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.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
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.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Exposition
In practically every aspect of life, we're constantly having conversations whose sole purpose is to provide information. We wouldn't dream of trying to "hide" an explanation in some other, unrelated conversation. In film, though, that's exactly what we have to do.
And let's be frank here. It's a major pain in the ass.
But it's also essential. No matter how seamlessly we weave our narratives, there are moments where we sit back and realize the audience doesn't know something that we need them to know, and we need to find a way to tell them.
In general, screenwriting is a swing-for-the-fences kind of pursuit. You put your all into it and try to deliver your very best, and in doing so you accept the possibility of abject failure. Writing exposition? Not so much. This is an area where you're actively trying to not screw up. No one's going to say, "Holy shit, that was some awesome exposition!" if you do it right, but people will most definitely say, "That exposition was fucking terrible!" if you do it wrong. In other words, it's better to aim for okay exposition and land on target than to aim for incredible exposition and miss.
And let me clarify here, because there are two ways to "miss" -- by being too obvious, or by not being obvious enough. It really behooves us to avoid both these landmines, because the former exposes our writing as amateurish, while the latter will result in mass confusion due to the reader/audience missing important information.
I think the easiest way to screw up exposition is by failing to couch it in any kind of conflict between characters. No normal person would greet a friend by saying, "Hey! If it isn't my favorite Harvard-educated psychiatrist!" On the other hand, given the right argument, that person might choose to throw that piece of information in his friend's face. "You're calling me a loser? You, the Harvard-educated psychiatrist who still lives with his mother?"
Another common technique is bragging-as-exposition. "Look, you don't need to dumb it down for me. I'm a Harvard-educated psychiatrist." I'm not as much of a fan of this method, but in the right context it's not so bad.
Here's one we've all seen ad infinitum: the "I've done my homework" speech. "You think I don't know you, wise guy? Two years of community college in Indiana, medical school in Barbados, cheated your way through the boards. Not only is that Harvard diploma in your office a fake -- I can even tell you the website you ordered it from. Wanna hear what else I've got?"
A close relative is the "emphasizing a point" technique. "I can't lie to him about being pregnant! He's a Harvard-educated psychiatrist, he'll see right through it!"
These examples are some of the old reliables. They're not entirely subtle, but they get the job done. There's no chance we would miss the information that this character is a Harvard-educated psychiatrist (or at least claims to be).
And these are by no means our only choices. They're fallbacks -- relatively painless ways to shoehorn in a bit of information without changing too much else or creating a new scene. It's okay to use them once in a while, but if all our important exposition is coming out through one of these methods, the whiff of amateur is going to be in the air pretty quickly. The best way to convey exposition is almost always visually, and in this case it wouldn't be hard to do that (one five-second shot of the character sitting in a chair across from a patient on a couch with a Harvard diploma in the background takes care of it).
And let's be frank here. It's a major pain in the ass.
But it's also essential. No matter how seamlessly we weave our narratives, there are moments where we sit back and realize the audience doesn't know something that we need them to know, and we need to find a way to tell them.
In general, screenwriting is a swing-for-the-fences kind of pursuit. You put your all into it and try to deliver your very best, and in doing so you accept the possibility of abject failure. Writing exposition? Not so much. This is an area where you're actively trying to not screw up. No one's going to say, "Holy shit, that was some awesome exposition!" if you do it right, but people will most definitely say, "That exposition was fucking terrible!" if you do it wrong. In other words, it's better to aim for okay exposition and land on target than to aim for incredible exposition and miss.
And let me clarify here, because there are two ways to "miss" -- by being too obvious, or by not being obvious enough. It really behooves us to avoid both these landmines, because the former exposes our writing as amateurish, while the latter will result in mass confusion due to the reader/audience missing important information.
I think the easiest way to screw up exposition is by failing to couch it in any kind of conflict between characters. No normal person would greet a friend by saying, "Hey! If it isn't my favorite Harvard-educated psychiatrist!" On the other hand, given the right argument, that person might choose to throw that piece of information in his friend's face. "You're calling me a loser? You, the Harvard-educated psychiatrist who still lives with his mother?"
