Why Moral Ambiguity Is Essential For A Great Screenplay

In a fascinating and very entertaining lecture for TED, writer Amy Tan discusses how her creative process works. Among the many wonderful insights she gives, I find this one in particular relevant to screenwriters:

We all hate moral ambiguity, but it’s absolutely necessary in writing a story.

As human beings we are constantly confronted with events to which we need to respond. So we ask ourselves: What is the morally right thing to do?

In fiction, which is a deliberately condensed reflection on reality, it’s no different. A story explores a particular moral ambiguity, it asks a specific question. An essential part of the process of writing, is to discover what question you are asking.

But beware! According to Ms. Tan, laying too much emphasis on articulating what the story is “about” (= the answer) can distract the writer’s attention from what is more important, namely finding the question.

To my mind, this is what all the great screenplays have in common. Whether they are relatively small, personal dramas (e.g., In The Bedroom) or huge blockbuster spectacles (e.g., The Dark Knight), they all ask a question about characters facing morally ambiguous choices.

Ms. Tan describes the serendipity that comes into play once she discovers what question her story is asking. Once she has that focus, she sees the question addressed all around her. She constantly receives “hints from the universe.” All the previously random and seemingly irrelevant events of daily life now flow through that one question, and the question becomes the point of reference for all the elements in her story.

I’d say that sounds like the perfect state of mind to be in while writing a screenplay. Thanks Amy Tan!

Screenwriting and Happiness

No, I’m not referring to that mythical, seven-figure sale after an intense and bloody bidding war between five rival studios. I’m referring to what Positive Psychology’s Big Kahuna, Dr. Martin Seligman calls the three aspects of a happy life. In his TED lecture What positive psychology can help you become, Seligman distinguishes three levels of happiness:

The Pleasant Life – Full of pleasure, positive emotions, smiles and cheeriness.

The Good Life – Full of positive engagement, a flow in which time stops and one doesn’t feel anything, when a person’s unique strengths are most at the fore.

The Meaningful Life – Full of activities in which one’s talents serve something bigger than oneself.

I recommend you watch his lecture to get a proper picture of what he’s referring to, but let me just add my own adaptation to the life of a screenwriter:

The Pleasant Life – The excitement of the profession as a social arena, being part of the glamorous or at least public world of cinema, dreaming of Oscars, Hollywood and hobnobbing with the stars. The fun and emotional thrill of being involved in filmmaking.

The Good Life – The work. The flow. The part of being a screenwriter when everything else disappears and you are just in the writing, with no sense of time passing and with no feelings as such. The total, positive engagement with the task at hand.

The Meaningful Life – The part you hopefully get to when your films are produced and screened, when your films enrich other people’s lives with valuable insights, using humour, romance, action, science fiction or whatever your forte is.

When you reach that stage, screenwriting becomes a source of personal fulfilment as well as something that improves the quality of other people’s lives. Not bad for a mere storyteller, right? Certainly a powerful image of what to strive for every time you sit down to write.

Why imagining your movie trailer is an excellent idea

What will the trailer for your movie look like? This is a great question to ask yourself at any stage of the writing, but particularly at the stage where you’re still working out the basics. Here are just a few of the reasons why:

It stimulates your imagination. It’s like telling yourself not to think of that incredibly sexy neighbour of yours in their underwear. What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you say that? Exactly.

It gets your creative juices flowing. Everyone knows how trailers work: They create expectations, they evoke associations and feelings by lifting a veil on the film. By hinting at some of the key dramatic moments, the trailer prompts you to unconsciously fill in the gaps. Which is exactly the right frame of mind to be in when thinking about your script.

It can surprise you. Just when you thought you knew what your film was going to be about, along comes an image in your imaginary trailer that says, what if …? Embrace that unexpected image, it might lead you to an amazing new twist.

It yields ideas for key moments in the film. That’s the nature of a trailer. Those climactic, hilarious or decisive moments in your film. The comedy set piece, the cliff-hanger, the bombshell revelation. The moment of betrayal, the discovery of an unsent letter, the deepest, darkest moment when all seems lost, and so on. All theses kinds of images are likely to pop into your mind.

It clarifies what genre(s) your script is in. You automatically picture the trailer in certain hues, at a particular pace, perhaps you hear a soundtrack or a voice-over, perhaps you visualize the taglines appearing, and so on. These are mostly associations with films you’ve seen before, and that’s good. Because every genre, or combination of genres, has its own characteristic type of trailer, and your film is no exception. The stronger your sense is of what kind of film you’re writing, the easier it will be to pitch.

It’s fun to do. Take a little time to watch trailers every now and then. It will remind you why you want to write movies. Don’t skip the trailers next time you watch a rented movie. Or take a look at sites like Coming Soon and Yahoo Trailers and just sit back and enjoy the show for a few minutes!

