Here’s a lovely quote from On Filmmaking, a collection of legendary director and teacher Alexander Mackendrick’s writings:
It is the job of screenwriter, not the director, to decide whether his film story will be built with images or merely decorated with them.
Touché. Well, he has a good point, right? It’s all very well having strong characters, an intriguing theme and a gripping narrative, but what does it look like?
The other day, while my writing partner and I were struggling to find the right image for a scene we were rewriting, he suddenly remembered something he’d seen fifteen years ago. It was absolutely perfect for our scene, and it had just been sitting in his memory waiting for the right time to pop up and say, “Remember me?” Needless to say, both of us were thrilled and relieved. Suddenly we could write the scene visually, writing it around a powerful image, rather than sticking an image on like a band-aid.
Someone who incorporates this notion of writing from images integrally into his approach is Phil Gladwin, of Screenwriting Goldmine fame. I love the way he encourages screenwriters to make sure the main scenes in a story are firmly based on emotionally-charged pictures rather than conversations, and to visualize every beat in a scene.
But to be this image-centred takes practice. It requires you to deliberately keep your eyes wide open wherever you go, and to consciously take note of detail. It’s what painters are trained to do. Screenwriters also need to be able to “depict” situations and dilemmas, only in words rather than paint.
The same standards apply to images as apply to all other elements of the screenplay: Unless it’s clear to the viewer that you’re deliberately using a cliché to make a point (as in satire, comedy, etc.), go beyond the cliché, subvert it. An image we’ve seen countless times before, whether it’s a location, a piece of action, a situation, or whatever, can be terribly distracting. Whereas a variation of a familiar image, or a completely original image, can be hugely intriguing.
So a useful question to ask yourself over and over while you’re writing, until you no longer have to, because it becomes second nature, is “What does it look like?” Or: “What’s the image here?” Or some other formulation that suits you personally.
As for me, it's half-term and I have an image in my head of my kids sitting downstairs watching a dvd of Cats & Dogs and wondering when their old man is finally going to bring the drinks and snacks he promised about an hour ago …
Friday, February 27, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Why You Need To Entertain In Order To Enlighten
As a screenwriter, the bottom line is you are part of the entertainment industry. However high-brow your subject matter may be, people watch movies in order to have some kind of visceral rather than intellectual experience. They want to be entertained.
Regardless of whether you’re talking about a Hollywood blockbuster or a lo-budget art house film, or even a feature-length documentary, audiences pay to be frightened, amused, romantically stimulated, outraged, and so on, not to get an academic education. They want to be entertained.
A movie can express a moral point of view, pose hypothetical questions, explore historical events, personal relationships, social conventions, and so on. Whether it does so through drama or comedy, the audience only agrees to watch the film in the first place because they expect an engaging, emotional cinematic experience. They want to be entertained.
The word entertainment has had a lot of bad press. It’s mostly equated with superficial distraction. Look at what the dictionaries have to say: “To cause the time to pass pleasantly … to amuse … to divert …” (Webster's). “To amuse, to occupy agreeably,” (Oxford). “To provide amusement for …” (Collins).
But wait, put your judgemental, artistic indignation on hold for a moment and acknowledge a simple fact: The function of entertainment is to direct someone’s attention to something enjoyable. Again, “enjoyable” here refers to the full gamut of emotional cinematic experience, ranging from hilarity to terror. That, on the face of it, is the screenwriter’s job. Write stuff that people want to watch, for whatever reasons they may have.
Of course, the trick is to give the audience something enjoyable to watch, and while they’re not looking, slip in under their radar.
Or if you prefer a more classical metaphor: The job of the screenwriter is to write Trojan horses.
In other words, a film has to be entertaining (in the broadest sense of the term) to earn and maintain the audience’s attention so that you can tell them something that is anything but entertaining.
How you achieve this? The same way painters, musicians, composers and all other creative artists do, by mastering existing techniques in order to be able to subvert them. For the screenwriter that means getting a good understanding of what makes films entertaining: Genre conventions, pacing, structure and all the other “technical” aspects of screenwriting.
I could be wrong, but it seems to me that mastering the “entertaining” part of screenwriting is just as important as getting the “enlightening” aspect right.
