supposed to make us more efficient?
* * *
The last point, really, is key. Sometimes I have thoughts that just aren't ready to be typed. But I still need to get them out of my head so I can move on to the next thought. In these cases, I need a pressure-free, nonjudgmental canvas onto which to spill my brain droppings.
Enter the pad and the pen.
I can use the pad and the pen anywhere: on the couch (without back pain), in a coffee shop (who's going to steal some paper and a Bic?), even the backseat of a car. I can map out thoughts in as haphazard a manner as I choose -- circling, crossing out, drawing lines -- and scribble out or crumple up anything that doesn't work. Anything that does work will get transcribed to the computer (probably with some editing along the way).
The pad and the pen can come into play at any point in the creative process, too. Sometimes I need to quickly work out how I'm going to write or rewrite a scene in the final script before I sit down at the keyboard to do that. Or I might want to do a brief scribble on character traits or dynamics to remind myself what the story parameters are. Doesn't matter -- the pad and the pen are always game.
They're a great invention. I wish someone had thought of them sooner.
As a screenwriter, this is hardly abnormal behavior: the profession itself is as dependent on computers as Pixar is. However, in terms of the entire process of screenwriting, the only step that really needs to be typed out is the formatted screenplay itself -- which, as we all know, often represents a relatively small amount of time and energy in the grand scheme of things. Nonetheless, it's natural for a laptop-addicted screenwriter (especially a tech whore like me) to want to hash out the whole thing digitally, from spitballing initial ideas to doing character sketches to outlining to re-outlining to finally -- and thankfully -- firing up Final Draft to crank out the script. (Or CeltX. I use CeltX these days and love it and highly recommend it. Ask your doctor if CeltX is right for you. Member FDIC. Some restrictions apply.)
Are there downsides to that approach, though? For a long time I never thought so -- especially once Google Docs came out, and I could easily resume my brainstorming on any internet-connected computer at any time (even my phone!).
But then, while I was rewriting my last script, a few things hit me:
1. I can't really use my laptop on the couch. Any prolonged period of couch-based typing inevitably causes me back pain later on. (This is because I'm very, very old.)
2. Lugging a laptop to a coffee shop -- despite the highly romanticized nature of doing so in Los Angeles -- sucks. Searching futilely for a seat near an outlet. Struggling to fit your laptop, drink, and arms on a tiny, rickety table. Getting muffin crumbs or water drops on your keyboard. Trying to connect to the WiFi. Debating the need for locking your laptop to the table while you get up to pee. (It's a pain to lock it, but you'd feel like such an idiot if it got stolen just because it was too much of a pain to lock it... or do you just take the laptop in there with you? Or do you just try to hold it until it's time to leave. Screw it, maybe it's time to leave now.)
3. The computer isn't always the greatest medium for just jotting down bits of ideas. Writing on the computer is a relatively formal process. Even if all you're doing is spitballing names for your main character, you still have to create a new document, give it a name, and then save it. (Sure, you have the option of not saving it, but who ever does that in the era of 200 gig hard drives?) You can keep all your scribblings in a single document, but it becomes mighty difficult to parse after a while. So, for the most part I've ended up with a huge list of documents that I have to check out individually each time I resume brainstorming. I'm plagiarizing about a dozen in-flight magazine columnists when I say this, but -- wait for it -- weren't computers supposed to make us more efficient?
* * *
The last point, really, is key. Sometimes I have thoughts that just aren't ready to be typed. But I still need to get them out of my head so I can move on to the next thought. In these cases, I need a pressure-free, nonjudgmental canvas onto which to spill my brain droppings.
Enter the pad and the pen.
I can use the pad and the pen anywhere: on the couch (without back pain), in a coffee shop (who's going to steal some paper and a Bic?), even the backseat of a car. I can map out thoughts in as haphazard a manner as I choose -- circling, crossing out, drawing lines -- and scribble out or crumple up anything that doesn't work. Anything that does work will get transcribed to the computer (probably with some editing along the way).
The pad and the pen can come into play at any point in the creative process, too. Sometimes I need to quickly work out how I'm going to write or rewrite a scene in the final script before I sit down at the keyboard to do that. Or I might want to do a brief scribble on character traits or dynamics to remind myself what the story parameters are. Doesn't matter -- the pad and the pen are always game.