Essential Writing Skill Number One: Nurturing Your Ideas.

Possibly the most important aspect of any screenplay is the idea that generated it. Screenplay grammar and formatting can be learned, as can screenplay structure, genre conventions and so on. Yet there’s a popular fallacy which claims that you can’t learn to generate ideas. You’re either born with a talent for it, or not.

I think what’s closer to the truth is that if it doesn’t come naturally, it means you’ve learned to ignore the endless stream of ideas that everyone is subject to during the course of the day. Which is not necessarily a bad thing in many walks of life. Would you want your airline pilot daydreaming on the job?

As a screenwriter though, you need to unlearn that conditioning, open your eyes and ears. Everything around you is potentially the kernel of a story, a scene, a character. Allow yourself to daydream and fantasize about news items, people’s behaviour, locations, anecdotes, music, science, snippets of conversation, children playing, and so on. As I’ve written before in this blog, keep asking What if?

You also need to develop the ability to spot a nugget of gold buried in that mass of mental sludge. Because most of what we think is just white noise. Not Oscar-winning screenplay material.

However, perhaps the most crucial skill to master, is the skill of nurturing an idea you really think is worth exploring further.

In her insightful blog post entitled Idea Killers – 3 Ways To Stifle A Great Idea, M discusses three ways people often nip ideas in the bud. I’ve listed them here with specific reference to writing:

1. Not giving your idea a chance to grow.
This is when you undermine your idea by criticizing it and writing it off before it’s had a chance to ripen and blossom. Before its potential is clear. It’s the inner critic that likes to sabotage your creative mind, just for the fun of it. Don’t heed this voice! It’s good to have an accurate and sharpened critical faculty, but not at the initial ideas stage of the writing.

2. Sharing your undeveloped ideas too soon.
Often a side-effect of the initial enthusiasm and euphoria a writer can feel when an idea initially presents itself, this is when you blurt out a raw idea which to the listener just sounds vague or even silly. That response causes you to doubt too. You need to bite your tongue, keep the idea to yourself until it’s stewed for a while. This is a bit like sending a passionate email: It’s always a good idea to write the draft email, leave it overnight and then decide in the cold light of the next day if that’s what you really wanted to write.

3. Sharing your ideas with the wrong people.
This is a classic! The wrong people can be the kind of wet blankets who, for whatever reasons, always respond negatively to any kind of enthusiasm. The kind of people who can’t stand you feeling so upbeat and inspired. The wrong people can also be what Julia Cameron, in her immensely inspiring book The Artist’s Way calls crazymakers. The kind of larger-than-life, domineering, energy-guzzling busybodies who love to make you feel small, insignificant and untalented. Keep your ideas well away from them!!

In terms of screenwriting, an idea only acquires value in the real world once it germinates into a story. You can’t copyright an idea but you can protect a story, even if it’s just a synopsis. So trick number one is to harvest as many ideas as you can, in the full knowledge that you’ll never use most of them. And trick number two is to contain your enthusiasm when you do discover an inspiring nugget, at least until you’ve written a story concept based on the idea.

Five Important Reasons To Know Your Premise Inside-Out

A premise is a catchy, shorthand description of what your screenplay is about. A couple of compact sentences giving a sense of the genre, the main character(s), the central conflict and the basic narrative action.

The premise is based on the initial inspiration for the writing. This might have been a seemingly trivial stimulus which first made you think of a character, a situation, a theme, a title, or whatever it was that then became the seed for a screenplay. Equally, it might be a profound question or issue you’ve wanted to write about for as long as you can remember.

Here’s why it’s important to be acutely aware of your premise:

1. Whatever the initial trigger was, once you start writing, the premise will become the corner-stone of your screenplay. It becomes the measure against which you can hold every line of dialogue, every dilemma and every twist. A kind of compass to keep you on track while you write.
   
   
2. The premise is, as screenwriter extraordinaire Terry Rossio puts it in his characteristically witty column, A Foot in The Door, your calling card. There is no way to overstate the importance of a well-written premise as a marketing and pitching tool. The premise is the briefest but most essential advert for your screenplay. A well-crafted film poster or DVD cover can convince undecided or sceptical punters to part with their money on impulse. Similarly, your premise can mean the difference between your script being read or being binned.
   
   
3. “Classic narrative is … like a river which has a source in an inland spring … the premise is the source of the river.” (Cherry Potter) In other words: Being aware of what your inspiration is, ensures you can return to it whenever you need creative nourishment, throughout the entire process of writing and selling the script.
   
   
4. Your premise will pique people’s curiosity because it expresses the unique driving force of the story. It contains the main dramatic issue, the central conflict which is reflected in all the conflicts in the story (see John Truby for more on this). Plus it gives a sense of the unique story world, which elevates it above the generic level of its genre.
   