Regardless of whether you’re talking about a Hollywood blockbuster or a lo-budget art house film, or even a feature-length documentary, audiences pay to be frightened, amused, romantically stimulated, outraged, and so on, not to get an academic education. They want to be entertained.
A movie can express a moral point of view, pose hypothetical questions, explore historical events, personal relationships, social conventions, and so on. Whether it does so through drama or comedy, the audience only agrees to watch the film in the first place because they expect an engaging, emotional cinematic experience. They want to be entertained.
The word entertainment has had a lot of bad press. It’s mostly equated with superficial distraction. Look at what the dictionaries have to say: “To cause the time to pass pleasantly … to amuse … to divert …” (Webster's). “To amuse, to occupy agreeably,” (Oxford). “To provide amusement for …” (Collins).
But wait, put your judgemental, artistic indignation on hold for a moment and acknowledge a simple fact: The function of entertainment is to direct someone’s attention to something enjoyable. Again, “enjoyable” here refers to the full gamut of emotional cinematic experience, ranging from hilarity to terror. That, on the face of it, is the screenwriter’s job. Write stuff that people want to watch, for whatever reasons they may have.
Of course, the trick is to give the audience something enjoyable to watch, and while they’re not looking, slip in under their radar.
Or if you prefer a more classical metaphor: The job of the screenwriter is to write Trojan horses.
In other words, a film has to be entertaining (in the broadest sense of the term) to earn and maintain the audience’s attention so that you can tell them something that is anything but entertaining.
How you achieve this? The same way painters, musicians, composers and all other creative artists do, by mastering existing techniques in order to be able to subvert them. For the screenwriter that means getting a good understanding of what makes films entertaining: Genre conventions, pacing, structure and all the other “technical” aspects of screenwriting.
I could be wrong, but it seems to me that mastering the “entertaining” part of screenwriting is just as important as getting the “enlightening” aspect right.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Why You Should Take The Time To Get Your Facts Right
My writing partner and I recently locked horns over a scene involving a character who is visited by a police detective in the aftermath of a fire-bomb attack on his house.
The dramatic function of the scene is to show the character in denial about the extent to which his own actions have provoked the attack. The scene turns when we show him rejecting the veiled advice of the detective to change his behaviour. Straightforward enough, right?
Wrong.
Our difference of opinion arose when we began filling in the background of the scene and the dialogue. My writing partner felt uncomfortable because neither of us knows precisely what the police protocols are for this kind of incident. How many police officers would be present? Do detectives arrive on the scene? Forensic experts? Do they seal off the road? Are reporters allowed access to the victims?
In other words, there was a lot we didn’t know.
Now we’ve already done extensive research for many other scenes in this script, so I’m absolutely not opposed to it in principle. But somehow when it came to this scene I felt it wasn’t necessary. I felt that what we did know about the scene was enough. The essence of the scene is the exchange between the two characters, and I felt we could write the scene without referring to any specific police procedures.
I have great respect for my writing partner’s eye for detail, so I deferred to his intuition. He called someone who is familiar with police procedures. We got our facts straight, and in retrospect I’m glad we did, even though it took a couple of days. Because although the essence of the scene is the same—the same emotional beats, the same references to theme, the same narrative information—it’s a better scene because we wrote it confidently, without having to avoid or hide anything.
Perhaps just as importantly, I realized that I was simply being impatient. I just wanted to get on with the writing rather than wait for more information.
Will the audience or the reader notice the difference? I think so. The difference, in the end, is in details such as passing references to police protocol, which give the scene authenticity. Also, knowing the boundaries of the detective character’s brief as a police officer made it easier to write him as a real person. Otherwise we would have ended up with a 2-D, stereotypical police detective. A clone of all the American detectives in raincoats we’ve all seen a few times too many.
So even if it takes longer, getting your facts right can make for far more convincing and confident writing. It’s worth the effort.
The dramatic function of the scene is to show the character in denial about the extent to which his own actions have provoked the attack. The scene turns when we show him rejecting the veiled advice of the detective to change his behaviour. Straightforward enough, right?
Wrong.
Our difference of opinion arose when we began filling in the background of the scene and the dialogue. My writing partner felt uncomfortable because neither of us knows precisely what the police protocols are for this kind of incident. How many police officers would be present? Do detectives arrive on the scene? Forensic experts? Do they seal off the road? Are reporters allowed access to the victims?