They're a great invention. I wish someone had thought of them sooner.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Funneling
Virtually all dramatic, emotional, thrilling, or satisfying moments in films center on the protagonist's choosing one course of action over another. In order to deliver these moments effectively, the screenwriter needs to keep the protagonist's decision-making process as clear and understandable as possible -- because if the audience doesn't understand what his or her options are, or if there are simply too many options, then the drama is lost.
Theoretically, we all have an infinite number of options in just about any situation. If a waiter asks if you want coffee, you can also respond with any number of non sequiturs ("White elephants on Tuesday!" for example), or run screaming from the restaurant, or throw your chair across the room, etc., etc. However, most people would consider the only two "real" choices to be "Yes, please" or "No, thank you," and if a scene like this appears in a movie and the protagonist says "Yes, please," we don't need to explain to the audience why he didn't elect to throw his chair or run away.
But there are plenty of other situations where the number of "real" choices is much, much larger. If you're a single person in Los Angeles, how do you decide whom to date? How do you even decide how to look for a date, given the plethora of both real-world and online mate-finding resources? The fact that you can actively search for a decade without exhausting these options is more likely a source of frustration than relief -- and that's true whether we're talking about this scenario as a real-life dilemma or the plot for a romantic comedy.
Let's say we're trying to make a go of the latter (we'll call it Untitled Los Angeles Dating Comedy... or, perhaps, to get some heat behind it, Untitled Rachel McAdams Project). At the start of the movie, Rachel stands at the edge of the nigh-limitless dating pool that is L.A., in the exact situation we've just described. By the end, we assume, she will be paired up with some charming, eligible man. In between, there will be shenanigans, misunderstandings, and soul-searching. Throw in Amanda Seyfried as the acerbic best friend (Mean Girls reunion!), open it against a big action movie, you've got a hit. Easy, right?
Sure. But there's a catch: Even though Rachel will technically be choosing her ideal guy from among an entire city of bachelors, we don't want it to look that way in the movie. Because if we really present it that like that -- as if any of this sea of men were a potential mate, and she just happened to choose this one -- then we've got an exceptionally weak ending on our hands. The audience leaves wondering, "Why him? Why not guy #10273, or the one fifteen down from him, or anyone else?" And we haven't done our job as screenwriters.
This is where the concept of funneling comes in. As the story progresses, we must continually find ways to narrow Rachel's options -- not widen them. And we have to do this in a believable, transparent way. Like this:
Scene 1: Rachel tries speed-dating. The event is full of guys from the investment banking world, and she hears one boring financial story after another. By the end of the night she knows damn well she's never marrying a banker.
Scene 2: Rachel goes with a friend on an Art Walk in Venice. She gets hit on by all manner of starving artists, but can't believe the level of entitlement and smarminess on display, considering most of them couldn't afford to buy her coffee.
Scene 3: Rachel goes on a blind date that her cousin arranged for her. He's a major douche and it's an unmitigated disaster.
Now we're making progress, because we've reduced her choices. The audience isn't going to be left with the nagging feeling that Rachel should really go back and give those i-bankers another shot, or ask her cousin to fix her up with someone else. However, as the dating pool shrinks, the viewers are going to be wondering just what kind of man is finally going to do it for her. In other words, they want to know what happens next -- and that's what we want them to want.
Things don't necessarily work this way in real life. If the above three scenarios actually happened, it's unlikely that each of them would be so clearly negative. Chances are better that they'd all have their high points and low points, and that afterwards, if Rachel were honest with herself, she'd say that there were legitimate reasons to keep all three options open in the future. But if we wrote the movie that way, it would be an incredible bore. No progress, no momentum, nobody awake by the time the credits roll. To keep the audience's attention, we have to keep forcing Rachel down a narrower and narrower path. Thus, a million guys becomes a thousand; a thousand becomes a dozen; a dozen becomes one.