   
5. As writer Bill Johnson explains, a story is a promise. It creates expectations. The audience unconsciously enters into a deal with you, and you have to deliver. The premise enables you to be aware of what your story promises while you write the screenplay, but also when you pitch and hopefully sell it!

Knowing your premise inside-out means you know what you’re writing and why. You owe this to yourself, to everyone else involved in making the film and to the audience.

Your hero’s worst enemy

In most movies, the hero eventually has to confront his worst enemy: himself. This encounter with one’s own limitations is a mainstay of narrative fiction, and for good reason.

Because it’s so extremely hard to change your own behaviour.

A recent newsletter from by Michael Bungay Stanier (whose wonderful blog The Possibility Virus is well worth checking out), directed me to a fairly disturbing article called Three Keys to Change. The article describes most people’s inability to change their unhealthy lifestyles, even in the face of dire medical prognoses.

The prospect of dying in the near future due to fairly simple lifestyle habits such as smoking, overeating, lack of exercise, etc., is not enough to motivate most people to change. Even after extensive surgery, most people continue to live as they did before, often with fatal consequences.

You undoubtedly know people who have behaved in a way that everyone (including themselves) knew would ruin their lives? Disastrous infidelities, catastrophic overspending, debilitating social behaviour, you name it.

That’s how hard it is to change, even when you’re aware of the negative consequences of your behaviour.

That’s the basic human dilemma which so many films deal with, either explicitly or as the subtext: I know what to do, I just can’t seem to get myself to do it.

Which is why you need to know this aspect of your main character: What simple behavioural change are they avoiding even though they’re aware of the consequences? A change which could mean the difference between life and death, or at least happiness and misery, fulfilment and bitterness, and so on?

The easiest way to find examples of this phenomenon is, as always, just look around you.

And if you're really brave ... look in the mirror.

Happy observing.

How To Know When To Quit

I recently read an excellent little book called The Dip, by marketer extraordinaire Seth Godin. In it, he deals with the question of whether and when to quit. To become the best at whatever you do, you’ll inevitably be confronted with a tough period in which quitting is one of the options.

In some circumstances, quitting is exactly the right thing to do, because it frees up your resources to work on something more viable. In fact, says Seth, successful people often quit, because they know when they’re flogging a dead horse (a situation he calls a Cul-de-sac).

In other situations, persevering and successfully working your way through The Dip will place you many notches above the competition. By having continued where many others give up, you become a scarce and therefore valuable commodity.

The difference between success and failure is knowing whether you’re in a Dip or a Cul-de-sac.

In the realm of screenwriting, this is true both in terms of any script you might be working on as well as in terms of your career as a whole.

A minority of screenwriters establish themselves by persevering despite repeated rejections, abysmal or non-existent remuneration, discouraging family members, and all the other factors that cause the majority to give up.

A minority of screenwriters listen seriously to criticism of their work and continue writing and learning until their screenwriting is absolutely as good as they can make it. For the majority this sounds too much like hard work, and they give up.

A minority of screenwriters acknowledge when a script is going nowhere, when it’s time to put it away and start on a fresh idea. They know that screenwriters write many scripts, a few of which get produced. The majority don’t. They’re the ones you see schlepping that same single script around with them year after year, complaining that the world is evil for not recognizing the unique talent hidden in that one masterpiece.

This uphill struggle seems to be a kind of natural selection process. That minority of screenwriters who push on through the Dip, come out the other side with infinitely more experience and skills under their belt than the majority who either get stuck or give up.

It makes sense, too, when you think about it. Part of being an exciting and inspiring screenwriter to work with, is being someone with vision and self-knowledge. Someone who acknowledges their own strengths and weaknesses. Someone who knows when to dig in their heels and when to bow out gracefully.

So where are you right now? In a Dip or a Cul-de-sac?!

How to let your characters go

One of the most useful and yet most difficult life skills I know of, is Letting Go. Letting go of debilitating habits, old resentments, dogma, defunct rules, and so on.

For screenwriters, one of the most difficult things is letting go of their characters.

By that I don’t mean writing them out of the script by means of a freak accident. No, the opposite. I mean literally letting go of their hand and allowing them to act independently.

You often hear writers talking about their characters surprising them. As if the characters are actually autonomous, living beings with a will of their own. However, it’s not “as if,” at all.

Once you let your characters loose in the story world, they will surprise you. And they’ll become totally irreverent and unscrupulous too. Without batting an eyelid they will upset a carefully plotted outline, destroy a meticulously crafted logline and undermine a perfectly good premise, damn them!

Joking aside, though, when your characters start to walk on their own, you have to follow them. At least for a while.