In other words, there was a lot we didn’t know.
Now we’ve already done extensive research for many other scenes in this script, so I’m absolutely not opposed to it in principle. But somehow when it came to this scene I felt it wasn’t necessary. I felt that what we did know about the scene was enough. The essence of the scene is the exchange between the two characters, and I felt we could write the scene without referring to any specific police procedures.
I have great respect for my writing partner’s eye for detail, so I deferred to his intuition. He called someone who is familiar with police procedures. We got our facts straight, and in retrospect I’m glad we did, even though it took a couple of days. Because although the essence of the scene is the same—the same emotional beats, the same references to theme, the same narrative information—it’s a better scene because we wrote it confidently, without having to avoid or hide anything.
Perhaps just as importantly, I realized that I was simply being impatient. I just wanted to get on with the writing rather than wait for more information.
Will the audience or the reader notice the difference? I think so. The difference, in the end, is in details such as passing references to police protocol, which give the scene authenticity. Also, knowing the boundaries of the detective character’s brief as a police officer made it easier to write him as a real person. Otherwise we would have ended up with a 2-D, stereotypical police detective. A clone of all the American detectives in raincoats we’ve all seen a few times too many.
So even if it takes longer, getting your facts right can make for far more convincing and confident writing. It’s worth the effort.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Why Screenwriters Need To Pay Attention To Attention
Veteran Disney storyboard artist Francis Glebas, packs a huge amount of information about visual storytelling in his wonderful new book Directing The Story. He goes into great detail about all the key principles that contribute to clear and dramatic storytelling, all of which he illustrates with copious storyboard examples from a variety of films.
One principle particularly struck me, and this is the principle of deliberately and methodically directing the viewer’s attention in order to affect their emotions. This is perhaps par for the course for directors, but for screenwriters, who often focus more on the “what” of the story rather than the “how” of its realization, it can be enormously helpful too.
Whether you’re writing a first draft or a final one, it’s important to have a clear image in your mind of the beat or scene you’re writing. Once you see the scene in your mind’s eye, you’re able to choose how to describe it on the page. With the aim of creating a specific emotional effect.
If you imagine (or draw) the scene you’re writing in storyboard form, what does the viewer see first? What doesn't the viewer see? How many different ways can you think of showing exactly the same beat? What is the difference between these different executions in terms of affecting one emotion or another? It’s the same principle regardless of genre.
Of course, you don’t want to start filling the script with explicit camera angles. It makes the script hard to read, and apart from that it’s the director’s job. However, even just thinking about which visual element of the scene best compliments the character’s action or contrasts the dialogue in an interesting way, or creates suspense or humour … the mere act of imagining seeing the same action from different perspectives, can greatly clarify your understanding of what the scene is about and what it needs.
And it all comes down to directing or diverting the viewer’s attention in order to create a specific emotional effect and to avoid boredom or confusion.
In contrast to directors, screenwriters don’t have to be specific about the technicalities of camera angles, composition, lenses, lighting and so on. However, suggesting these elements when they serve to heighten the emotion of the story, is definitely an option.
As Glebas puts it:
A story is like a giant knot that we have to unravel and show the audience how all the pieces connect in a linear way and then tie it all back up for them at the end. It’s not about creating the drawings as much as deciding which images should be shown and when.
Happy visualizing!
One principle particularly struck me, and this is the principle of deliberately and methodically directing the viewer’s attention in order to affect their emotions. This is perhaps par for the course for directors, but for screenwriters, who often focus more on the “what” of the story rather than the “how” of its realization, it can be enormously helpful too.
Whether you’re writing a first draft or a final one, it’s important to have a clear image in your mind of the beat or scene you’re writing. Once you see the scene in your mind’s eye, you’re able to choose how to describe it on the page. With the aim of creating a specific emotional effect.
If you imagine (or draw) the scene you’re writing in storyboard form, what does the viewer see first? What doesn't the viewer see? How many different ways can you think of showing exactly the same beat? What is the difference between these different executions in terms of affecting one emotion or another? It’s the same principle regardless of genre.