But wait! There's a catch. Once that dozen has become one -- once the Best Guy in L.A. has been revealed -- we are absolutely within our rights to turn the entire funneling principle on its head and introduce another seemingly perfect guy (someone from Rachel's past, someone who's previously rejected her, someone she rejected who's changed, etc.). In this case, widening Rachel's options works to create drama rather than kill it -- and this is really the only time we can get away with doing so.
Theoretically, we all have an infinite number of options in just about any situation. If a waiter asks if you want coffee, you can also respond with any number of non sequiturs ("White elephants on Tuesday!" for example), or run screaming from the restaurant, or throw your chair across the room, etc., etc. However, most people would consider the only two "real" choices to be "Yes, please" or "No, thank you," and if a scene like this appears in a movie and the protagonist says "Yes, please," we don't need to explain to the audience why he didn't elect to throw his chair or run away.
But there are plenty of other situations where the number of "real" choices is much, much larger. If you're a single person in Los Angeles, how do you decide whom to date? How do you even decide how to look for a date, given the plethora of both real-world and online mate-finding resources? The fact that you can actively search for a decade without exhausting these options is more likely a source of frustration than relief -- and that's true whether we're talking about this scenario as a real-life dilemma or the plot for a romantic comedy.
Let's say we're trying to make a go of the latter (we'll call it Untitled Los Angeles Dating Comedy... or, perhaps, to get some heat behind it, Untitled Rachel McAdams Project). At the start of the movie, Rachel stands at the edge of the nigh-limitless dating pool that is L.A., in the exact situation we've just described. By the end, we assume, she will be paired up with some charming, eligible man. In between, there will be shenanigans, misunderstandings, and soul-searching. Throw in Amanda Seyfried as the acerbic best friend (Mean Girls reunion!), open it against a big action movie, you've got a hit. Easy, right?
Sure. But there's a catch: Even though Rachel will technically be choosing her ideal guy from among an entire city of bachelors, we don't want it to look that way in the movie. Because if we really present it that like that -- as if any of this sea of men were a potential mate, and she just happened to choose this one -- then we've got an exceptionally weak ending on our hands. The audience leaves wondering, "Why him? Why not guy #10273, or the one fifteen down from him, or anyone else?" And we haven't done our job as screenwriters.
This is where the concept of funneling comes in. As the story progresses, we must continually find ways to narrow Rachel's options -- not widen them. And we have to do this in a believable, transparent way. Like this:
Scene 1: Rachel tries speed-dating. The event is full of guys from the investment banking world, and she hears one boring financial story after another. By the end of the night she knows damn well she's never marrying a banker.
Scene 2: Rachel goes with a friend on an Art Walk in Venice. She gets hit on by all manner of starving artists, but can't believe the level of entitlement and smarminess on display, considering most of them couldn't afford to buy her coffee.
Scene 3: Rachel goes on a blind date that her cousin arranged for her. He's a major douche and it's an unmitigated disaster.
Now we're making progress, because we've reduced her choices. The audience isn't going to be left with the nagging feeling that Rachel should really go back and give those i-bankers another shot, or ask her cousin to fix her up with someone else. However, as the dating pool shrinks, the viewers are going to be wondering just what kind of man is finally going to do it for her. In other words, they want to know what happens next -- and that's what we want them to want.
Things don't necessarily work this way in real life. If the above three scenarios actually happened, it's unlikely that each of them would be so clearly negative. Chances are better that they'd all have their high points and low points, and that afterwards, if Rachel were honest with herself, she'd say that there were legitimate reasons to keep all three options open in the future. But if we wrote the movie that way, it would be an incredible bore. No progress, no momentum, nobody awake by the time the credits roll. To keep the audience's attention, we have to keep forcing Rachel down a narrower and narrower path. Thus, a million guys becomes a thousand; a thousand becomes a dozen; a dozen becomes one.
But wait! There's a catch. Once that dozen has become one -- once the Best Guy in L.A. has been revealed -- we are absolutely within our rights to turn the entire funneling principle on its head and introduce another seemingly perfect guy (someone from Rachel's past, someone who's previously rejected her, someone she rejected who's changed, etc.). In this case, widening Rachel's options works to create drama rather than kill it -- and this is really the only time we can get away with doing so.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
"Fuck you" is bad dialogue
The title is a quote from a TV writing teacher I had several years ago. It's accurate on the face of it, but it also points to a larger truth about dialogue in general.
