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Advanced Screenwriting Taking Your Writin - Linda Seger
Advanced Screenwriting Taking Your Writin - Linda Seger
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“This is a unique and effective way to tune writers in to understanding the structure of films they
are familiar with. It covers the important terrain of character and story action and interaction
without being a rule book.”
—Academy Award-winning screenwriter ALVIN SARGENT, Ordinary People,
Paper Moon
“Dr. Linda boldly goes where nobody has gone before. She takes the study of the screenplay
further than the others and explains the nature of the beast more deeply. She provides a magic
toolbox to set you free as a screenwriter. Grab this book and us it to write fearlessly!”
—RICHARD KREVOLIN, author of Screenwriting From The Soul and How to
Adapt Anything Into a Screenplay
“At last, a book that takes you beyond the fundamentals. Richly detailed and immensely useful.
A significant contribution to the art and craft of screenwriting.”
—DAVID TROTTIER, author of The Screenwriter’s Bible
“An invaluable book that carefully delineates, defines, and details those important, but finer,
aspects of screenwriting which can make a marked difference in helping a writer stand out in
today’s crowded script marketplace!”
—KATHIE FONG YONEDA, author of The Script-Selling Game
“Linda Seger has written an intelligent book that analyzes in depth all elements of award-winning
scripts. Her incisive insights into storytelling and what makes it great are invaluable to the writer
seeking to improve his or her work. I heartily recommend this book to every serious writer who
has a good script and wants to make it a winner.”
—screenwriter D. C. FONTANA, Star Trek, Dallas
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Other books by Linda Seger
Screenwriting Books
Making a Good Script Great
Creating Unforgettable Characters
The Art of Adaptation: Turning Fact and Fiction into Film
From Script to Screen: The Collaborative Art of Filmmaking
When Women Call the Shots: The Developing Power and
Influence of Women in Television and Film
Making a Good Writer Great
Non-Fiction Books
Web-Thinking: Connecting, not Competing for Success
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ADVANCED SCREENWRITING
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Copyright
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Dedication
To my dear friends, who are also dedicated screenwriting teachers and script
consultant
Carolyn Miller
Kathie Fong Yoneda
Rachel Ballon
Pamela Jaye Smith
Devorah Cutler-Rubinstein
Karen Jacobs
Mara Purl
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Acknowledgments
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The author gratefully acknowledges and thanks the following for permission to quote from their work:
to Writers Lawrence Kasdan and Frank Galati for permission to quote from The Accidental Tourist,
from the book by Anne Tyler, a Warner Bros. production.
Dreamworks for permission to quote from American Beauty, screenplay by Allan Ball.
Universal Studios for permission to quote from Babe, screenplay by George Miller and Chris Noonan.
Universal Studios and Akiva Goldsman for permission to quote from A Beautiful Mind, screenplay by
Akiva Goldsman, based on the book A Beautiful Mind by Sylvia Nasar.
Universal Studios for permission to quote from Born on the Fourth of July, screenplay by Ron Kovic
and Oliver Stone, based on the book by Ron Kovic.
MGM Studios for permission to quote from Bull Durham, screenplay by Ron Shelton.
to Screenwriter Menno Meyjes and agent Tim Osborne for permission to quote from The Color Purple,
based on the book The Color Purple by Alice Walker, a Warner Bros. picture.
Screenwriter Christopher Hampton for permission to quote from Dangerous Liaisons, a Warner Bros.
production.
Screenwriter Gary Ross for permission to quote from Dave, a Warner Brothers Studios release.
Screenwriter Tom Schulman for permission to quote from Dead Poets Society, a Silver Screen Partners
IV, Touchstone Pictures Production.
Screenwriters Joel and Ethan Coen for permission to quote from Fargo, Gramercy Pictures,
PolyGram Filmed Entertainment, Working Title Films Production. Screenwriter Aaron Sorkin for
permission to quote from A Few Good Men, a Columbia/Tristar production.
The Rod Hall Agency, Ltd., and screenwriter Simon Beaufoy for permission to quote from The Full
Monty, a Channel Four Films and Redwave Productions film.
Screenwriter Bruce Joel Rubin for permission to quote from Ghost, a Paramount Studios picture.
Screenwriter Frank Darabont for permission to quote from his script for The Green Mile, based on the
book by Stephen King, a Castle Rock Entertainment, Darkwoods Productions, and Warner Bros.
film.
Newmarket Films for permission to quote from Memento, screenplay by Christopher Nolan. to MGM
Studios for permission to quote from Moonstruck, screenplay by John Patrick Shanley.
to Screenwriter Shane Connaughton for permission to quote from My Left Foot, a Granada Studios
production.
to Agent Simon Trewin and screenwriter Richard Curtis for permission to quote from Notting Hill, a
Bookshop Productions, Notting Hill Pictures, PolyGram Filmed Entertainment, and Working Title
Films production.
Universal Studios for permission to quote from On Golden Pond, screenplay by Ernest Thompson.
Screenwriters Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski for permission to quote from The People vs.
Larry Flynt, a Columbia Pictures production.
to MGM Studios and Barry Morrow for permission to quote from Rain Man, screenplay by Barry
Morrow and Ron Bass.
to Universal Studios for permission to quote from Schindler’s List, screenplay by Steve Zaillian, from
the book Schindler’s List by Thomas Keneally.
to Screenwriter, Mike Leigh, for permission to quote from Secrets & Lies, a Channel Four Films, CiBy
2000, Thin Man Films production.
to Screenwriter Emma Thompson for permission to quote from Sense and Sensibility, a Columbia
Pictures production.
to Screenwriter Scott Hicks for permission to quote from Shine, a Australian Film Finance Corporation,
Film Victoria, Momentum Films production.
to MGM Studios for permission to quote from Silence of the Lambs, screenplay by Ted Tally, based on
the book Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris.
to Writers Larry Gelbart, Murray Schisgal, and actor Dustin Hoffman for permission to quote from
Tootsie, story by Don McGuire and Larry Gelbart, screenplay by Larry Gelbart and Murray Schisgal,
a Columbia/Tri-Star picture.
to Screenwriter Stephan Gaghan for permission to quote from Traffic, a Bedford Falls Productions,
Compulsion Inc., Initial Entertainment Group, Splendid Medien, USA Films production.
to Screenwriters Earl Wallace and Pamela Wallace for permission to quote from Witness, story by
William Kelley, Earl Wallace, Pamela Wallace, screenplay by William Kelley and Earl Wallace, a
Paramount Picture.
to Screenwriter Kevin Wade for permission to quote from Working Girl, a 20th Century Fox production.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Introduction
1. A Realistic Tale Well Told
The Linear Structure In Drama
Storytelling Patterns
The Journey Story
The Descriptive Story
Repetitive Structures
Parallel Structures
Parallel Journeys
The Spiral
The Unraveling-Mystery Structure
The Reverse Structure
2. A Cinematic Tale Well Told
The Circular Structure
The Looping Structure
Playing With Cinematic Time
Experimenting, And Making It Work
3. Keep It Moving, Moving, Moving
Using A Clear Narrative Line To Create A Cohesive Script
Creating The Scene Sequence
Creating Action-Reaction Links Between Scenes
The Delayed Response
Linking Scenes By Using Similarities
Creating Momentum Through Contrast
Understanding The Information Between Cuts
Creating Connections Through Music And Wordplay
What Can Go Wrong With Transitions?
Creating A Thread To Hold Your Story Together
Creating A Thread With A Character
Creating A Thread With An Idea
Creating A Thread With An Object
Creating A Thread With Place
4. Making a Scene
The Establishing Scene
The Exposition Scene
The Catalyst Scene
The Love Scene
The Confrontation Scene
The Pay-Off Scene
The Resolution Scene
The Realization Scene
The Decision Scene
The Action Scene
The Reaction Scene
The Realization-Decision-Action Scene
The Flashback Scene
The Frame
The Revelation Scene
The Epiphany Scene
The Reflection Scene
Scenes Of Magic And Wonder
The Show-Stopper Scene
The Montage
5. Twists and Turns, Secrets and Lies
Defining The Turn
Creating The Twist
Creating Secrets
What Makes A Great Twist?
How To Achieve The Twist
Potential Twists That Never Happened
Exposing Secrets & Lies
6. What’s It Really About?
What Is A Great Writer?
The Ever-Present Identity Theme
Theme As Movement
How Is A Theme Expressed?
Reversing The Theme
Toxic Themes And Transforming Themes
Theme Expressed Through The Story
Theme Expressed Through Character
Theme Expressed Through Image
Theme Expressed Through Metaphor
Character As Metaphor
The Theme Has To Fit The Audience
Childhood
The Teen Years
Young Adulthood
Twenties Through Forties
Fifties Through Eighties
Old Age
Toward The End Of Life
Finding The Issue Related To The Theme
The Theme That Sums Up The Point Of The Story
7. Show, Don’t Tell
Image As Context
Images That Move Through A Film
Image As Contrast
Creating The Visual Metaphor
Image Systems
Using An Image System To Define Character
Writing With Images
8. There’s More to a Character than Meets the Eye
Who?