Of course, you don’t want to start filling the script with explicit camera angles. It makes the script hard to read, and apart from that it’s the director’s job. However, even just thinking about which visual element of the scene best compliments the character’s action or contrasts the dialogue in an interesting way, or creates suspense or humour … the mere act of imagining seeing the same action from different perspectives, can greatly clarify your understanding of what the scene is about and what it needs.
And it all comes down to directing or diverting the viewer’s attention in order to create a specific emotional effect and to avoid boredom or confusion.
In contrast to directors, screenwriters don’t have to be specific about the technicalities of camera angles, composition, lenses, lighting and so on. However, suggesting these elements when they serve to heighten the emotion of the story, is definitely an option.
As Glebas puts it:
A story is like a giant knot that we have to unravel and show the audience how all the pieces connect in a linear way and then tie it all back up for them at the end. It’s not about creating the drawings as much as deciding which images should be shown and when.
Happy visualizing!
Thursday, January 29, 2009
What Screenplays Have To Do With Parallel Universes
In a recent interview on the Skeptic’s Guide to the Universe podcast, theoretical physicist Dr. Michio Kaku, gave a brief and rather mind-boggling outline of the concept of parallel universes.
I’m hopeless at physics, but I kind of understood the theoretical possibility of there being multiple universes, billions of them, in which other versions of us live, but with whom we can never communicate.
Remember that movie, Sliding Doors starring Gwyneth Paltrow? Two different versions of her life, depending on whether she caught the train or not? A bit like that except literally, not hypothetically.
I recognized something of what Dr. Kaku was talking about from the process of writing and rewriting a screenplay.
Your screenplay is the universe you have created. Every time you change something in the script, whether it’s one word of dialogue, an important plot twist or even an entire character, your script always moves on, leaving behind a script that is a different universe because of that change.
The script you continue to work on is like the universe we live in and are aware of. The other versions of the script, the ones that are shed like snake skins along the way, continue to exist separately somewhere else. Sometimes you imagine what might have happened to a character or a scene you cut. It comes like a flash of recognition, or a memory—or a déjà vu, whatever that is—but actually you can only live in the script you’re writing.
Of course, as Kaku points out, the possibility of us communicating with the parallel universes that came into existence along the way to the one we’re living in now, is purely theoretical. If such an encounter were to occur at all, it would only be possible after the natural lifetime of this universe expires. So don’t hold your breath.
Anyway, to my mind it’s a pleasant concept, the idea that the versions of my scripts that didn’t happen, just drift merrily off into endless space where in some parallel universe, different versions of me, sitting at exactly the same desk, pick them up and write their own version of the screenplay.
Perhaps a nice way of mitigating the sometimes painfully laborious and detailed work of getting the 15,000 or so words of your screenplay just right.
Oh, and if you read about some poor screenwriter being dragged away in a straightjacket, kicking and screaming about other dimensions and the paradox of time travel … that’ll be me.
I’m hopeless at physics, but I kind of understood the theoretical possibility of there being multiple universes, billions of them, in which other versions of us live, but with whom we can never communicate.
Remember that movie, Sliding Doors starring Gwyneth Paltrow? Two different versions of her life, depending on whether she caught the train or not? A bit like that except literally, not hypothetically.
I recognized something of what Dr. Kaku was talking about from the process of writing and rewriting a screenplay.
Your screenplay is the universe you have created. Every time you change something in the script, whether it’s one word of dialogue, an important plot twist or even an entire character, your script always moves on, leaving behind a script that is a different universe because of that change.
The script you continue to work on is like the universe we live in and are aware of. The other versions of the script, the ones that are shed like snake skins along the way, continue to exist separately somewhere else. Sometimes you imagine what might have happened to a character or a scene you cut. It comes like a flash of recognition, or a memory—or a déjà vu, whatever that is—but actually you can only live in the script you’re writing.
Of course, as Kaku points out, the possibility of us communicating with the parallel universes that came into existence along the way to the one we’re living in now, is purely theoretical. If such an encounter were to occur at all, it would only be possible after the natural lifetime of this universe expires. So don’t hold your breath.
Anyway, to my mind it’s a pleasant concept, the idea that the versions of my scripts that didn’t happen, just drift merrily off into endless space where in some parallel universe, different versions of me, sitting at exactly the same desk, pick them up and write their own version of the screenplay.