Here’s a quote from writer-director of Definitely, Maybe, Adam Brooks, in an interview on Billy Mernit’s excellent blog:

Usually I write about 150 pages to get to a 120 page draft. With Definitely, Maybe I wrote well over 200 pages. I wrote sections in prose and then adapted them. I wrote in diary form. And for the first time ever I allowed myself to write badly. By which I mean I didn’t put the pressure on myself to write a good scene, just to write the scene - long, rough, and bad as it might be.

The trick here is not to judge your characters’ autonomous actions too soon. The critical work happens during re-writing.

Turn off your critical, analytical faculties for a while and just let the characters take over. Let the scene ramble. No one has to read what your characters get up to if in retrospect it doesn’t work.

Left to their own devices, your characters might just lead you to a few story nuggets you wouldn’t have thought of any other way.

CRASH the TV series

Here’s a fascinating news item for anyone (like me) writing a multi-protagonist script: The characters from Crash the movie are to feature in a new TV series. This makes total sense because of the sheer number of characters involved and their interconnectedness in terms of plot.

But it also jolts the sensibilities. Wasn’t Crash so impressive precisely because it was so compact and cinematic?

For me personally, the news highlights one of those semi-conscious doubts I keep having whenever I work on my multi-protagonist script: Is it really OK to write a screenplay that feels like a TV episode?

So how does a multi-protagonist film differ from a blown-up version of a TV episode? Here are some of the differences:

• Visual storytelling - TV generally relies far more heavily on dialogue (the screen’s just that much smaller …). In a multi-protagonist film, precisely because of the number of different storylines, the audience needs to see very quickly what’s going on (even if the connections with other storylines may only become clear in retrospect).
• Character arcs - In a TV series you have much more screen time to show a character changing. In a film everything has to be squashed into a very limited number of scenes. Dilemma’s and choices need to be that much starker.
• Climax/resolution - A film is a one-off, stand-alone story. It immediately creates (unconscious) expectations of some kind of resolution. You can’t cheat the audience, there has to be some kind of “conclusion.” A TV episode often works towards a cliff-hanger (to be continued …); the resolution can be postponed far longer.

All of these elements (and more) are part of what makes Crash stand out as a film.

On the other hand, the fact that it appears to make economic sense to use this film as the basis for a TV series, shows that the boundaries between TV and cinema are fading.

More and more people watch movies at home, and TV screens are growing bigger and better all the time. Plus nowadays a lot of visual and narrative innovation happens first on TV.

Perhaps we’re witnessing an interesting new form of crossover?

My personal lesson from this intriguing little news item: Stay focused on the characters. In the end they are the ones who determine what’s the most appropriate arena and narrative structure for their story.

Aim high

I recently received the worst and at once most positively reinforcing piece of writing advice ever. It came from someone influential within a public organization which funds film projects. The advice was in response to the latest synopsis of a multi-protagonist script I’m working on with my writing partner.

The advice was basically: Don’t aim too high. Or, in subtextualese: Don’t take the risk of tackling such a complex concept, try something simpler and more familiar in order to improve your chances of getting funding.

Now, if there’s one thing I believe in, it’s aiming high, sticking to whatever it is you feel passionate about. The more you stretch yourself, the more you learn, the better you become. That is, unless you’re deluded and jump off a high-rise wearing only home-made wings.

By trying to encourage us to write something less demanding, to play it safe, this person was in fact giving us precisely the confirmation we needed: Our concept is ambitious and daring. It stands out.

To me that’s already good news.

In recent years the multi-protagonist or multi-plot structure has gradually moved into the mainstream, but it’s still a fairly rare bird. And there’s a reason for that. It’s very hard to write well. Take a look at the award-winning screenplay for Crash by Paul Haggis at Script-o-rama if you don’t believe me. Quite a screenwriting feat.

I wouldn’t compare myself to Mr. Haggis in any way. But I do acknowledge that he’s at the top of his game, someone to emulate. So I study his writing and try to understand how he works his magic.

That, to me, constitutes a very healthy form of aiming high. Much preferable to the notion of avoiding risks by choosing to write something more generic.

All advice is useful, as long as you know how to take it.

How replaceable are you?

The money and respect a person receives for their labour is usually directly related to the degree to which they are replaceable.

Which is one reason government ministers aren’t the best paid executives in the world.

But seriously. What makes you interesting as a screenwriter is what makes you irreplaceable. What can you write that no one else can? Go ahead, make a list. What do you write best? When do you feel most comfortable and “in the flow” while writing?

Some screenwriters are absolutely the best at writing dialogue, others have a special talent for plot. Some screenwriters write fascinating original stories, while others are experts at adapting novels and short stories for the screen.

You may have inside knowledge of an ethnic or religious group, or perhaps you have experience in a specific trade or profession. Then again, maybe an aspect of the writing itself (dialogue, gags, structure, plot) is what you love doing most.