What?
The Internal Goal
The Invisible Need
How?
Why?
The Underlying Value System
How Do Multiple Character Layers Work Together?
What Can Go Wrong With A Character’s Desire?
9. Do Your Characters Change and Grow?
What Is Transformed?
How Does Transformation Happen?
The External Transformation
The Internal Transformation
Who Transforms?
Structuring The Transformational Arc
Transforming Michael Dorsey
As Good As It Gets
Creating A Transformation In A Single Scene
Those Who Can’t Transform
Missed Potential Transformations
Why Are Transformations So Rare And So Hard To Pull Off?
10. Say It Well
Make It Strong
Dialogue As Rhythm
The Dimensions Of Dialogue
Dialogue’s External Dimension
Dialogue That Expresses Intention
Clarifying Motivation
Setting Up The Context
Conveying The Culture Through Dialogue
Dialogue’s Internal Dimension
Dialogue Expresses Subtext
The Character’s Hidden Subtext
From A Writer’s Mind To The Characters Words
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Introduction
By the year 2000, almost 200 books about basic screenwriting were on the
market. These books—along with thousands of screenwriting seminars and
the script consultants and story analysts who have analyzed innumerable
scripts—have helped advance the craft of writing. In my twenty years
consulting on more than 2,000 scripts and teaching screenwriting in more
than twenty countries, I have been impressed with writers’ commitment to
learning the complex art and craft of screenwriting.
While applauding the increased competence in scriptwriting, I want more: I
want to see more innovation in the art of storytelling. I’d like to see new
subject matter and new forms to express new types of stories. I want to see
more producers and executives recognize a great script when they see one,
and recognize the difference between something merely different and
something exceptional. I want to see great art and great craft. I want to see an
increased respect for bold, courageous, and masterful screenwriting.
This book is about details. It’s about all the intricate, complex script
elements that make it possible for films like Magnolia and The Hours to
become great films when their very structures invite failure. It’s about
creating a script that moves well, with a story that is focused and original and
leaps off the page. It’s about creating a script that gives a great actor
something to work with. It’s about creating a script that integrates its various
elements of story, character, theme, and style into a cohesive whole. Beyond
that, it’s about creating stories that touch and intrigue an audience and perhaps
transform lives in the process.
I see this book as more than just an analysis of screenwriting techniques
and why they work. I see it as a way to encourage you to think differently
about your approaches to your work. Throughout the book I ask questions
about the films I discuss: Did it work for you? Do you think this technique
could have worked better with a slightly different approach?
Sometimes I might admire a technique in a film but believe it could have
been better executed. Sometimes, I might admire a part of a film that you feel
could have been rendered with more sophistication. I may critique some
Academy Award-winning films that you consider perfect. However,
regardless of my opinion, I always ask of every film, What can we learn from
this film that can advance the art of scriptwriting?
Since this is a book about the future of screenwriting, I chose to limit my
examples. Most of the films I’ll discuss are Academy Award winners or
nominees from 1980 to the present. Although I admire many of the classics,
most of them are not good models for the future. Occasionally I will go
beyond Academy Award nominees to a few that never got the attention of the
Academy, but which I personally admire. Very occasionally I will mention a
familiar classic that best exemplifies an idea.
If you are reading this book, you have most likely read some basic
scriptwriting books, taken some seminars, and written some scripts. Some of
you may have won awards for your work. I hope all of you have a desire to go
further with your art—to learn new techniques, to consider new possibilities,
to figure out how to make something new and different work.
While each of my earlier books can stand alone, this one builds on the
knowledge offered in my basic screenwriting books and is meant to be a
sequel. It builds particularly on the techniques discussed in Making a Good
Script Great, Creating Unforgettable Characters, and Making a Good Writer
Great. Although I try not to repeat material from these books, there are times
when some of the previous material is mentioned in order to build further on
it.
I hope this book will stretch you as it has stretched me. I hope that it
encourages you to find new subject matter and new forms to express your
ideas. I hope it encourages you to learn new skills and to continually be
original. Most of all, I hope it increases your passion for one of the youngest
art forms—the art of film.
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1. A Realistic Tale Well Told
Storytelling Patterns
Most stories (and all linear ones) are based on the belief that events are the
result of cause and effect. We build on the information, actions, and learning
that have gone before.
The linear storytelling structure usually contains certain presumptions:
Most linear films are goal-oriented, built on the presumption that achieving a
goal defines a person’s value. Determination, will, courage, and action are
considered exemplary qualities. Characters try, and try some more. They
confront obstacles. Embedded in linear storytelling is the idea that the ending
is the result of everything that has gone before, and that the end usually
justifies the means. Linear storytelling implies that life normally moves
toward desired improvement and inevitable resolution and that good should
win over evil. It implies that “every day in every way we’re getting better and
better.”
But a linear progression of events is not the only way to view our lives. In
certain non-Western cultures, the telling of stories is not linear. Sometimes
these cultures create films that strike most Western viewers as being “outside”
the commonly accepted notions of time. Some cultures, such as the Maoris as
well as some Eastern cultures and Native American cultures, tend to see time
as primarily the individual present moment. They don’t choose to look at the
world as a series of cause-and-effect processes. Traditional Balinese culture
doesn’t view life as a process of changes, but as a steady state. To show a
story as a progression would imply the Western idea that our world is
changing.
Many of us raised in a Western culture also perceive nonlinear patterns in
our lives that can be rendered into stories. Our lives often include long
passages of relative inactivity: internal quests for meaning, dreams and
reflections, working through depressions, and contemplating the importance
of money, success, and happiness.
Life also can be about individual moments that may not fit well into a
traditional story template, and yet, they define us and change us: the time you
won an award, the time you first met the blond-haired boy in second grade
and thought you would die with love.
Because of the many differences in how we see our lives, drama has the
potential to interpret life and communicate via many different patterns. New
forms and new structures can lead us to new understandings of our own lives
as well as the lives of those from other cultures.
Repetitive Structures
In the last twenty years, we’ve seen a number of new structures that
experiment with the traditional linear structure. Some of these structures
express the non-linear patterns in our lives. Some of these patterns are
repetitive. We become like a broken record, replaying the same negative
situations in our lives over and over. We date the same kind of abusive people,
we get into the same dead-end jobs, we fight an ongoing struggle with our
vices and our resolutions to improve ourselves—perhaps over-eating followed
by the commitment to diet; gambling, struggling with money, and gambling
some more; perhaps trying to stop drinking, drinking, and trying to stop again.
In the broken-record structure, we never get beyond the problems that plague
us. We just don’t seem to get it, and the process circles around and round, like
a record that can never finish its song. We’re stuck. We can’t seem to move.
Nothing new happens.
The broken-record structure is found in Groundhog Day. The film doesn’t
have a nice, neat development, but utilizes the pattern of repetition. Generally,
repetition is not dramatic because it simply shows us what we’ve seen before.
It can get boring. It usually isn’t suited to drama, which is intrinsically about
development and about moving forward. And yet, repetitive life patterns are
very real. We all experience them. We all can relate to them.
Why was Groundhog Day so successful, even though its structure was built
on the pattern of repetition? Groundhog Day uses a number of elements from
traditional structure. It tells a story about a man who repeats Groundhog Day
over and over again, until he finally understands what he’s supposed to learn
and is able to move on with his life.
Groundhog Day has a clear beginning, middle, and end, but the middle
repeats itself seven times, creating a beginning, middle, middle, middle,
middle, middle, middle, middle, and end. Phil starts his repetitive day at the
story’s first turning point and ends it at the second turning point. However,
while exploring repetition in the second act, the story also develops. Each
time the lesson repeats, something is added, so we feel that we are still
moving forward, albeit via baby steps for much of the second act. A
compelling reason is needed to move beyond repetition. In this case, the
compelling reason is Rita.
If you use a repetitive structure, make sure there’s some forward movement
and some variety so that the audience doesn’t simply see the same scene again
and again. Otherwise, audiences can feel stuck, bored, and frustrated.
When using a repetitive structure, part of a writer’s job is to figure out at
what point the audience gets the point that is conveyed through repetition. In
early drafts of Field of Dreams, several scenes showed Ray Kinsella’s
resistance to building a baseball field in the middle of Iowa. The screenwriter,
Phil Alden Robinson, struggled with the number of repetitions he would need
before the audience could suspend their disbelief about Ray’s actions. He
found, when testing the film, that he had included one too many, so a scene
was cut.