Perhaps a nice way of mitigating the sometimes painfully laborious and detailed work of getting the 15,000 or so words of your screenplay just right.
Oh, and if you read about some poor screenwriter being dragged away in a straightjacket, kicking and screaming about other dimensions and the paradox of time travel … that’ll be me.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
How To Let It Happen On The Page Without Losing The Plot
Screenwriter of Revolutionary Road, Justin Haythe, recently did a Q+A on the Creative Screenwriting Magazine podcast. He makes a wonderful observation while describing the way he outlines before sitting down to write the actual first draft:
"… it never ceases to amaze me how much happens on the page that wasn’t planned for."
In other words, no matter how meticulously you outline and plot out the scenes before you start writing them, once you let the characters loose in the script, unexpected things start to happen.
I guess this particular remark struck a chord with me because I’m in the middle of precisely that process, turning an extensive scriptment into a fully-fledged first draft. And it always is a truly amazing sensation. Almost as if the characters are taking over.
Of course the important thing is to remain in charge, even whilst allowing events in the scene to unfold organically, in accordance with who the characters are. I think the key to achieving this balance is knowing what you’re writing about.
That may sound obvious, but a lot of scripts don’t make it to the screen because they don’t have a clear focus. Which doesn’t necessarily mean you absolutely must have that focus before you start writing. Sometimes it’s the writing and rewriting itself which clarifies what you want to focus on. But once you have a focus, you have to be true to it.
This focus transcends genre and style. Regardless of whether you’re writing a period piece, a comedic short, or an animated children’s feature. The focus might be a social issue, it might be a philosophical question, a mystery, an emotion, a psychological transition, and so on. Whatever your focus is, all the characters need to relate to it in one way or another.
This focus is what gives a script a feeling of being about something, without hitting the audience/reader over the head with “messages.”
One of my favourite examples of this kind of writing, is Paul Haggis’s Crash, in which the writer focuses every scene on the same issue: how astonishingly prejudiced and bigoted people of all races can be. (Click here to download a PDF of the script under "film scripts A-C.")
Armed with this kind of clear focus, you are free to let the magic happen on the page. You can let your characters loose in your story world, because you will always know when they’re straying outside of the focus of the story. Which is when you get to play God, using the backspace key.
"… it never ceases to amaze me how much happens on the page that wasn’t planned for."
In other words, no matter how meticulously you outline and plot out the scenes before you start writing them, once you let the characters loose in the script, unexpected things start to happen.
I guess this particular remark struck a chord with me because I’m in the middle of precisely that process, turning an extensive scriptment into a fully-fledged first draft. And it always is a truly amazing sensation. Almost as if the characters are taking over.
Of course the important thing is to remain in charge, even whilst allowing events in the scene to unfold organically, in accordance with who the characters are. I think the key to achieving this balance is knowing what you’re writing about.
That may sound obvious, but a lot of scripts don’t make it to the screen because they don’t have a clear focus. Which doesn’t necessarily mean you absolutely must have that focus before you start writing. Sometimes it’s the writing and rewriting itself which clarifies what you want to focus on. But once you have a focus, you have to be true to it.
This focus transcends genre and style. Regardless of whether you’re writing a period piece, a comedic short, or an animated children’s feature. The focus might be a social issue, it might be a philosophical question, a mystery, an emotion, a psychological transition, and so on. Whatever your focus is, all the characters need to relate to it in one way or another.
This focus is what gives a script a feeling of being about something, without hitting the audience/reader over the head with “messages.”
One of my favourite examples of this kind of writing, is Paul Haggis’s Crash, in which the writer focuses every scene on the same issue: how astonishingly prejudiced and bigoted people of all races can be. (Click here to download a PDF of the script under "film scripts A-C.")
Armed with this kind of clear focus, you are free to let the magic happen on the page. You can let your characters loose in your story world, because you will always know when they’re straying outside of the focus of the story. Which is when you get to play God, using the backspace key.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Why Your Characters Need Intentions As Well As Goals
In a recent article referring to the annual ritual of setting goals for the new year, meditation teacher Phillip Moffitt writes about the difference between setting goals and setting intentions.