There are only so many stories to tell, but a unique and intriguing retelling of a familiar story is a highly sought after commodity in the film industry. So whatever raises your writing above the generic, is what makes you an interesting prospect to work with.

The only way to succeed is to acknowledge and nurture what is personal and unique about your writing. That is what makes your writing attractive, not contrived plot devices or derivative rehashes of the latest Hollywood genre crossover.

This also means recognizing what you’re not good at, which is perhaps even more arduous but equally worthwhile. But more about that some other time. I need to get back to work.

Now then, where’s that hugely original outline I was writing about a genetically mutated child prodigy born to an Eskimo mother and an Italian newspaper magnate, who travels back in time in an attempt to prevent the dinosaurs from going extinct …

Screenwriting is like sex

The harder you try, the worse it gets. To write great scenes and dialogue, you need to be relaxed. Even if a deadline is looming. Especially if a deadline is looming. You need to write as if nothing whatsoever depends on what you’re writing. You’re writing because it’s your favourite thing to do. That’s when the ideas really start flowing.

While I write, I like to distract the critical, anxious and agitated parts of my mind with the blandest new-age type meditation music. If you actually sit and listen to this kind of music, it’s utterly boring. But as an accompaniment to a creative (or indeed erotic) activity, it’s the best. I’m no neurologist, but my guess is it’s something to do with alpha waves, left/right brains and stuff like that.

Whatever works for you. As long as you can relax, be 100% with what you’re writing and let what you’re visualizing flow naturally into the text. That seems to be the most important thing. Just as your lovemaking can be ruined by concerns about “performance” or other distractions, so too your writing.

As long as you are completely present in what you’re doing, you have the best chance of enjoying the experience, and possibly being invited to do it again.

Is this the way I want it?

I recently read an immensely inspiring article by Mark Forster, a time management mentor, in which he suggests a method of dealing with procrastination. It basically entails identifying the frustrating issue and then asking yourself, “Is this the way I want it?” Obviously the answer will be, “No,” after which you then ask “What do I need to do to make it the way I want?”

Forster gives examples ranging from tidying a drawer to buying a new house. But his idea is not only useful for procrastinators, screenwriters can also learn a thing or two from him.

If you stop to consider it for a moment, this a is a hugely powerful way of identifying a character’s goals and conflicts.

Simply by imagining (or writing) your character in a situation and having them ask themselves, “Is this the way I want it?” you hit the ground running. You activate that part of your imagination where your character resides. Especially when you follow up with, “What do I need to do to make things the way I want them?”

These two highly evocative questions set your character in motion, get them talking.

Each “What do I need to do to …” yields a concrete task. Something a character has to do (i.e., something visual) to work towards getting things the way they want them to be. And each “What do I need to do …” can be followed up with another one until you finally arrive at the very basic and frightening thing the character has been avoiding all along.

Of course, to make things even more interesting, your character can be wrong. They think they know what to do to make things better, but they’re actually making things worse.

As I’ve written before screenwriting is often about asking yourself the right questions.

Analysis vs. creativity

The ability to critically deconstruct successful films is not necessarily indicative of talent in a screenwriter. At least not one who aims to do well in the mainstream. The web is chock-full of wannabe experts eruditely explaining why this blockbuster romantic comedy or that runaway 3-D animation movie is actually no good at all.

They claim a film is too formulaic, or on the contrary, that it doesn’t deliver on genre promises. Sometimes they’ll slam the structure of the film because it deviates from or sticks too closely to a popular screenwriting model. Other times it’s the use of unfashionable techniques such as voice-overs or flashbacks which raises the briter’s* hackles.

And then there’s the subtextual envy of huge box office success for a film that isn’t exactly earth-shatteringly original or artful. That’s just not right!

But even if this criticism is in some way justified, a commercially successful film must still be pushing some of the right buttons, because the audience has already voted with its feet and propelled the film into the black. And this is the same audience the critical authors hope someday to entertain with their own creative efforts.

Contrast this with the common inarticulateness of many successful screenwriters when it comes to how they write. Even the most talented and oft-produced screenwriters are usually at a loss to explain where they get their ideas from and how exactly they turn these ideas into hot scripts. In fact you often hear writers say they don’t want to analyse their method or their ideas because it would kill their muse.

We live in age of analysis in real time. No sooner has a new trend been identified than it is analysed, abstracted and processed into a module which is then offered at a college near you. But of course when it comes to film, there’s no such thing as instant. It takes years for a compelling idea to progress from being an initial scribble on a screenwriter’s notepad to being a well-marketed product showing at your local multiplex.

Trends will always come and go. No amount of analysis is going to change that. Better to spend your time jotting down ideas for films you’d like to see than essays on films you’d rather not have seen. In the end all that counts is a strong, intriguing idea. And the only effective way to find one of those is to keep your creative mind open and be receptive to whatever's going on around you.