In Breaking the Waves, when Bess McNeill says goodbye to her husband as
he returns to the oil rig, she kisses him, moves away, runs to him, kisses him,
moves away, runs to him, kisses him, moves away. You might want to re-
watch this film to see when you understood the point of the scene, and
whether the film repeated what you already understood.
Another film that uses a similar repetitive pattern is the German film Run
Lola Run. Instead of using a beginning, middle, end, it plays out its story
three times with different endings. It uses the structure of beginning, middle,
end, beginning, middle, and end, beginning, middle, end, with each section
divided by a bridge, where the lovers talk. It borrowed its structure from
interactive games that use repetition to explore an idea about which choices
yield the best results. Run Lola Run explored a relationship to see which
choice best served that relationship.
Parallel Structures
Parallel Journeys
Most films have a major plotline (or “A”story) with subplots that relate to that
main plotline, pushing at it and intersecting it. However, some films work
with parallel storylines rather than intersecting storylines.
In real life, stories go on all around us all the time. Sometimes they
intersect our lives. Sometimes they parallel our lives. While you’re
developing your writing career, a producer in Beverly Hills and a director
from Canada are also developing their respective careers. Each of these three
lives has its own direction. Each continues with little or no regard for the
others. But, at some point, perhaps, the three will intersect and you’ll get your
movie made.
Parallel structures are not subplots. A subplot serves and supports the main
storyline. It dimensionalizes and intersects the main story. In parallel journey
structures, each storyline has equal weight. Although, eventually, they
connect in most films, each has its own structure and its own movement.
We see examples of parallel journies in many traditional films in which one
character is introduced first and starts her story, and then another character is
introduced and starts his story. In most cases, these parallel journeys will
intersect at either the end of the setup or at the first turning point. However,
there are exceptions. Sleepless in Seattle uses the paralleljourney structure
until its very end, when the two lovers meet. Do the Right Thing shows the
parallel journeys of all its characters living through a hot day, only
occasionally meeting each other, until they all intersect in the film’s violent
climactic scenes. In Secrets & Lies, Cynthia’s life and Hortense’s life parallel
each other until they intersect at the film’s midpoint. In Crouching Tiger,
Hidden Dragon, the two women’s stories sometimes parallel each other and
sometimes intersect. The Hours shows three parallel journeys from three
different time periods. The film implies a relationship between these three
stories, and two of the storylines intersect in Act Three.
Sliding Doors begins with what seems to be one story, but switches to a
parallel-journey story at the end of the setup, when Helen splits into two
characters: the one who got on the subway and the one who didn’t. The rest of
the film follows these two parallel journeys until the end, when the two split
characters intersect.
Traffic shows us four parallel journeys: the drug wars in Mexico, the drug
czar in Washington, the drug czar’s drugged-out daughter, and the wife of the
drug dealer in San Diego. Most of the time, these stories continue separately,
only occasionally intersecting. Magnolia creates nine parallel journeys that
are connected by the themes of resolution and redemption.
The Red Violin presents an unusual example of a parallel journey. It’s
structured with a front story about the auction and the theft of the red violin.
This could be said to provide the melody of the story. The film contains two
backstories: one about the history of the violin and one that shows a tarot card
reading. These stories are the harmonies.
The film’s backstories work as recurring motifs, providing a rhythm and
harmony of five to ten story beats, almost like a tuba coming in now and then
with its boom-boom beat. All of these stories relate to, but don’t intersect, the
story of the auction. Since these plotlines are separated in time, they have
little to do with the major character who steals the violin. Yet, they’re an
integral part of the story of the violin.
Why did The Red Violin work? Because we knew a relationship existed
among all of these stories and because the script carefully made the
connections clear from scene to scene. Each story reinforced why this violin
was worth stealing. We understood the layers, without a writer pounding their
interconnectedness into our heads.
Parallel journeys are always in danger of creating a choppy script. Just as
one story starts to flow, it’s stopped and another starts up. Just as that story
starts to flow, it stops so the first one (or a third one) can start up again. And
so it goes back and forth—choppy, flowing, choppy, flowing, and so on.
Often, the parallel journeys that start many scripts simply are not necessary.
If you’re writing a love story, you don’t have to introduce the two characters
separately. We don’t need to know what Harry is doing before meeting Sally
or what Sally is doing before meeting Harry. The two can start out together, or
we can meet one character through the eyes of the other.
Sometimes, as in films like Traffic or Magnolia, we’re meant to follow the
stories separately, expecting that they’ll eventually intersect. Then a writer’s
challenge becomes: How does one introduce each of the parallel stories
without creating a choppy script? This comes about through carefully
worked-out scene transitions and finding the connecting links among the
disparate stories even when it seems there are none. (This will be discussed in
more detail in Chapter 3.)
In most parallel-journey stories, we feel that we are moving forward in
time. One scene about one character takes place later in time than the
previous scene, which was about a different character. Occasionally, however,
parallel journeys occur simultaneously.
The French film Amélie provides an excellent example of simulataneous
parallel journeys that lead to an intersection.
We see simultaneous action while a voice-over tells us that at 10:15, Amélie
rides the escalator to the metro station. At the same time, the man in red
trainers drives his car and looks at a beautiful blonde. Eighteen minutes later,
Amélie arrives at the photo booth. At the same moment, the man in the red
trainers parks his car in front of the station. A few minutes later, the two meet.
Time Code is another example of simultaneous parallel journeys. The film
shows four different stories running simultaneously in four different parts of
the screen. Although not commercially successful, this film played with time,
implying relationships among its four stories.
The Matrix has a similar parallel-journey structure. In this film, two
separate realities play simultaneously, with one in the forefront and the other,
which usually remains invisible, moving underneath it on a subtextual level,
yet continually influencing the frontstory. In The Matrix, the dishonest,
inauthentic life is introduced first. This is the world in which Neo lives. When
he’s offered the chance to see the truth, he moves into the darker, daring, and
more authentic reality to fulfill his calling as the savior of that world.
Aside from a few short scenes in which we see the inauthentic life separate
from the authentic world, such as when Cypher meets with the agents to
betray his team, the film spends most of its time in Neo’s new world, with
occasional intersections of the two worlds—usually in chase or battle scenes.
The Matrix also contains a third parallel journey that is talked about but
never shown: Neo and his group have to save Zion. Yet we never see Zion
and know nothing about it. However, this third parallel line influences the
other two plotlines, but it’s never clear how—so we, the audience, don’t fully
understand what’s at stake. We’re certainly rooting for the good guys to win.
But the good guys tell us that we’re rooting for Zion to survive. What and
where is Zion? We never know, so we never have enough information to
decide which world we’d choose to save. Intellectually, of course we’d want
to choose an authentic and deep reality, but we never get a chance to see what
it looks like or to decide if it’s worth saving. Although we see the parallel
influence of two realities, the third influential storyline, perhaps the most
important reality, is invisible.
We can also see the concept of a parallel storyline influencing the major
plotline in the film La Femme Nikita. Nikita is chosen by a government agent
and trained to kill people. There is a reason why Nikita is killing—but we
don’t know what it is. Presumably, the machinations of the government is the
parallel storyline that influences Nikita’s actions. Presumably the government
had a reason to train her for this work. Presumably the goverment’s storyline
provides her motivation and the reason for everything that happens. But this
storyline remains invisible.
A similar example is found in Road to Perdition. The film focuses on the
relationship between a gangster, Michael Sullivan, and his son. Implied
parallel lines influence this plot, but we rarely see them. We’re told that
Michael is robbing banks and stealing Al Capone’s money, but we never see
anything about the Al Capone plotline. We know that Michael’s behavior
affects another gangster, John Rooney, but John drops out of the film for
much of the story, even though he would certainly be adversely affected by
Michael’s actions. In Road to Perdition, at least two parallel-journey plotlines
are not played out, as if these other gangsters are non-responsive and on hold
while Michael does his action.
These parallel-journey structures can be used to create successful films. But
we need to see all the parallel plotlines played out on the screen in order for
the structure to work.
The Spiral
The Spiral is a very successful structure for showing character transformation.
Although we tend to view our lives as a series of consecutive events, much of
our growth is really more like a spiral. We revisit the same themes in our
lives. But if we are growing as human beings, each time we come around,
we’ve risen above the problem. We see the theme differently.
We see spiral patterns in such films as Ordinary People, Prince of Tides,
and Beloved. These are psychological stories about remembering an event
from the past, coming to terms with it, and resolving it. In these stories, a
character revisits a traumatic incident through flashbacks, but each time the
incident is revisited, the character is able to remember more or absorb more or
deal with it better. The plot keeps spiraling, showing us (and the main
character) the same event from a series of different angles. The event from the
past is usually played in snippets in Act One and Act Two and played out in
its entirety as part of the pay-off in Act Three. This structure’s movement is
both repetitive and developmental. The story sets up a problem, uses both the
present and flashbacks of the past to explore the problem, and then resolves
the problem in the third act.
