When is a scene not a scene?

At present I’m working on a screenplay which uses a structure variously referred to as multi-plot, or multi-protagonist or ensemble structure. It’s similar to the storytelling paradigm used in films like Happiness, Crash, Magnolia and so on. Apart from it being immeasurably more stimulating for the brain than anything Dr. Kawashima can throw at you, it also poses an interesting challenge in terms of writing scenes.

Because each of the main characters has a relatively limited amount of screen time, only ten scenes altogether for some of them, I have to force myself to be absolutely unequivocal about the function of every scene. I have very little time to establish characterization and conflict, so my choices become that much more critical.

So the question “when is a scene not a scene?” isn’t an academic one. It’s a practical query concerning how to keep the audience engaged with the story even though they’re following more characters and plotlines than they’re used to.

The answer is: A scene isn’t a scene when it’s merely a situation, a series of actions or images which depict a set of circumstances without raising a dramatic question.

A situation can certainly be as interesting as a scene in terms of imagery, acting, dialogue, and so on. And I’m not an Aristotelian fundamentalist who demands that every element in a screenplay must develop character and move the plot forward, as the manuals say. But in the screenplay I’m writing at the moment, if I don’t leave the audience wondering what’s going to happen next, then my multi-whatever structure is going to confuse rather than intrigue.

My way of making sure each scene earns its place in the screenplay, is to ask myself these basic questions at the outline or treatment stage (i.e., before I start writing the scene itself):

1. What action dominates the scene? That becomes my scene title in a scene list. Not necessarily anything dramatic, but a title which I will recognize immediately.
2. What’s the main conflict in the scene? This becomes my “scene subtitle” in a scene list.
3. What are the main beats in the scene? This becomes the kind of simple, one paragraph prose description I use in a treatment.
4. What further action does the scene cause? This becomes the hook at the end of the scene which makes you want to know what happens next.

Of course these are not the only questions I ask myself whilst planning the scene, but if I’ve got these items covered, at least I know the basics are sound. And being an anal, analytic type, I’ve created separate headings in Word which remind me to articulate these four items whenever I plan a scene. So when I type the scene title and press enter, the heading for Main Conflict appears, after which there’s a heading for a slugline, then a scene description and finally a turning point.

Each item looks different and is immediately recognizable. Here’s what it looks like:


The format is also collapsible, so I can see a list of only the scene titles, or the scene titles with the main conflict, etc.

This way of thinking about scenes forces me to remain focused on the essentials of each character’s story and to present them visually.

I’ll post the date of the premiere well in advance …

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

That Frankenstein feeling

Today my creative partner and I had our first brainstorming session at the animation studio with whom we’re in serious discussions about a co-production. We’ve met a few times already. Firstly to present our idea for an animated feature and subsequently to discuss various business options. But today was something different altogether. Today we, just the creatives, met with the specific intention of hammering out the technical, visual specifications of the first couple of characters.

We started off with the usual small talk about developments in the industry, the price of tea in China and so on. The sizzling subtext of this pleasant chit-chat was unmistakably our shared vision and ambition for this hugely exciting project. The banter continued for a minute or two until we realized the guys we were bantering to were staring at something and grinning stupidly.

There it was in the middle of the table. Unexpectedly small but unmistakably accurate: An initial Plasticine “sketch” of our main character’s head. We both had to do a double take and the room went silent for a little while. Wow!

It might help to explain that this project has already been two years in the making. We have endless stacks of sketches of characters and locations. We’ve written episodes and songs for various TV formats and penned numerous feature story ideas. We’ve planned a website with all kinds of interactive goodies. But only now are we finally embarking on production after endless false starts and disappointments.

And for the first time, our beloved main character has made the quantum leap from two- to three dimensions.

No longer is he merely a cute cartoon character on a page. No longer is he just a potentially great comedic character. He’s now out there, given shape and form by these wonderful, talented people who’ve taken our designs and done with them what we hoped they would: Given them life!

Some people call this activity playing God. I’m not sure about that, but it’s certainly a peculiar feeling to see something you’ve held in your mind for a long time suddenly out there in the world staring back at you. It’s a bit like that creepy feeling you get whenever there’s a scene in a morgue and you can’t help but expect one of the bodies to suddenly sit up.