* briter = webwriter

Writing partnerships

My writing partner and I have been working for six months on a script we’re both absolutely passionate about. And it shows. Yesterday we spent three hours battling over one scene. It literally almost came to fisticuffs. It was a sight to be seen: Two grown men raising their voices and gesturing wildly at each other about the importance of a beat. Does the antagonist turn this way or that? Does he shout hysterically or whisper threateningly?

Because we both have so much invested in the script already, and because we’re both such pig-headed egomaniacs, the struggle felt a bit like the fight scene in Casino Royale on the high-rise crane. In the end we came to an agreement. Hanging by our fingernails above the abyss, we both realized what would be best for the story and that it no longer mattered who had thought of it first, if either of us even had.

The experience made me realize yet again what a fascinating and wonderful thing a writing partnership is. It’s a bit like the best and worst of friendship and family relations all compressed into one task-oriented blitzkrieg. But it’s a professional relationship, so you’re constantly aware of the stakes when conflicts arise. This forces you to make choices where you might otherwise avoid them.

When you write on your own, until you’ve completed something you feel comfortable asking people to read, you only have your own creative and critical faculties to rely on and contend with. But when you work together with another writer, you’re exposed much earlier in the creative process. It’s as if right from the get-go there’s an angry mob in the room, and they’re all shouting at you. By far the most demanding task under these circumstances is to remain true to the story rather than to try and prove you’re right. You have to leave your ego in the vestibule along with your coat.

Of course, you strive to do this even if you’re writing on your own, but in a writing partnership everything is much more explicit and unavoidable. Which is an unqualified advantage, even though it can initially appear threatening. Like most writers who haven’t had this experience, I never imagined I’d be able to function creatively in a situation where I would constantly have to share my “process.” But fate put the opportunity on my path and advised me to at least take stab, and I’m glad I did.

I wouldn’t be surprised if we eventually decide to scrap the scene we argued so heatedly about. But if we do, you can be sure it will be for the sake of the story.

Rejection

A friend of mine recently had to listen to a detailed and very harshly worded rejection of a script he’d worked on for a long time. The characters were flat and uninteresting, there wasn’t enough suspense and action, the narrative was too predictable, and so on. None of this criticism made much sense in terms of being objectively accurate, but it was thrown at the poor guy anyway, just to let him know who knew about screenwriting and who didn’t.

He and I discussed his nerve-jangling encounter over a couple of beers, and as he told me how he’d responded to the rejection, I realized this guy had his head screwed on the right way. The following, paraphrased and screened for adult content, is what he told me:

“My initial response was anger. I needed the gig and these bastards obviously hadn’t taken the time to understand or visualize what I’d written. But then I thought: hey, that’s MY job. If they don’t get it, I didn’t do my job properly. That’s not a self-piteous put-down, that’s just a statement of fact. My anger disappeared as soon as I began imagining myself re-writing the script.”

This made sense! More beer was ordered. He continued:

“Then I realized something else: One of the specific criticisms was that all the characters seemed to conveniently represent a different aspect of the theme, which came across as contrived. But that’s exactly what I intended! Well, not the contrived bit, of course, but the distribution of thematic angles among the main characters. It’s a structural thing I’m experimenting with. I’m obviously not quite there yet. Anyway, by pointing to what they considered a weakness, they’d given me a huge compliment and indicated precisely where I needed to do some more work!”

Talk about positive thinking! Rhonda Byrne is a pessimist by comparison. He concluded, grinningly:

“So, pretty soon after receiving this scathing criticism, I actually wanted to get down to work rewriting the thing. But I couldn’t, because in the interim I’d already started work on two other ideas I had lying around. Like getting straight back in the saddle after a fall? Know what I mean?”

Indeed I do. Rejection is par for the screenwriter’s course. Make it your friend instead of your enemy. And never throw away any of those crumpled, stained scraps of paper with illegible ideas scribbled on them that you accidentally wash along with your trousers.

Taming the Torrent

This is the best and the worst part of screenwriting as far as I’m concerned: You have an idea, say for a scene, a character or even a story premise and then it happens. The dam bursts and your mind suddenly fills with images, snippets of dialogue, music, sound effects, ideas for the trailer, the poster, people you must remember to thank when you hold that little golden statue, and so on.

It’s a rush, a physical sense of excitement as in an instant you realize the potential of what you’re imagining. But you’re also in a panic. It’s too much to be able to capture on paper and elements have already begun evaporating and disappearing even as you desperately rush to note them down. It’s like waking up and writing down a dream which is fast being pushed out of your mind by the responsibilities of the day ahead.