The spiral is one of the few structures in which flashbacks are almost
always essential. In this structure, flashbacks are usually precipitated by
events that take place on the presentday storyline: Perhaps a psychologist
pushes a character to remember a past trauma or certain events in the present
remind a character of events from the past. In the spiral form, the climax
usually shows the protagonist remembering the entire incident and allowing
the past trauma to heal or at least to resolve.
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2. A Cinematic Tale Well Told
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3. Keep It Moving, Moving, Moving
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4. Making a Scene
When you think about films you love, you probably think about specific
scenes that stand out as unique and memorable: the barnraising scenes in both
Witness and Seven Brides for Seven Brothers; the car-chase scene in The
French Connection; Charlie Chaplin holding onto the clock in Modern Times;
the boy drowning in quicksand in Lawrence of Arabia; the boulder chasing
Indiana Jones; the woodchipper scene in Fargo; the scene of the Civil War
wounded spread out across acres of land in Gone With the Wind; and Elliott in
silhouette in E.T., bicycling across the sky.
If you’re a fan of horror, your list of memorable scenes may include King
Kong fighting the airplanes; the attack of the killer tomatoes and the pod
people; what Hannibal had for dinner; and the Pillsbury Doughboy in Ghost
Busters, who dared to step on a church in New York City.
If you love comedy, you may recall the orgasm scene in When Harry Met
Sally; the unmasking of Tootsie; the pianohopping scene in Big; Kathy Bates
ramming the little VW in Fried Green Tomatoes; and Diane Keaton checking
her baby at the coat-check stand in Baby Boom.
In each of these scenes, the writer struck gold. How did s/he do it? Why are
those scenes there? What function do they serve? How did the writer figure
out what scenes were needed and what scenes weren’t?
When writing each of these memorable scenes, a writer understood the
function of the scene. But a writer went beyond mere functionality to create
vibrant images and strong emotions and a clear theme.
Scenes are the building blocks of the script. They deliver multiple layers of
information. A great scene advances the story, reveals character, explores the
theme, and builds an image.
In three of my books—Making a Good Script Great, The Art of Adaptation,
and Making a Good Writer Great—I discuss the turning-point scene and the
climactic scene. In this chapter I will discuss other types of scenes—some of
which are used in every script and some of which are rarely used.
The Frame
The most overused type of flashback scene is the frame. A frame is actually
two scenes that bookend a film. A character begins the story by telling the
audience that he or she is going to tell us a story. Then the story flashes back
and tells the story, and, at the end, we return to the present, where the
character now informs us that the story has ended. The highly unsuccessful
film Hudson Hawk used this obvious technique. So did the classic Citizen
Kane, although this was not such an overused technique in the 1940s.
We can see the frame in The Mission, which begins with someone talking.
We don’t know who it is, and we don’t know what he’s talking about. This
opening frame actually gets in the way of the more powerful scene that
follows: a priest being tied to a cross and sent to his death as that cross is
tossed into a raging river.
The Green Mile also uses a frame. Paul, as an old man, looks back at the
days when he met John Coffey. The story then flashes back to the events in
the past and, at the end, returns for some final words from Paul. Saving
Private Ryan begins with a frame and then flashes back to the incident of
trying to save Private Ryan.
I find these particular three frames clunky and awkward and unnecessary.
In The Green Mile, the frame itself was unclear. Where were these people?
Although we’re told that they were at a nursing home, they had far too much
freedom, and at least some of them were far too healthy to be in a nursing
home. The information that Paul is 108 years old, which comes out in the
ending frame scene, seems merely interesting, but not pertinent. We already
know about John. We already know about Paul. Talking about them at the end
doesn’t give us more necessary information.
The frame in Saving Private Ryan also seemed unnecessary. Although
emotional, the point is well made within the body of the work. For some
reason, Steven Spielberg seems to love frames. He used similar frames in
both Schindler’s List and Saving Private Ryan, both of which seemed to cloud
the focus of their stories. (I believe that these frames were his idea, since they
function in much the same way in both films.) You may want to re-watch
these two films to consider how you feel about their frames.
On the other hand, Amadeus and Stand by Me use frames that create an
essential resonance between the past and the present. Stand by Me is a film
about friendship and about fathers and sons. The frame helps these ideas
resonate as Gordy looks back to his childhood friendships with Chris and
Vern and Eddie and recognizes “I never had any friends later on like the ones
I had when I was twelve. Jesus, does anyone?” This flashback also shows the
connection between Gordy the grown-up, successful writer and Gordy the
young storyteller.
In Amadeus, the frame reinforces a theme of mediocrity, showing that the
talented and brilliant Mozart, even after his death, continued to be a thorn in
the side of the mediocre but long-lived Salieri.
As a script consultant, I recommend using a frame only when a writer
needs to set up a strong resonance between past and present. When trying to
decide whether to cut a frame or flashback scene, I ask, “Is this relevant? Is
this essential? What is gained by it? Can this information be conveyed in a
more dramatic way?”
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The freight woke up the other guys and it was on the tip
of my tongue to tell them about the deer, but I ended up
not doing it. That was one thing I kept to myself. I’ve
never spoken or written of it until just now, today. But
for me it was the best part of the trip. The cleanest
part.
For Gordy, this moment gave another layer of meaning to the whole trip.
Did this moment change Gordy’s life? No. It wasn’t a revelation that
pushed him into a new reality. But something changed inside of him. He
found some meaning that he could turn to, whenever things went wrong. In
Stephen King’s book Different Seasons, from which Stand by Me was
adapted, he mentions those times when he’s remembered this moment—the
first day in Vietnam, the death of his mother, the illness of his son. Each of
these times became more bearable because he remembered his epiphany with
the deer. Although a film can’t expand on this moment in the same way that a
book can, as you watch the film, you may feel a sense of the importance of
this encounter.
In A Room With a View, George has an epiphany as a result of seeing a man
killed in the plaza. Lucy tries to dismiss what she’s seen so that it doesn’t
affect her, but George, who has been searching for the meaning of life, has an
epiphany, proclaiming, “Something tremendous has happened!”
George finds meaning within this episode. It doesn’t change his actions, but
it does stop his brooding and it leaves him more open to the miracle of love
that he experiences with Lucy.
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5. Twists and Turns, Secrets and Lies
A writer is a revealer. The clever writer knows what to reveal, how to reveal
it, and when to reveal it. The clever writer juggles truth and lies,
misinterpretations, and miscommunications. The clever writer works with
surprises, twisting and turning a story, keeping the audience in a state of
anticipation, anxiously waiting to see what will happen next. How does a
writer construct plausible yet surprising twists and turns?
Almost every great script has turns in its story. A turn takes a story in a new
direction, provides variety, begins new developments, and changes a story’s
focus. At the minimum, a well-structured three-act script will have two
turning points: one that turns the story from Act One into Act Two and one
that turns the story from Act Two to Act Three. The script might also have a
turn at its midpoint.
Most scripts will have more than just two or three turns. Some additional
turns will come from subplot turning points, which will usually have two
turning points and sometimes a midpoint turn. Smaller subplots might have
only one turn.
The fewer turns in a script, the more space it has to develop relationships
and conflicts. The more turns in a script, the more the story will zigzag with
new developments, twists, and surprises. However, you need to be concerned
if you’re turning the story in new directions every few pages, since too many
turns don’t allow you time to develop your characters and story.
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6. What’s It Really About?
A film is a journey, not only into the world of the story, but into the world of
ideas. Great films contain great themes. We feel that a great film, in some
way, is talking about our lives, our themes, our issues. Through it, we gain
insight into how our world works and how our lives work. Sometimes we
experience deeper emotions than we feel in our everyday lives. It’s as if a
film’s ideas, expressed through character and conflict, create a deeper
connection with our own lives. Sometimes we make new life decisions as a
result of seeing a film, or affirm decisions that we already made.
Most films carry fairly simple ideas: finding integrity, establishing justice,
overcoming evil, finding love. Some films grapple with more complex ideas
—such as the ambiguity of good found in Schindler’s List and the search for
authenticity found in American Beauty.
How does a writer choose themes to explore in a script? From life—the
source of drama. The more we understand the patterns and processes of our
own lives, the more we can create deep and insightful films.
Theme As Movement
Notice that in all the films just cited above, identity is defined by movement
toward a truer identity. They’re about the seeking, discovering, maintaining,
or realizing one’s identity. These are verbs, action words.
You’ve undoubtedly heard the saying “A rolling stone gathers no moss.” I
say, “A rolling theme gathers ideas, associations, character, and story.” A
theme develops and builds. It moves throughout an entire film.