A monumental day for us and for our main character. Let’s hope he never turns on us.

Screenwriting is like riding a bike

I recently realized that learning the craft of screenwriting is much like learning to ride a bicycle, in two very specific ways: Firstly, it looks deceptively easy, and secondly, once you’ve got the hang of it you can never forget how to do it.

Why would you ever want to learn to ride a bike in the first place? Simple. You watch other kids gliding around, manoeuvring with great skill, having the time of their lives apparently without giving a second though to what they’re doing. And you think, “Hey, I want that too!”

Which is when your parents (hopefully) begin to tone down your expectations: “It’s not as easy as it looks. It takes a while to learn. You’ll need to start with side wheels. And a helmet.”

That’s the cue for the following inner monologue: “Not in my case. I’m special. I’m one of a kind. I know I can get up on that thing and just do it right away.” Which is admirably positive and enthusiastic, but a little unrealistic. As you discover fairly rapidly when you first mount the vehicle and suddenly feel completely vulnerable and utterly unable to move or keep your balance.

And so begins a learning process punctuated by milestones such as your first painful fall, your first encounter with a brick wall, your first head-on crash with another cyclist, and so on. All of which are experiences that teach you some important aspect of riding a bicycle which you will never again forget. Basic things like using the brakes, for example, or steering.

Then comes that wonderful day when, after having grown from hapless novice with side wheels to ambitious and eager candidate for the next Tour de France, you finally experience the exhilaration of the centrifugal force of the wheels keeping you upright and allowing you to really work up some serious speed! You’re flying! It’s real! It’s this sensation you’ve been after all along, and you’ve finally achieved it. What a victory!

This experience is soon followed by the realization that this is just the beginning. You now know how to ride a bike. Big deal. You begin to look around and see just how many different kinds and classes of bikes there are. A bike can take you to the sweetshop and back, but it can also take you up and down a mountain. Now you start dreaming all over again. Only this time you know what it takes.

Of course there is another similarity between screenwriting and riding a bicycle: Anyone can learn to ride a bicycle, but only a few cyclists have what it takes to become professionals: Talent. But that’s a whole different topic.

Theme

I’m one of those writers who has to know what the story is about before I can write it. And not in a general, abstract way, like “It’s about friendship.” No, in a nuts and bolts, specific way, like this: “It’s about the conflict between friendship and family loyalties, as a manifestation of the uniquely human conflict between biological drives and conscious thought.” No one apart from me ever needs to read that sentence. As for me, I can only get down to writing once I’ve formulated this kind of thematic spine for myself.

I know there are those who advise against thinking explicitly about theme at all until the story is finished. But there are also different opinions about outlining, knowing how your story ends before you start writing, and any other aspect of the craft of screenwriting you care to mention. Except, of course, the necessity of frequent breaks for displacement activities such as .. writing a blog. On that we all agree.

To me it makes perfect sense to know specifically what issue you want your screenplay to address, because this is what drives all the characters in one direction or another. It’s what the characters fight about, deceive each other for, challenge each other to disprove, and so on.

Of course, knowing so consciously in advance what you want to say, carries a risk with it. The risk being that your theme isn’t a theme at all, it’s a sermon.

That happens when you hit the audience so hard over the head with the moral point you’re trying to make that you make them feel as if they are being lectured to rather than entertained. Or when you make your message so explicit that you may as well hand out flyers on the street corner saying, “The conflict between friendship and family loyalties is a manifestation of the uniquely human conflict between biology and conscious thought.”

So as far as I can tell, the trick is to be clear in your mind what you want the film to be about before you start writing, so that it becomes an integral part of the story structure. You know the characters are going to be in situations where they’re torn between what their instincts dictate and what their conscious mind is advising. Once that’s in place and the characters begin to “take over,” let them have their say. To me that’s the only real way to discover whether they’re the right characters to express the theme, or whether perhaps I actually want to say something else …

A bit like writing a blog. Today I knew I wanted to communicate something about … well, that would be lecturing, wouldn’t it?

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.