Another common technique is bragging-as-exposition. "Look, you don't need to dumb it down for me. I'm a Harvard-educated psychiatrist." I'm not as much of a fan of this method, but in the right context it's not so bad.
Here's one we've all seen ad infinitum: the "I've done my homework" speech. "You think I don't know you, wise guy? Two years of community college in Indiana, medical school in Barbados, cheated your way through the boards. Not only is that Harvard diploma in your office a fake -- I can even tell you the website you ordered it from. Wanna hear what else I've got?"
A close relative is the "emphasizing a point" technique. "I can't lie to him about being pregnant! He's a Harvard-educated psychiatrist, he'll see right through it!"
These examples are some of the old reliables. They're not entirely subtle, but they get the job done. There's no chance we would miss the information that this character is a Harvard-educated psychiatrist (or at least claims to be).
And these are by no means our only choices. They're fallbacks -- relatively painless ways to shoehorn in a bit of information without changing too much else or creating a new scene. It's okay to use them once in a while, but if all our important exposition is coming out through one of these methods, the whiff of amateur is going to be in the air pretty quickly. The best way to convey exposition is almost always visually, and in this case it wouldn't be hard to do that (one five-second shot of the character sitting in a chair across from a patient on a couch with a Harvard diploma in the background takes care of it).
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The first ten pages
Anyone who's taken a screenwriting class, read a screenwriting book, or listened in on any given conversation at the Coffee Bean on Sunset is familiar with some pearl of conventional wisdom about The First Ten Pages of a script. One of the best versions goes something like, "Studio executives only read the first ten pages!" (As far as I know, that estimate is at least ten pages too high.)
Thus, aspiring screenwriters everywhere work themselves into a lather trying to come up with the best First Ten Pages ever written, leading to scripts that look like this:
ACTION/ADVENTURE: Screenplay starts with a breathless ten-page action sequence, then segues into 15-20 pages of exposition.
COMEDY: Screenplay starts with ten pages of laughter upon laughter, each bit funnier than the last, then segues into 15-20 pages of establishing characters and situation.
DRAMA/THRILLER: Screenplay starts with shocking ten-page flashback scene, then segues into 15-20 pages of exposition and establishing characters.
Generally, this approach fails miserably. Here are some of the reasons why.
1. The writer has set up unmeetable expectations for the rest of the script. It starts on such a high note that everything else is disappointing by comparison -- especially those next 15-20 pages.
2. The writer has delayed the actual storytelling. Since the opening scene/sequence is only intended to entertain the reader, it has little or no connection to the main plot of the screenplay -- it doesn't set anything up. Now the writer has to work overtime to cram in plot exposition and tell us who the characters are, which makes the ensuing scenes slow and boring.
3. The opening sequence itself is hamstrung. If the reader doesn't know anything about the characters involved, there's a limit to how exciting, funny, or otherwise compelling the opening sequence can be. It's not paying anything off, because nothing's been set up, and therefore it can only resonate on the most generic level -- meaning broad comedy, meaningless action, cheap thrills. No matter how good you think you are at executing this stuff, an intelligent reader will look past the glitz and see the lack of substance.
Regardless of the evidence to the contrary, many writers still attempt to go this route -- and why? Because they're afraid of setup. They have no confidence in their ability to write an opening that lays the groundwork for the story in an interesting manner, so their solution is just to make the first ten pages as entertaining as possible, then jam in all the exposition later. The result is an opening sequence that could be cut from the script without affecting the story. Ironically, then, in their rush to come up with the ten pages they'd most want this theoretical studio executive to read, they've written the ten pages that he or she could most easily skip.
So let's not do that. Screenwriters read lots of screenplays too, and we know what we're looking for when we pick one up, and it's not an immediate all-out sensory assault. Here are some of the things I want out of the opening pages of a script (and I doubt I'm alone in this):
- I want to meet the characters I'm going to be spending 100 pages with, and get to know them quickly so I can decide how I feel about them.