Of course one of the basic facts of writing films is that it’s the idea that counts. So the main priority in an emergency imagination situation is to do the opposite of the instinctive response I just described. Instead of scrambling to hold on to whatever details you can salvage, stand back and scrutinize the flood of information as it careens past. Until, that is, The Idea becomes visible. Aha! It’s about … and that’s what you grab. Because the idea is the key to the place where all that imagination (and more) came from. Once you have articulated the idea, however rudimentarily, you will be able to return at will to the river of imagination whence you fished it up.

The idea might be a neat premise, a general theme, a situation, or a character with a goal, whatever. The important thing is that you remember what this story idea is about in a way that makes sense to you. It’s no good demanding of yourself from the get-go that you formulate a dazzling 30-second pitch, ready to spring on Spielberg if you happen to get stuck in an elevator with him. It’s enough to hold on to an image, a sentence, a character description, or any other nugget which typifies the idea for you. That will tame the torrent and give you the power to go back to it when you have the time and inclination. Now isn’t that comforting?

What if ... ?

I can’t remember who said that screenwriting is all about asking yourself the right questions, but undoubtedly one of the most important questions a screenwriter can ask is, “What if?” Whatever level of detail you’re considering, whether you’re thinking about an event in a scene or brainstorming basic ideas for a story, the same little query is a wonderful way of exploring the possibilities.

What if it starts to rain during the ceremony?
What if he turns out to be an alien in disguise?
What if the theme were honour rather than greed?
What if she’s infertile?
What if they only have four hours to break the code?

“What if?” is a beautiful tool but it only works if you’re prepared to let go of preconceptions. Especially if someone else is asking the question.

Like if your producer asks, after reading the fifth re-write, “What if the protagonist were ten years younger, and a woman instead of a man?” You know it’s implausible, you know you’ve meticulously constructed every beat and scene in the script around the concept of a man in his fifties, you know you’ll have to almost start from scratch. But hey, she might have a point. What if …?

“What if?” can also be of great value in terms of method.

What if I approach this scene in a completely different way? What if I set aside all my pre-conceived ideas about character arc, structure, acts, sequences and so on, and just let my creative mind wander for a while? What if I allow myself to simply imagine things?

And here’s another great thing about the “What if?” question: There’s no right or wrong answer. Sometimes the question will yield a long list of possible outcomes, sometimes it will point to that one twist that’s been eluding you for months. But it always clarifies something, as long as you’re willing and able to take the answer seriously. So don’t be afraid of asking. In fact fear of “What if?” is a sure sign you’re clinging to a baby you might intuitively know you should kill but don’t want to because of all the extra work that entails …

One last thing about “What if?”: It’s just an exploratory question. By asking “What if?” you haven’t committed to anything. Nothing in the script changes unless you start typing. If none of the answers make your story better, then just put them aside (or store them in your “ideas” file) and get on with your life.

Writing the logline - Part three

So now you’ve described who the main character is, what their central problem is and how they have to go about solving it. All that remains is to explain why their mission is impossible, but at the same time leaving just enough room to wonder if perhaps they might just succeed, if only they manage to ...

What is it about the combination of this specific character and these particular obstacles that ensures that the audience is going to want to know what happens?

This touches on one of the basic reasons people enjoy watching movies: It’s a vicarious emotional experience. You identify with a fictional character confronting a fabricated problem, deliberately designed to refer to analogous issues in real life. You want to board the metaphor and go along for the ride, perhaps secretly hoping to disembark a changed person.

The metaphorical value of the specific challenge the main character faces is what engages the audience. The prince has to kill the dragon in order to win the hand of the princess. He’s scared, concerned he’ll fail and not win the princess, perhaps worried he’ll ruin his hair in the fiery scuffle. We, the audience, feel what the prince is going through and unconsciously, or even consciously relate those feelings to our own lives. We intuitively know what it’s like to have to face a frightening obstacle in the way of something we really, really want. Whether it’s asking the boss for a raise or taking a first scuba-diving lesson. Everyone has their own fears and desires.

So the main character has to face problems which evoke the kind of emotions we’re all familiar with in our own real lives. Naming the dire consequences of not overcoming the obstacles is an effective way of eliciting the desired emotion. The main character must succeed, or:

- ... lose the love of his life forever.
- ... die a horrible or shameful death.
- ... miss a once in a lifetime opportunity to see justice done.

And so on. The more catastrophic the outcome of failing to reach the goal, the more emotion the audience invests in the main character’s struggle. Of course catastrophic isn’t synonymous with gory or violent. It’s relative to the life of the main character. In the context of very different stories it would be equally horrific to fail to save the world from alien attack (e.g., Independence Day) and to fail to fulfil one’s potential (e.g., Good Will Hunting).