Screenwriters are always looking for quick ways to convey things. And quicker usually equals better. For example, the single sentence, "STEVE JACKSON exits a massive Hummer limousine, flanked by an anxious ENTOURAGE, and walks toward hundreds of screaming FANS," does the same work as a page and a half of expository dialogue about how famous he is. However, this shortcutting principle only extends so far -- and it doesn't give us license to be lazy.
Unfortunately, many writers tend to be the laziest when it comes to writing dialogue. And laziness in that department often leads to the overuse of profanity. It leads to the misguided idea that curse words somehow make characters funnier, or more clever, or more menacing. Which they usually don't. In fact, they often make for some of the least interesting dialogue possible -- whereas the avoidance of profanity can lead to some truly memorable lines.
I've been reading the script for Duplicity lately, after seeing the film and loving it. Its high points are many, but one that is likely to be overlooked is the fact that it has no guns, no real violence, and very little cursing. Yet, it's a hugely entertaining, even thrilling movie that has some of the best dialogue in years. Here's a sampling.
------------
GUSTON: Suspect? That's no suspect... (calling into Bauer) YOU'RE NOT A SUSPECT, ARE YOU, JEFF? YOU'RE A BACKSTABBING LITTLE WEASEL! YOU'RE GONNA BURN, ASSHOLE!
BAUER: (muffled through the glass) I want a lawyer!
GUSTON: FORGET THE LAWYER, WEASEL! WHAT YOU NEED IS A NET, CAUSE I'M THROWING YOUR BACKSTABBING ASS OUT THE WINDOW!
------------
Okay, it's not entirely clean, but it's nothing you couldn't air at 10 PM on network television. And look at all the great uses of non-swears. Isn't "weasel" a million times better than "shithead" or "motherfucker"? Isn't the line about the net a million times better than some generic cold-blooded murder threat? (This isn't even a scene between main characters; the interplay between Clive Owen and Julia Roberts deserves its own essay.)
Putting on the studio hat for a minute, let's also remember that multiple uses of "fuck" pretty much guarantees that a film will be R-rated, and an R-rated film is less marketable than a PG-13. I know it makes writers throw up in our mouths a little to even think about anything like that, but if you want to work within the studio system (i.e., make a living), it has to be a consideration. Duplicity slid by with a PG-13, even though its tone and intelligence clearly make it a film for adults; and I wouldn't be surprised if that gave Tony Gilroy more creative freedom (or even made the difference in getting a greenlight).
Understand, I'm not attacking the use of profanity in general. Obviously, there are plenty of cases where it's genuinely warranted. The constant streams of obscenities in Glengarry Glen Ross and Boyz N the Hood are organic to the worlds those films inhabit -- worlds of endless frustration, exhaustion, even abject misery. Characters curse their way through sentences as a means of both venting and masking their true feelings, and there's no doubt that the films are more effective for it. But very, very few of the movies that trade in that level of profanity really earn it.
Screenwriters are always looking for quick ways to convey things. And quicker usually equals better. For example, the single sentence, "STEVE JACKSON exits a massive Hummer limousine, flanked by an anxious ENTOURAGE, and walks toward hundreds of screaming FANS," does the same work as a page and a half of expository dialogue about how famous he is. However, this shortcutting principle only extends so far -- and it doesn't give us license to be lazy.
Unfortunately, many writers tend to be the laziest when it comes to writing dialogue. And laziness in that department often leads to the overuse of profanity. It leads to the misguided idea that curse words somehow make characters funnier, or more clever, or more menacing. Which they usually don't. In fact, they often make for some of the least interesting dialogue possible -- whereas the avoidance of profanity can lead to some truly memorable lines.
I've been reading the script for Duplicity lately, after seeing the film and loving it. Its high points are many, but one that is likely to be overlooked is the fact that it has no guns, no real violence, and very little cursing. Yet, it's a hugely entertaining, even thrilling movie that has some of the best dialogue in years. Here's a sampling.
------------
GUSTON: Suspect? That's no suspect... (calling into Bauer) YOU'RE NOT A SUSPECT, ARE YOU, JEFF? YOU'RE A BACKSTABBING LITTLE WEASEL! YOU'RE GONNA BURN, ASSHOLE!