American Beauty is a good example of a film with a theme that moves
throughout its story, clearly articulating psychological and theological issues.
We might define its theme as: A man confronts his mid-life crisis, in a desire
to live an authentic life. Notice the action word “confronts,” which also
implies a context—a mid-life crisis—and a goal, the authentic life.
In his book The Art of Dramatic Writing, Lajos Egri defines theme as a
premise that is proven by the story. He says that a premise is not a static
statement, but a phrase that expresses the movement of a theme from the
beginning of a drama to its end.
He defines Macbeth’s premise as “ruthless ambition leads to destruction.” I
like how Egri defines this premise since the phrase implies three acts. The
first act introduces a man with ruthless ambition. The third act shows his
destruction. And the second act shows the process by which ruthless ambition
leads to destruction.
If we apply Egri’s concept to American Beauty, the premise might be:
Confronting the inauthentic life leads to struggle and redemption.
A writer who chose this theme would have to prove it by first showing an
inauthentic life (Act One), then showing the protagonist struggling and
confronting his life (Act Two), and then showing the protagonist’s redemption
at the end (Act Three).
I have difficulty applying Egri’s concept of theme to every film. When I
consult on a script, I occasionally work with his idea of premise, which I
sometimes find to be the best way to get a handle on a writer’s theme. More
often, however, I work with the idea of theme as a movement to a more
desired state. Considering American Beauty, I might say it’s a story about
seeking and expressing one’s integrity or finding authenticity or finding the
meaning in life. Often, I try to express a theme in a variety of ways, so a
writer can decide which articulation of a theme best resonates with what s/he
wants to say in the story.
In the early stages of writing, it’s not unusual for a script’s theme to be
unclear, vague, or abstract. When a theme is clear, it guides a writer, who can
then make sure that every scene and the story’s overall movement expresses
the idea.
Think about some of your favorite films and see where they would fit within
this chart.
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I forgot that I was hired to do a job for you and that it
was just a temporary job at that . . . I forgot that I
had two hundred and fifty million people who were paying
me to make their lives a little better and I didn’t live
up to my part of the bargain . . . See, there are certain
things you should expect from a President. I ought to
care more about you than I do about me . . . I ought to
care more about what’s right than I do about what’s
popular . . . I ought to be willing to give this whole
thing up for something I believe in, because if I’m not .
. . If I’m not . . . then I don’t belong here in the
first place.
In Moonstruck, Ronny sums up the film by telling us all that we really need
to know about love.
RONNY
Love don’t make things nice. It ruins everything. It
breaks your heart, it makes things a mess. We’re not here
to make things perfect. Snowflakes are perfect. The stars
are perfect. Not us. Not us! We are here to ruin
ourselves and break our hearts and love the wrong people
and die! . . . Come upstairs with me and get in my bed!
Ideas in films are not abstract. They’re expressed through the story, through
the characters, and through the images. Great drama begins with a writer who
is clear about the themes being explored in his or her film. Then the writer
looks for ways to express these ideas. In a film, one of those ways is through
images.
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7. Show, Don’t Tell
Image As Context
Drama is not abstract. Every character exists in a specific world: a specific
city, a specific apartment, a specific car, in a specific time and place.
When working with images, a writer’s first job is to create a world that
rings true. It might be a world of coliseums and gladiator fights and Roman
camps and battlefields as in Gladiator. It might be the world of Elizabethan
England, with its political intrigue as in Elizabeth. It may be the world of
theater, as in Shakespeare in Love.
A script’s images need to be specific to the particular film. The battle
scenes in Saving Private Ryan are remarkably different from the battle scenes
in Black Hawk Down. The prison scenes in The Green Mile have a different
feel to them from the prison scenes in The Shawshank Redemption. The desert
in Crouching Tiger is very different from the desert in The English Patient.
Criminal investigations take place in quite different worlds in Fargo, The
Fugitive, The Silence of the Lambs, Erin Brockovich, and Witness. The
wedding scenes in Four Weddings and a Funeral look different from the
wedding scene in The Piano and My Big Fat Greek Wedding. The military
world in A Few Good Men is different from the one in A Soldier’s Story. The
world of politics is different in Before the Rain, Indochine, Bulworth, The
Killing Fields, and Lone Star. The world of crime looks different in The
Godfather, Goodfellas, and Prizzi’s Honor, L.A. Confidential, The Verdict,
The Crying Game, Unforgiven, and Bugsy.
These differences come from writers using visual details of very specific
worlds. These details must be authentic. Audiences are far more sophisticated
and more visually literate now than they were even fifteen years ago. Many
members of the audience have visited New York and Europe and Africa and
India and China, so they often know when something doesn’t ring true.
If visual details are off, the audience may have difficulty trusting anything
that happens in a film. An audience can feel deceived by a writer, and, as a
result, they disconnect from a film, not knowing what to believe and what not
to believe.
In my work as a script consultant, I often encounter writers who don’t
know the worlds of their stories. Their details are inaccurate. If a detail is
inaccurate, it can affect both story and character, diminishing or destroying a
story’s potential impact. I’ve read scripts in which the description of the
Moscow airport sounds exactly like the Los Angeles Airport. (It’s not.) I’ve
read scripts in which a detective shoots a gun from such a great distance that
it could never hit its target. Or in which a horse kicks its back legs higher than
any horse ever could. Some scripts show neat gunshot wounds, even though
the caliber of the gun would have blown apart most of the victim’s body parts.
Some scripts show seemingly smart detectives with no knowledge of how to
investigate a crime scene. Sometimes an entire story depends on a visual
detail. If a writer gets the detail wrong, there’s no way to make the story
work.
Creating an authentic context requires research, writing about what you
know about. Having grown up in a small town, I know when a depiction of
small-town life is not accurate. Having grown up with a mother who was a
music teacher, I know when music scenes are not authentic and when they
are, as in The Piano and Shine.
Attention to visual detail is a mark of a great writer. If a writer doesn’t
know the look of a particular time and place from experience, then research is
essential. This might require hanging out in a specific environment, looking
for details, asking questions, and just noticing what goes on.
Image As Contrast
Writer-director Devorah Cutler-Rubenstein has been exploring the meaning of
images in her work for some years. She uses a concept of contrasting images,
which she offered to share with me for this book.
Imagery is powerful. It makes conscious the unconscious. It’s one way
we as writers and/or directors can show what is really going on
underneath all the words, protected feelings, and social convention.
Often, imagery reaches into the secret (or not so secret) places of the
soul. In the same way that sound, music, and smell can penetrate, images
go “in.” We don’t even know, when we are seeing them, how they’re
affecting us. It’s almost like an invisible trigger that is done visibly,
without our awareness. Audience members should feel the images, as
part of the flow of the storytelling.
Images can be used for contrast by juxtaposing conflicting images to
create tension, surprise, depth, and to highlight the drama inherent in the
theme. For instance, if you’re working with a theme of man versus
nature, then you can use contrasting images of nature and man in the
texture of the story. You can also bring these images into the choice of
verbs, metaphors, adverbs, and adjectives you use in the description.
The complexity of simultaneous realities can be shown in contrasting
images. The cold steel of a sword sinking into a mossy knoll. The
branding of a wild steer. A child’s boat floating down a polluted steam.
Fish swimming freely in streams and then being fried for dinner.
Images can be used to highlight a confusing truth about a character. A
slick attorney can be driving a red Porsche, and the license plate might
read “Purr.” This image can show both his obsession with power and his
more sensitive side that doesn’t get expressed. This expresses a duality
within the character.
It might even suggest where the character needs or wants to grow. Or the
red Porsche could have graffiti spray-painted on the side, to show that
the character is giving up his attachment to possessions. The visual
details can help show the transformation.
We can see the beauty and light of the jungle contrasted with screams and
gunshots and dirt and blood in The Thin Red Line. In The Full Monty, the
joyful and naked exuberance of the men contrasts with the dark and restricted
world of the factory town. The life-giving water images in The English
Patient contrast with the dry desert and the images of burned flesh. These
contrasting images resonate with us on an unconscious level, deepening our
experience of a film.
Image Systems
In many films that are particularly memorable for their visuals, a writer and
director have created an image system, a group of related images that
expresses a film’s theme. I call an image system a traveling metaphor since it
threads its way throughout a film. When an image system works well, it
unites a film into a cohesive whole.
Sometimes an image system represents a story’s journey. If you want to
show a journey of love, you might choose images that show a process of
awakening. This might be represented by a progression of dark to light
images, or small and claustrophobic spaces to open and expansive spaces or
dull colors to bright colors. When we’re without love, we may feel dark and a
bit blue, and perhaps everything is dim. As we fall in love, we move to hope
and light and feeling light-hearted and light-headed and sometimes light on
our feet. Things grow with love, so love is sometimes represented by a
movement from dead or inert things to growing things.