Some examples for good measure:

"A working-class single mother campaigns to prove the guilt of a huge, polluting corporation, and resorts to unorthodox methods when no one takes her seriously (Erin Brockovich)." The vicarious emotional experience? The frustration of someone who is judged by their social status, their gender and education rather than by their actual merit. A very familiar experience for many people, especially women. Erin is obviously going to give it all she has, not only to prove the big, bad corporation is guilty, but also to prove that she is worth taking seriously as an individual. This is her now or never moment, her chance to shake off the stigma with which society has burdened her. If she fails, she’ll be doomed to live out the rest of her life in poverty and dependence.

"An indignant twelve-year old demands the return of his toys from a creepy neighbour, but discovers that the real villain is the neighbour’s house, and it’s alive! (Monster House)." The emotion here is abject fear. He’s just a kid, and he’s finally plucked up the courage to confront the creepy old guy across the street. Most of us had elderly neighbours we were frightened of as children, right? A very basic fear of being sucked into a strange house and eaten alive. And that’s exactly what (almost) happens. As if the kid’s fear of the neighbour weren’t enough of an obstacle, and the retrieval of his toys not a worthy enough goal, it turns out that the house is a vicious monster (the neighbour’s wife’s ghost has possessed it). Instead of having to get the toys back, the kid now has to figure out how to destroy the house or literally be eaten alive.

"After his British hostage is killed, a remorseful IRA gunman flees from his vengeful comrades to England and falls for his ex-hostage’s lover who turns out to be a transvestite (The Crying Game)." Here’s someone on the run from both the British and Irish, who is having trouble with his conscience, who becomes infatuated with someone and then discovers this person isn’t a woman at all. Now there’s an emotional web to be stuck in! The plot of this film is far more complex than a mere logline can convey, but the central obstacle for the main character stands out like a sore thumb: In order to find peace, this man has to reconcile his feelings of affection with the completely unexpected and for him inappropriate object of his infatuation. Not only has he fallen in love with someone who is grieving partly due to his actions, but she turns out to be a he to boot! Impossible but undeniable love. Sound familiar?

Any of the loglines I’ve used as examples here and in previous postings can obviously be formulated differently and no doubt more effectively. However, the basic elements of a logline remain the same whichever specific words you choose:

1. The Main Character: Who is the story about and what is their main trait or weakness?
2. The Goal: What do they want, need to achieve or avoid?
3. The Obstacle: What makes achieving the goal problematic?

It’s a simple recipe, but don’t be fooled: The less words you’re allowed to use, the more carefully you have to choose them. A bit like writing Haiku.

Writing the logline – Part two

Once you’ve established who the main character is and what their main trait or weakness is, the next thing to make clear in the logline is what’s driving this character, what they want or need to achieve.

The type of goal depends on the kind of film. In an action-driven film, the goal will often be concrete and easily described, e.g., the main character must defuse a ticking bomb, retrieve a magic ring, prove his client’s innocence, escape the psychopathic killer, and so on. In a more internal, character-driven story, the main character will often be trying to avoid some aspect of themselves due to fear. They may be not even be aware of what they really want until very late in the film. Of course in an action film, the main character also tries to avoid some aspect of themselves, and in a character-driven story the main character must also undertake something concrete. So it’s not a black and white distinction, rather a matter of emphasis.

Generally speaking, the main character has to do something difficult, unpleasant or frightening in order to achieve the ultimate goal.

The logline must reflect the main narrative drive of the film in a simple, easily comprehensible way. One of the most effective ways to describe succinctly what the film is about is to sketch the chief dilemma or danger into which the main character is thrown.

Describe what the main character has to do in the simplest possible terms, but using words which show the character has no choice but to follow this path, even though they would actually rather not. The main character must ... or is forced to ... or struggles to ... undertake some kind of activity, in order to achieve what it is they (think) they want.

Some examples:

An affable, bourgeois psychotherapist struggles to come to terms with the accidental death of his teenage son ... (The Son’s Room). The conflict and contrast is there in a nutshell: he’s a nice, well-educated, family man who wouldn’t hurt a fly, and his son is killed. Bam. His life is turned upside down and his seemingly unattainable goal is to make sense of what has happened.

An absent-minded but well-meaning ant ruins the colony’s harvest and must redeem himself by finding help in the hostile outside world ... (A Bug’s Life). The poor ant is sent on a mission impossible because of a mistake he made. He has no choice (although he thinks it’s his decision) and will obviously face great dangers for which he is totally ill-prepared. His aim is to make up for his mistake.

When his wife is brutally murdered, an exemplary young British diplomat in Africa, becomes obsessed with identifying the killers and their motive ... (The Constant Gardener). Here is a man whose life is expected to follow a very predictable and probably hypocritical path, but suddenly his focus changes completely. The only thing he cares about now is uncovering the truth, even to the detriment of his carefully prepared career.

Of course, if the main character were able to achieve the goal fairly straightforwardly, the film would be over pretty quickly. So the writer puts all sorts of obstacles in the main character’s way. But more about that next time.