BAUER: (muffled through the glass) I want a lawyer!
GUSTON: FORGET THE LAWYER, WEASEL! WHAT YOU NEED IS A NET, CAUSE I'M THROWING YOUR BACKSTABBING ASS OUT THE WINDOW!
------------
Okay, it's not entirely clean, but it's nothing you couldn't air at 10 PM on network television. And look at all the great uses of non-swears. Isn't "weasel" a million times better than "shithead" or "motherfucker"? Isn't the line about the net a million times better than some generic cold-blooded murder threat? (This isn't even a scene between main characters; the interplay between Clive Owen and Julia Roberts deserves its own essay.)
Putting on the studio hat for a minute, let's also remember that multiple uses of "fuck" pretty much guarantees that a film will be R-rated, and an R-rated film is less marketable than a PG-13. I know it makes writers throw up in our mouths a little to even think about anything like that, but if you want to work within the studio system (i.e., make a living), it has to be a consideration. Duplicity slid by with a PG-13, even though its tone and intelligence clearly make it a film for adults; and I wouldn't be surprised if that gave Tony Gilroy more creative freedom (or even made the difference in getting a greenlight).
Understand, I'm not attacking the use of profanity in general. Obviously, there are plenty of cases where it's genuinely warranted. The constant streams of obscenities in Glengarry Glen Ross and Boyz N the Hood are organic to the worlds those films inhabit -- worlds of endless frustration, exhaustion, even abject misery. Characters curse their way through sentences as a means of both venting and masking their true feelings, and there's no doubt that the films are more effective for it. But very, very few of the movies that trade in that level of profanity really earn it.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Setup/payoff
Setup-and-payoff is probably one of the most important concepts to be mastered on the road to producing professional-grade screenplays. Some writers equate it with cause-and-effect, but in fact cause-and-effect is only one type of setup-and-payoff -- and it's the most obvious type to boot. A script that uses only cause-and-effect may succeed in telling its story, but it won't be as effective as one that mines the full potential of setup/payoff.
Let's take a step back and define each term as it relates to a movie. Cause-and-effect means that one event happens as a direct result of a previous event; the audience is either explicitly made aware of the connection, or can piece the two halves together if they think about it. Setup-and-payoff means that the impact of an event is amplified by a previous event.
Sounds complicated and academic, I know. Probably better to put it into context. We'll look at two versions of a hypothetical sequence, taking place somewhere in the middle of a hypothetical movie. The first will simply use cause-and-effect; the second will add setup-and-payoff.
* * *
Version 1:
Scene 1: A masked man sneaks into a house through the kitchen window and rigs the toaster with an explosive.
Scene 2: Steve wakes up in the morning, makes his coffee, and puts his bread in the toaster. When he presses the button: Kaboom.
* * *
Version 2:
Scene 1: Steve wakes up in the morning, makes his coffee, and puts his bread in the toaster.
Scene 2: The next morning. Steve wakes up, makes his coffee, and puts his bread in the toaster.
Scene 3: A masked man sneaks into the house through the kitchen window and rigs the toaster with an explosive.
Scene 4: Steve wakes up, makes his coffee, and puts his bread in the toaster. When he presses the button: Kaboom.
* * *
So let's compare the two.
In the first version, Scene 1 is obviously a cause waiting for an effect. Then in Scene 2, suspense builds as the audience wonders whether Steve's going to use the toaster.
In the second version, the bomb-planting scene becomes much more frightening. What was obvious setup in Version 1 becomes a payoff of its own in Version 2. Having seen Steve's morning routine, they'll be biting their nails because they know he's going to use that toaster.
There's a catch here, of course: We're not going to get away with writing a screenplay that devotes two entire scenes to a guy making coffee and toast. Therefore, we'll need to find other ways to justify their existence in the narrative. Perhaps in the first scene, Steve is excited about starting a new job, going about his morning tasks with a nervous energy; but in the second scene, he's been dumped by his girlfriend -- so he trudges around the kitchen halfheartedly, debating with himself over whether to call her. Now these scenes have a legitimate purpose: major life changes dramatized through breakfast preparation.