Seasons are often used to show changes in a character or a theme. The
changing seasons in Driving Miss Daisy show Daisy’s changing attitudes to
Hoke, to issues of race, and to her society. The changing seasons of Dead
Poets Society represents different parts of the boys’ lives. The boys begin
school in the autumn, with its crisp colors and bracing new beginnings, and
death comes in the winter, when the snow represents covering up and
silencing the truth.
An image system can show the transformation of a place or a person.
During the course of a film, a house might be built, representing the building
of a relationship. The growth of a pet can symbolize changes within a
character. A plant can grow or die to show a life flourishing or diminishing.
Any group of images that show change can help us understand a
character’s journey. In Gone With the Wind, the changing images of Tara (the
O’Hara’s family home) tell us about the changing fortunes of Scarlett. They
show us that, just like the house, Scarlett suffers, but manages to survive.
Using An Image System To Define Character
Sometimes an image system is used to define a film’s characters. If you watch
Fargo, you’ll see an image system that contrasts warm and cold. Warm-
hearted Marge is defined by warm images, and the cold-hearted killers are
defined by cold images. Notice how the Coen brothers show these contrasts:
The film opens showing Jerry driving through ice and snow to meet the
hired killers in a bar. On the way to the kidnapping, the killers drive through
snowy Minnesota. After kidnapping Jerry’s wife, Carl and Gaear kill several
motorists and leave them bleeding in the snow. Later, Carl meets Wade in the
snow, kills him, and then buries the money in the snow. The script describes
the images:
He [Carl] slogs through deep snow, down a gulley and up the
embankment to a barbedwire fence. He kneels at one of the
fence posts and frantically digs into the snow with his bare
hands, throws in the briefcase of money and covers it back
up.
He stands and tries to beat the circulation back into his
red, frozen hands.
He looks to the right. A regular line of identical fence
posts stretches away against unblemished white.
He looks to the left. A rectangular line of identical fence
posts stretches away against unblemished white.
He looks at the fence post in front of him.
CARL
Mmmmphh . . .
Contrast this with the script’s next description:
INT. HOTEL ROOM
Marge is sitting on the unmade bed. She is ready to leave,
already wearing her parka.
Everything about Marge is warm. We first see her snuggled with her
husband under a warm, cozy comforter when the phone rings, telling her
about the murder.
Marge goes to the crime scene, dressed in a warm, cozy, down jacket. Lou
says, “Margie, thought you might need a little warm-up,” as he hands her a
cup of steaming coffee.
When Carl watches television, he gets only snow, but in the next scene,
Marge watches a television documentary about the beetle that burrows into
the warm earth. When Marge captures the killer, she wears warm earmuffs.
And, at the end, as Marge looks out over the sky, the earth, the road—all
white—she stills sees everything as warm and beautiful and says, “And it’s a
beautiful day.”
Whereas Fargo uses an image system of warm versus cold, The English
Patient uses an image system that contrasts moist and dry. It uses life-giving
images of water and shade and anything moist, setting them in opposition to
deathly images, represented by desert images that are dry and burnt and
withered.
The twelfth-century nun Hildegard von Bingen—a visionary essayist,
playwright, and composer—wrote about the contrasting meanings of moisture
and dryness: “Moisture and greenness have to do with innocence, love, heart,
feelings, and tears. All of the fluids in our body become moist when we are
moved—we cry, we lubricate, we bleed—all of the numinous experiences of
our bodies have to do with moisture, and it’s moisture that brings life to this
planet, that is the cure for the desert experience and the cure for aridness.”
Hildegard said that the major sin of humanity is aridness and its major need is
to bring moisture and greenness back into people’s lives. Moisture brings
healing to those who are dry.
The English Patient is a story about healing—about Hana’s healing through
the love of Kip, and about the Count’s healing as he remembers his love affair
with Katharine. Throughout, images of moist and dry show us where and how
healing is happening, or not happening.
The first image in The English Patient shows a hand, with moist paint,
painting images of swimmers in a cave in the middle of the desert. We then
see an image of a plane flying across the arid earth. It is shot down and it
explodes. The Count has been burned by the crash and explosion. Bedouins
from the desert put a moist ungent on his face, and then put a dried mask on
top of that, and a moist cloth on top of that. As the Count begins his healing
journey, it’s late afternoon. Shadows are long, the desert is cool.
Hana takes the Count to a villa to recover from his wounds. The villa has a
pond by it and green trees surrounding it. There, Hana feeds the Count a very
juicy plum. Later, in flashback, Katharine and the Count begin their
relationship when they’re caught in a sandstorm. While they wait for the
sandstorm to stop, she offers him life-giving water.
There’s a lot of washing of hair in this film. Hana washes her hair. Kip
washes his hair, and Hana offers him olive oil as a conditioner. Katharine
washes the Count’s hair with plenty of shampoo and water. We’re also shown
baths. Katharine loves to bathe. Her husband says she’s in love with the
plumbing in Cairo. Katharine and the Count take a bath together the morning
after they first make love. As Katharine and the Count talk about what they
love, she tells him she loves water and hedgehogs.
In one of a film’s most magical scenes, Kip takes Hana to see some
frescoes high up in a bombed-out church. Here again, we find contrasting
moist and dry images. The torch she uses to look at the frescoes has a cool
blue flame. The frescoes have been created with moist paint. Hana moves
through the air as if she’s a swimmer moving through water. As she swings,
we hear the plucking of violins, which sound like drops of water.
The day the war ends, it rains. Hana and the others take the English Patient
outside to feel the rain, running with his stretcher around the pond.
When Katharine is dying in the desert cave, she talks about how she always
wanted an elaborate funeral in her green garden.
Who?
Personality could be defined as an individual’s basic attitude toward life
expressed through particular behavioral details. The person might be an
extrovert or introvert or a thinker or someone who responds emotionally to
stimuli. Yet, even within these categories, there will be vast differences.
If someone is extroverted and vivacious, we expect to see that person
relating to other people with interest and curiosity. Such people are easily at
home in social situations. They’re energetic, with a positive outlook on life.
Optimistic extroverts will probably smile and laugh easily and be open and
accessible to others. They might be warm, caring, and sensitive.
If you think about the warm extroverts that you know, you will see very
detailed differentiations among them. In my circle of extroverts, I find many
personality differences. One person expresses herself very physically. She
loves to have fun, and even as a grandmother, she’s the type who will be right
there on the toboggan, squealing with the grandchildren as they slide down
the hill. From childhood, she’s always been the first chosen to be on the
baseball team and the fastest runner. To her, the objective is rarely as
important as the fun in getting there, which has sometimes caused her to
accept goals that are not up to her level of ability.
Another extrovert I know is intellectually curious and supports others by
sharing the wisdom he’s learned, both through his own experience and the
vast reading he’s done. Sometimes he presumes that everyone else is as
interested in knowledge as he is and bores his audience. Other times, he’s not
grounded in reality, and doesn’t catch nuances in people’s behavior. He’s been
duped more than once by real life, because it doesn’t always match up with
his reading. Yet, his love of people and society doesn’t allow him to be a
recluse.
Another extrovert I know expresses herself through a sexual and sensual
response to life. She’s always svelte. Always pretty. Always made up. Always
stylish. Sometimes her extroversion takes the form of being a flirt, which has
gotten her into trouble with men, leading to a pregnancy before marriage,
affairs, and two failed marriages. But her extroversion has been balanced by
an ability to reflect on her experiences. She’s psychologically astute,
supportive, honest, and direct. She’s hard-working because she loves to work
with people. Her success is a byproduct of her love of people. She achieves
her goals as a real estate agent, because she loves matchmaking and using her
intuition.
Another person I know is caring, kind, soft, warm-hearted, and feminine.
She’s super-organized. She wants things to go well, and will communicate
and communicate and communicate some more, to make sure things work.
Sometimes she gets insecure and frenetic. At other times, she becomes
manipulative in her desire to have everything go right.
Watching films, you might have noticed how very rarely we see the
diversity of personality that we see in real life. Very few characters that I see
in scripts are richly detailed and go beyond simply doing the job of the story.
This lack of personality detail may be expected of women characters, since
85% of all feature films are written by men. I’ve been surprised to find that
this is also true of male characters. Characters of both genders are often
vaguely written and later defined more by an actor’s personality than by the
creation of a writer.
Many characters start out as stereotypes and remain as stereotypes. Most of
the scripts I read, even those written by experienced writers, start out by
describing the female character as “late-twenties/early-thirties, sexy, and
attractive” or, for males, “late-thirties and ruggedly handsome.” At this point,
a writer has already painted the characters into a corner.