- I want to get a feel for the world the script takes place in -- time, place, circumstances.
- I want some hints about what to expect from the rest of the story. Is this a great situation that will come crashing down? A horrible situation that will be transformed for the better? What's unsustainable in this scenario? By page ten I should have an idea.
Since these are the things I'm looking for, they're also the things I'll try to deliver in the first ten pages. Another thing I try to be aware of is the fact that as soon as I read the words "Fade in:", an enormous information vacuum is created in my mind. I know nothing, and want to know everything. So that information vacuum will suck up every available bit of data scattered throughout the opening scenes of a script -- and I'm going to assume that information is important and will be paid off later.
If a character changes the subject when sex is brought up, I'll be waiting for the scene when those past issues are revealed. If someone looks at an overdue bill, I'll be waiting for money problems to come front and center. And like Chekov so aptly put it, if I see a gun I'll be waiting for it to go off.
These kinds of moments aren't just about setup. They're about anticipation. The power to build anticipation in the reader/audience is one of the screenwriter's greatest assets. It forces the reader's hand to keep turning the pages, fixes the audience's eyes to the screen. If we exploit this principle to the full, we can easily front-load the script with introductions and exposition without being the least bit boring.
I mean, look at Julian Fellowes's script for Gosford Park. (It won the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay, so I guess it's an okay example.) The opening minutes of the film do nothing but introduce the enormous cast of characters and set up the situation they're in. But what a compelling setup! Fellowes drops the audience right into an unfamiliar world, and it's up to us to decipher the rules and customs based on the interactions we're permitted to observe. There's no opening crawl, no voiceover, no Greek-chorus-like mechanism to explain the setting to us. By the time we've figured out the landscape, the story is well on its way.
But -- going back to several paragraphs ago -- if you are absolutely intent on starting your story with a literal bang, there's a right way to do it. Raiders of the Lost Ark opens with one of the most iconic treasure-hunting action sequences of all time, and it doesn't technically relate to the central plot of the film -- but it still works as setup. We get a feel for Indiana Jones and his world. We meet his nemesis, a ruthless guy who has Indy's number. We see the fear of snakes. This isn't a lot of setup for the first ten pages, but for this movie it's just enough -- and anyone who thinks that Raiders proves that you can get away with starting a movie with a disconnected action scene is missing the point. Without those elements of setup, the opening (and quite possibly the rest of the script) wouldn't work. There's entertainment, yes, but beyond that there's intrigue -- and intrigue is what sustains the reader/viewer long after the excitement of a set piece has worn off.
First and foremost, we need to use the first ten pages (along with much of the first act) to plant nagging questions, doubts, and fears in the mind of the reader. If we do that effectively, reading the 11th page and beyond will be a foregone conclusion; and then we're all set, provided all those elements are satisfactorily followed up.
Thus, aspiring screenwriters everywhere work themselves into a lather trying to come up with the best First Ten Pages ever written, leading to scripts that look like this:
ACTION/ADVENTURE: Screenplay starts with a breathless ten-page action sequence, then segues into 15-20 pages of exposition.
COMEDY: Screenplay starts with ten pages of laughter upon laughter, each bit funnier than the last, then segues into 15-20 pages of establishing characters and situation.
DRAMA/THRILLER: Screenplay starts with shocking ten-page flashback scene, then segues into 15-20 pages of exposition and establishing characters.
Generally, this approach fails miserably. Here are some of the reasons why.
1. The writer has set up unmeetable expectations for the rest of the script. It starts on such a high note that everything else is disappointing by comparison -- especially those next 15-20 pages.
2. The writer has delayed the actual storytelling. Since the opening scene/sequence is only intended to entertain the reader, it has little or no connection to the main plot of the screenplay -- it doesn't set anything up. Now the writer has to work overtime to cram in plot exposition and tell us who the characters are, which makes the ensuing scenes slow and boring.