That's better, but still not perfect -- because we're really working in the wrong direction. Rather than coming up with interesting elements to insert into Scenes 1 and 2, what we should really be doing is examining our earlier scenes in the script (remember, this sequence takes place somewhere in the middle of the movie) and figuring out how to re-stage a couple of them in the kitchen. Since those scenes already exist, we know they're essential to the story and they won't feel shoehorned in.
So, if there's a scene wherein a friend from Steve's past confronts him at work, we can rewrite it such that the friend bangs on Steve's door first thing in the morning, interrupting his carefully regimented routine. They argue while a frazzled Steve tries to maneuver around the friend to make his coffee and toast. Or, we could take a scene about Steve trying to buy flowers for his girlfriend and change it so he's doing that while making breakfast -- because he forgot about their anniversary until the morning-of. Now, rather than struggling to justify scenes that are pure setup, we've incorporated setup into scenes we already needed.
I realize that all this barely scratches the surface of setup-and-payoff, so I'm sure I'll have more to say on the topic at a later date.
Let's take a step back and define each term as it relates to a movie. Cause-and-effect means that one event happens as a direct result of a previous event; the audience is either explicitly made aware of the connection, or can piece the two halves together if they think about it. Setup-and-payoff means that the impact of an event is amplified by a previous event.
Sounds complicated and academic, I know. Probably better to put it into context. We'll look at two versions of a hypothetical sequence, taking place somewhere in the middle of a hypothetical movie. The first will simply use cause-and-effect; the second will add setup-and-payoff.
* * *
Version 1:
Scene 1: A masked man sneaks into a house through the kitchen window and rigs the toaster with an explosive.
Scene 2: Steve wakes up in the morning, makes his coffee, and puts his bread in the toaster. When he presses the button: Kaboom.
* * *
Version 2:
Scene 1: Steve wakes up in the morning, makes his coffee, and puts his bread in the toaster.
Scene 2: The next morning. Steve wakes up, makes his coffee, and puts his bread in the toaster.
Scene 3: A masked man sneaks into the house through the kitchen window and rigs the toaster with an explosive.
Scene 4: Steve wakes up, makes his coffee, and puts his bread in the toaster. When he presses the button: Kaboom.
* * *
So let's compare the two.
In the first version, Scene 1 is obviously a cause waiting for an effect. Then in Scene 2, suspense builds as the audience wonders whether Steve's going to use the toaster.
In the second version, the bomb-planting scene becomes much more frightening. What was obvious setup in Version 1 becomes a payoff of its own in Version 2. Having seen Steve's morning routine, they'll be biting their nails because they know he's going to use that toaster.
There's a catch here, of course: We're not going to get away with writing a screenplay that devotes two entire scenes to a guy making coffee and toast. Therefore, we'll need to find other ways to justify their existence in the narrative. Perhaps in the first scene, Steve is excited about starting a new job, going about his morning tasks with a nervous energy; but in the second scene, he's been dumped by his girlfriend -- so he trudges around the kitchen halfheartedly, debating with himself over whether to call her. Now these scenes have a legitimate purpose: major life changes dramatized through breakfast preparation.
That's better, but still not perfect -- because we're really working in the wrong direction. Rather than coming up with interesting elements to insert into Scenes 1 and 2, what we should really be doing is examining our earlier scenes in the script (remember, this sequence takes place somewhere in the middle of the movie) and figuring out how to re-stage a couple of them in the kitchen. Since those scenes already exist, we know they're essential to the story and they won't feel shoehorned in.
So, if there's a scene wherein a friend from Steve's past confronts him at work, we can rewrite it such that the friend bangs on Steve's door first thing in the morning, interrupting his carefully regimented routine. They argue while a frazzled Steve tries to maneuver around the friend to make his coffee and toast. Or, we could take a scene about Steve trying to buy flowers for his girlfriend and change it so he's doing that while making breakfast -- because he forgot about their anniversary until the morning-of. Now, rather than struggling to justify scenes that are pure setup, we've incorporated setup into scenes we already needed.
I realize that all this barely scratches the surface of setup-and-payoff, so I'm sure I'll have more to say on the topic at a later date.
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