I sometimes challenge my clients to write character descriptions without
wasting time on whether or not the main character is attractive. Of course
they are. And, if they weren’t attractive before hair and makeup, they will be
after. Instead, I ask that my clients imply a certain look, and then tell us
specific details that will make the character memorable. These might be
details about how characters prepare a steak or the kinds of cars they choose
and how they drive them or whether they line-dance or dance salsa or whether
they like their martini “shaken, not stirred” or whether they like salad dressing
“on the side.”
What?
What drives a character through a story? What pulls a character toward a
goal? Every major character needs to have a want, a desire, a yearning, an
intention, an objective, a need. A goal operates on several different levels.
Both the protagonist and antagonist have things that they want and things they
they don’t want.
The goal in most films is clear: The goal might be to find love (When
Harry Met Sally); to win an award, finish a task, or accomplish something
truly difficult (Shine, Billy Elliot, Shakespeare in Love); to get revenge
(Gladiator); to solve a crime (Fargo); to find the truth (The Truman Show,
Erin Brockovich); to save one’s country or workers (Braveheart, Schindler’s
List); to get better working conditions or to better one’s life (Norma Rae,
American Beauty); to get promoted and have an office with a window
(Working Girl); or even to simply sit by the side of the Mediterranean Sea and
drink chardonnay (Shirley Valentine).
When a goal works well, the audience can identify with a character’s
desires. In some way, what the character wants and what the audience
members want becomes the same.
In A Beautiful Mind, John Nash is introduced as a man who “needs to look
through, to the governing dynamics, [to] find a truly original idea. It is the
only way I will distinguish myself. It is the only way I will …”
“Matter” adds Charles.
“Yes,” replies Nash.
We, in the audience, can probably identify with Nash’s desires. Many of us
would also like to find some way to distinguish ourselves, so that we matter
and make a difference in the world.
If we look back at the character goals mentioned a few paragraphs above,
we can see how they can relate to us, even though we may live in a different
period or a different culture. Like Schindler, we’d like to do a good deed, and,
if given the chance, we hope that we’d have the courage and moral fiber to
save lives. Like Wallace in Braveheart, we’d like to protect our land. Like
Lester in American Beauty, we’d like to figure out the meaning of life. Like
General Maximus Decimus Meridus in Gladiator, we’d like to get back at
someone who did us a terrible wrong. Like Shakespeare, in Shakespeare in
Love, we’d like to complete our work.
A goal needs to be specific and concrete. At the same time, it can also be a
universal, abstract, philosophical idea. Yes, Shakespeare wants to complete a
specific play. He also wants to fulfill his talents. Yes, John Nash wants to
create a great work. He also wants to contribute to society, to use his brilliant
mind, to make a difference, to matter in the world.
However, if a character has only an abstract goal, we may have trouble
figuring out when the character has achieved it. If one wants freedom, what
does freedom look like? If one wants self-fulfillment, how will we know
when the character is truly self-fulfilled? If one wants to find the meaning of
life, when will we know that the person has found it?
In most scripts, the goal needs to be concrete, so that we can see and know
with certainty when it’s been accomplished. Justice is a broad universal goal,
but it will usually be shown as a specific moment when a bad guy is arrested
or found guilty or gets his just desserts. We want a moment when we can see
a character achieve something very specific that we can recognize as some
sort of self-realization and/or accomplishment.
Characters are pulled through a story by external goals that are expressed
as needs. Characters are also pulled through a story by external goals that are
expressed as fears of what might happen if they don’t get what they want. Is a
reputation at stake (The Fugitive)? Is someone’s life at stake, and if your
character doesn’t save that person, she won’t be able to live with her guilt and
her knowledge that she wasn’t smart enough, clever enough, or determined
enough to have realized that goal (Silence of the Lambs)? Is his own life at
stake (Braveheart, Gladiator)?
What is a character afraid of losing? Perhaps he’s afraid of losing his
identity because he didn’t differentiate himself from the others (A Beautiful
Mind). Or of losing an important relationship (You Can Count on Me).
All of these goals are also related to a character’s values. Both the
protagonist and the antagonist believe that they hold positive values, even if
they’re harmful to others. Look at how negative values can be phrased as
positives: An antagonist might feel that control is necessary to rein in the evil
inclinations of youth. Or that domination is a way of protecting and caring for
a wife. Or that torture is a way of getting at the truth that can save many lives.
Or that an eye for an eye is the way to create a more just world. All of us
believe that our personal value systems will lead to good outcomes—at least
for us, and often also for the world. We are motivated by what we see as
good, not evil.
The Internal Goal
A character’s external goal is influenced by an internal goal. Characters make
choices that are driven by their inner desires.
Characters may not be able to talk about their inner desires, or may not
believe that they have the words to express what is pushing at them. But they
can feel and sense their internal goals, and they know that they have internal
need, that they have to resolve. A character’s need to resolve something
within himself or herself leads to transformation.
In American Beauty, Lester is quite aware of his desires. He’s just not
talking about them with other people. But the audience knows that he wants
out of his old life and into a new one. He’s had it with superficiality,
dishonesty, and inauthenticity. He’s getting older and wants insight,
spontaneity, and something truer in his life.
Lester is driven by a universal need—the need to come to terms with one’s
choices and their consequences. For some people, this internal desire leads to
action. Lester recognizes that his choices have led to an inauthentic life. By
saying “no” to what he used to say “yes,” he begins his journey to reclaim his
life. He might be a mystery to everyone else, but his actions are not a mystery
to himself.
Exploring a character’s internal conscious need works well with character-
driven stories, particularly if the audience can understand or empathize with
the character’s need. Part of the brilliance of American Beauty is its ability to
make Lester’s internal need, an abstraction, become concrete. Even when
Lester begins to make bad decisions, his desire for integrity stops him: It
stops him from making love to the high school virgin. It stops him from
taking out his frustrations on his wife. It stops him from judging the journey
of his daughter and the neighbor’s son too harshly.
In A Beautiful Mind, John Nash begins with the knowledge that he has a
problem relating to people. By the film’s midpoint, he learns that he also has a
mental problem. Overcoming these two problems are his two greatest needs—
which are expressed as the need to be with his wife and the need to do his
work. He says, “The medication makes me blurry. I can’t see…[the
solutions].” His desire to see the solution is stronger than his desire to be well
or to get rid of his hallucination through medication.
Characters who display an inner need know themselves, but they may not
know how to solve their personal problems. They may know they have
problems, and want to change, but they haven’t found the impetus or the right
opportunity. The character knows there’s a problem. The audience knows
there’s a problem. The character has a goal—to resolve a problem—but rarely
tells anyone about it.
The Invisible Need
Sometimes a character’s true need is invisible to that character, and may even
be hidden from the audience until the end of the story. In this case, only a
writer knows about it. Think, for instance, about Michael Dorsey in Tootsie.
Does he know that he needs to be a less-difficult, more-sensitive person?
Probably not. He comes to the realization that his journey has made him a
better man for having been a woman only at the film’s end. Along the way, he
is driven by all sorts of external desires: his need to work, his desire to use his
talents, his desire for Julie, his desire to help Jeff mount his play, his desire to
preserve his friendship with Sandy. However, Michael cannot accomplish
most of his external goals without changing his basic personality. So his need
and desire are both unconscious to him.
When a writer works with an invisible need, s/he is working with subtext—
unspoken thoughts and motivations—recognizing that unconscious forces
may drive characters. Subtext often involves feelings of regret, guilt,
frustration, and shame. These feelings may have festered in a character for
years, but have never been reflected upon, listened to, or addressed. For much
of the script, these feelings might be unconscious to a character, until that
character can no longer ignore them due to the push of events and people that
surround him or her. Sometimes this push drives a character to action.
How?
Characters get what they want through action. Not every person you may
meet in life is an active character. Some people just sit around, shoot the
breeze, watch the telly, and take what’s given to them. They go along with
whatever life has to offer. These characters are not essentially dramatic, so
there’s no reason to write them into your script.
It’s not enough for a character’s goal to be clear—a character has to take
action to realize that goal. A character must do something, not just talk about
it. This means that the desire to reach the goal has to be so powerful that it
pushes the character into action. If characters are wishy-washy about
achieving their desire, we in the audience won’t root for them. We’ll feel
distant so we’ll sit back and watch them hang out, rather than lean forward
and identify with them, wanting them to get what they want.
The particular way a character carries out the action and confronts
obstacles further defines that character.
Characters have to be willing to go through a great deal to get what they
want. They train (Shine, Rocky, Babe), fight (The Thin Red Line, L.A.
Confidential), investigate and uncover the truth (Secrets & Lies, Fargo, Quiz
Show, A Few Good Men, A Soldier’s Story, The Fugitive), heal (Awakenings,
Born on the Fourth of July), and assume power and control (The Last
Emperor, Wall Street, Prizzi’s Honor.)