3. The opening sequence itself is hamstrung. If the reader doesn't know anything about the characters involved, there's a limit to how exciting, funny, or otherwise compelling the opening sequence can be. It's not paying anything off, because nothing's been set up, and therefore it can only resonate on the most generic level -- meaning broad comedy, meaningless action, cheap thrills. No matter how good you think you are at executing this stuff, an intelligent reader will look past the glitz and see the lack of substance.
Regardless of the evidence to the contrary, many writers still attempt to go this route -- and why? Because they're afraid of setup. They have no confidence in their ability to write an opening that lays the groundwork for the story in an interesting manner, so their solution is just to make the first ten pages as entertaining as possible, then jam in all the exposition later. The result is an opening sequence that could be cut from the script without affecting the story. Ironically, then, in their rush to come up with the ten pages they'd most want this theoretical studio executive to read, they've written the ten pages that he or she could most easily skip.
So let's not do that. Screenwriters read lots of screenplays too, and we know what we're looking for when we pick one up, and it's not an immediate all-out sensory assault. Here are some of the things I want out of the opening pages of a script (and I doubt I'm alone in this):
- I want to meet the characters I'm going to be spending 100 pages with, and get to know them quickly so I can decide how I feel about them.
- I want to get a feel for the world the script takes place in -- time, place, circumstances.
- I want some hints about what to expect from the rest of the story. Is this a great situation that will come crashing down? A horrible situation that will be transformed for the better? What's unsustainable in this scenario? By page ten I should have an idea.
Since these are the things I'm looking for, they're also the things I'll try to deliver in the first ten pages. Another thing I try to be aware of is the fact that as soon as I read the words "Fade in:", an enormous information vacuum is created in my mind. I know nothing, and want to know everything. So that information vacuum will suck up every available bit of data scattered throughout the opening scenes of a script -- and I'm going to assume that information is important and will be paid off later.
If a character changes the subject when sex is brought up, I'll be waiting for the scene when those past issues are revealed. If someone looks at an overdue bill, I'll be waiting for money problems to come front and center. And like Chekov so aptly put it, if I see a gun I'll be waiting for it to go off.
These kinds of moments aren't just about setup. They're about anticipation. The power to build anticipation in the reader/audience is one of the screenwriter's greatest assets. It forces the reader's hand to keep turning the pages, fixes the audience's eyes to the screen. If we exploit this principle to the full, we can easily front-load the script with introductions and exposition without being the least bit boring.
I mean, look at Julian Fellowes's script for Gosford Park. (It won the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay, so I guess it's an okay example.) The opening minutes of the film do nothing but introduce the enormous cast of characters and set up the situation they're in. But what a compelling setup! Fellowes drops the audience right into an unfamiliar world, and it's up to us to decipher the rules and customs based on the interactions we're permitted to observe. There's no opening crawl, no voiceover, no Greek-chorus-like mechanism to explain the setting to us. By the time we've figured out the landscape, the story is well on its way.
But -- going back to several paragraphs ago -- if you are absolutely intent on starting your story with a literal bang, there's a right way to do it. Raiders of the Lost Ark opens with one of the most iconic treasure-hunting action sequences of all time, and it doesn't technically relate to the central plot of the film -- but it still works as setup. We get a feel for Indiana Jones and his world. We meet his nemesis, a ruthless guy who has Indy's number. We see the fear of snakes. This isn't a lot of setup for the first ten pages, but for this movie it's just enough -- and anyone who thinks that Raiders proves that you can get away with starting a movie with a disconnected action scene is missing the point. Without those elements of setup, the opening (and quite possibly the rest of the script) wouldn't work. There's entertainment, yes, but beyond that there's intrigue -- and intrigue is what sustains the reader/viewer long after the excitement of a set piece has worn off.
First and foremost, we need to use the first ten pages (along with much of the first act) to plant nagging questions, doubts, and fears in the mind of the reader. If we do that effectively, reading the 11th page and beyond will be a foregone conclusion; and then we're all set, provided all those elements are satisfactorily followed up.
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