A goal is a specific, concrete result, set in the future. Something you envisage yourself attaining, an outcome you are emotionally attached to, invested in. Because it’s concrete and specific, a goal leaves no room to adjust or change direction (unless you change the goal).
By contrast, an intention is rooted in the present, it’s a commitment to adhere to certain values, regardless of where that leads. An intention is a kind of yard stick with which you can always measure up your actions. Because it’s abstract, no matter what the situation, you can always hold your choices up against it.
As Moffitt writes:
You set your intentions based on understanding what matters most to you and make a commitment to align your worldly actions with your inner values.
Not only can this be a constructive way of approaching your work as a screenwriter, it can also be a useful lens through which to view your characters.
Think for a moment about your professional goals. Maybe your goal is to get an agent, finish a spec screenplay, obtain certain qualifications, hone particular skills, earn more than you did last year, etc.
Now, what about your intentions? In the sense I quoted above: the commitment to align your worldly actions with your inner values? That’s altogether a more tricky question, because it requires you to recognize what matters most to you. And that’s not always simple.
In fact this question can bring up all sorts of professional dilemmas.
Is it more important to write screenplays about meaningful issues, or is it more important earn a living writing screenplays, whatever the subject matter? Should you focus on one project you’re really committed to, or do you need to keep your options open? Should you work with people who disrespect you, in order to get ahead?
Of course, these are not black and white choices. It’s clear you need to be flexible in this business and that – as the Stones once sang - You can’t always get what you want. But it’s an interesting an illuminating question nevertheless! Because when you’re aware of your intention and that intention clashes with the concrete goal you’re trying to achieve, a dilemma arises which you can’t avoid. Conflict, in other words.
Conflict, the thing that drives all great screenplays, right?
Now ask yourself for a moment what kind of intention would clash with your main character’s goal? Are they even aware of this? Are they in denial? Is it perhaps another character who points this out, thus creating a dilemma?
As I’ve pointed out before, moral ambiguity is the life blood of great fiction. Articulating how, specifically, the discrepancy between your character’s intention and their goal interferes with their life, is just another way of exploring that moral ambiguity.
A goal is a specific, concrete result, set in the future. Something you envisage yourself attaining, an outcome you are emotionally attached to, invested in. Because it’s concrete and specific, a goal leaves no room to adjust or change direction (unless you change the goal).
By contrast, an intention is rooted in the present, it’s a commitment to adhere to certain values, regardless of where that leads. An intention is a kind of yard stick with which you can always measure up your actions. Because it’s abstract, no matter what the situation, you can always hold your choices up against it.
As Moffitt writes:
You set your intentions based on understanding what matters most to you and make a commitment to align your worldly actions with your inner values.
Not only can this be a constructive way of approaching your work as a screenwriter, it can also be a useful lens through which to view your characters.
Think for a moment about your professional goals. Maybe your goal is to get an agent, finish a spec screenplay, obtain certain qualifications, hone particular skills, earn more than you did last year, etc.
Now, what about your intentions? In the sense I quoted above: the commitment to align your worldly actions with your inner values? That’s altogether a more tricky question, because it requires you to recognize what matters most to you. And that’s not always simple.
In fact this question can bring up all sorts of professional dilemmas.
Is it more important to write screenplays about meaningful issues, or is it more important earn a living writing screenplays, whatever the subject matter? Should you focus on one project you’re really committed to, or do you need to keep your options open? Should you work with people who disrespect you, in order to get ahead?
Of course, these are not black and white choices. It’s clear you need to be flexible in this business and that – as the Stones once sang - You can’t always get what you want. But it’s an interesting an illuminating question nevertheless! Because when you’re aware of your intention and that intention clashes with the concrete goal you’re trying to achieve, a dilemma arises which you can’t avoid. Conflict, in other words.
Conflict, the thing that drives all great screenplays, right?
Now ask yourself for a moment what kind of intention would clash with your main character’s goal? Are they even aware of this? Are they in denial? Is it perhaps another character who points this out, thus creating a dilemma?
As I’ve pointed out before, moral ambiguity is the life blood of great fiction. Articulating how, specifically, the discrepancy between your character’s intention and their goal interferes with their life, is just another way of exploring that moral ambiguity.
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