Just for fun, let’s compare Rocky and Babe. Both title characters are
underdogs. (Well, one is a human and the other a pig, but nevertheless,
they’re not at the top of anyone’s heap.) Rocky is driven by his lack of self-
confidence and his desire to prove himself and make something of himself.
He takes actions to reach his goals: allowing others to influence him, training
harder, becoming more determined, knowing that he might just be able to pull
this off.
Babe, on the other hand, is not ambitious, but he’s much too optimistic to
be a loser or to see himself as a loser. He’s driven by curiosity and a desire to
belong. When Babe has to use mean-spirited or condescending tactics, he
can’t pull them off. Instead, Babe watches others, experiments with different
techniques, takes advice, and finally finds his own way of doing the job that
he wants to do. For him, it’s not a matter of training and working harder, but
of listening to what Maa (the head sheep) tells him and being willing to
become more his own sweet self in order to be able to fulfill himself and find
his place among the farm animals.
We see different actions leading to similar goals when we compare two
detective stories, The Fugitive and Fargo. Sam Gerard, in The Fugitive,
spends a certain amount of time just thinking and reflecting on the situation.
He asks unexpected questions: He asks Charlie about Richard, “Is he smarter
than you?” He acts respectfully toward people he interrogates. He asks
politely for their cooperation. And he’s all-consumed by his job—any time of
the day or night, he’ll be there.
Marge, in Fargo, is more chatty in some of her interviews. She’s persistent,
but not tough. And her work is not all-consuming. Whereas Sam Gerard is
seen without any intimate relationships, Marge has a husband who loves her
and a new baby on the way. We see her in family situations: eating a lot
because she’s pregnant, snuggling with her husband, watching television. A
number of scenes show the support that she and her husband give to each
other. He makes breakfast for her when she has to go out to see murdered
victims. She encourages him in his painting of ducks. In all aspects of her life,
she listens, encourages, draws out people.
Why?
A character’s external goals and personality details are further shaded by
motivation. Why does a character want a particular goal? What drives him or
her to accomplish the goal? What’s in a character’s background that makes a
character want something so badly that s/he can taste it? How much push and
energy does a character have?
Much of this push comes from a character’s backstory. Psychologist and
script consultant Dr. Rachel Ballon says that much of our psychology is
determined by our childhood. She asks many of her writing clients the same
questions about their characters that she asks her therapy clients about their
lives: “What are the beliefs, fears, drives, desires, and basic needs that make
up the internal structure of your life? What current self-defeating behaviors
are influenced by the past? Where did these behaviors come from? From the
family? Childhood experiences? Repressed memories? Peak experiences?
From childhood messages that were accepted as truth and have guided his/her
behavior throughout life? Since any individual is the sum of all experiences,
conscious or unconscious, the past becomes important to an understanding of
how a person is in the present.
A character’s push and energy are often motivated by relationships with
parents. Sometimes a parent’s push can be positive. A character might move
toward a goal because of parental encouragement and influence. Other times,
a parent’s push is negative. A character may move toward a goal because of
the parents’ overbearing pushiness and control.
We can see parental influence, for good and for ill, in such films as Shine,
Quiz Show, The Piano, Heavenly Creatures, Good Will Hunting, Moonstruck,
Rain Man, Elizabeth, and Terms of Endearment.
Sometimes a character’s parents want that character to follow conventions.
Instead, the character goes in the opposite direction. We can see this pattern in
such films as Titanic, Traffic, Elizabeth, Billy Elliot, Dead Poets Society, and
The Color Purple. In a film such as The Cider House Rules, it’s questionable
whether the doctor’s influence was positive or negative.
In many films, there will be some mention of the way that a character’s
backstory motivates that character’s desires.
In A Beautiful Mind, John Nash says, “My first-grade teacher once said that
I got two helpings of brain and half a helping of heart.” His lack of heart and
his admirable intellect motivated him to turn to the abstract world of
mathematics, rather than the more concrete world of relationships—especially
since he figured out that “I don’t like people much, and they don’t much like
me.”
In Rain Man, the autistic brother, Raymond, got three million dollars from
his father’s will, and Charlie got the rose bushes and the car. Charlie tells his
girlfriend Susan the backstory of his father’s love of the car.
CHARLIE
Tell you one story. Just one. Y’know that convertible out
front? His baby. That and the goddamn roses. Car was off-
limits to me. That’s a classic, he’d say. It commands
respect. Not for children. Tenth grade. I’m sixteen. And
for once . . . I bring home a report card . . . and it’s
all As. So I go to my Dad. Can I take the guys out in the
Buick? Sort of a victory drive. He says no. But I go
anyway. Steal the keys. Sneak it out.
SUSAN
Why then? Why that time?
CHARLIE
Because I deserved it. I’d done something wonderful. In
his own terms. And he wasn’t man enough to do right. So
we’re on Lakeshore Drive. Four kids. Four six-packs. And
we get pulled over. He called in a report of a stolen
car. Not his son took the car without permission. Just
stolen.
(beat)
Cook County Jail. Other guys’ dads bail’em out in an
hour. He left me there. Two . . . days. Drunks throwing
up. Psychos all over me. Some guy tries to rape me.
Twice. That’s the only time in my life . . . I was
gutscared. Shit-your-pants . . . heartpounding-right-
through-your ribs . . . can’t-catch-your-breath scared.
The guy knifed my back. I left home. I never came back.
Motivation need not just come from a character’s backstory. In plenty of
great films, we know very little about the main character’s backstory,
although we might sense it. If we don’t know that backstory, it’s not unusual
for a line of dialogue to articulate where that character’s motivation does
come from.
In some films, motivation is intrinsic to the character. In Witness, we don’t
know anything about John and Elaine Book’s parents, but Elaine lets us know
that John has always had integrity. We know that Jane in Broadcast News has
always been ambitious, both by comments made about her and from a scene
at the beginning of a film in which we see her as a bossy child.
Motivations also come from negatives. What is the character’s worst fear?
For some, like John Nash in A Beautiful Mind, it’s failure. For some, it’s
dying with regrets (Magnolia). For some, it’s being found out for the wrongs
they’ve done (Nixon). For Henry Hill, it’s no longer being part of the mob
(Goodfellas).
A character, however, can’t be motivated only by a negative. If there’s
something a character doesn’t want, then there has to be something s/he does
want. Otherwise, that character is going to be passive and just hang out in the
story, without any energy or push toward a goal. A passive character becomes
a static character, rather than a dramatic character who is going somewhere.
If a character is pushed by a negative, s/he will find something to want that
is the opposite of that negative. If parents want a daughter to marry someone
conventional, the daughter will substitute someone unconventional (Titanic).
If parents were lost, abandoned, neglectful, or dead, the character might
substitute an intense yearning to belong or to re-connect (Babe, Field of
Dreams, The Color Purple, E.T.).
A stand-in for parental figures can be society and culture, which asks
characters to be conventional. They then need to find substitutes that help
them find their true identities. In some films, this takes a while. In Good Will
Hunting, Will struggles to find a positive motivation. He has chosen to simply
“hang loose” for most of his life, rather than follow either the dictates of his
parents or society. He’s so out of touch with his own heart, he has no idea
what he wants. By the end, he knows he wants Skylar and is willing to take
action to get her.
In most cases, it will be clear where a character has turned for a substitute
motivation. John Nash turned to the quest for truth: “There is a crystalline
architecture to the universe we can only glimpse. That is the only truth. The
math of things, the math of everything, the secrets implied by the world in
whispers.”
Often a character chooses a substitute and then discovers something even
more important. Billy Elliot wants his father’s love. When he can’t get it, he
turns to dance. Soon he discovers that freedom and self-fulfillment are as
important to him as his father’s love. Luckily, by the story’s end, he gets both.
Erin Brockovich wants a job, but eventually realizes that justice is more
important than the paycheck or even her own self-esteem. Truman in The
Truman Show wants happiness and contentment, but eventually realizes that
truth and love are more important.
A character’s backstory can include a dysfunctional childhood. This might
create a child who always wants to right a wrong or is always distrusting or
always wants to get back at adults. Many writers write about of their unhappy
childhoods— and sometimes wonder if they’d have anything to say if things
hadn’t been so bad. A violent background could lead a character to join the
police force in order to get rid of violence— forever. And yet, that same
character might find that it’s difficult to avoid violence to resolve a problem,
because that’s what’s been learned.
A teacher might have been drawn to the profession of books and learning,
because she learned to escape her neglectful parents through books. As a
result, she finds that she withdraws from people who become too
confrontational or demand too much of her. She learns to live in her mind and
in the world of ideas.
Characters can be driven by a desire to be like their parents, or unlike them.
And they may or may not succeed.
In many cases, the audience never needs to know a character’s backstory,
but a writer should. Since the backstory drives the psychology of a character,
the more a writer knows, the more backstory information can seep into
dialogue. A backstory can be implied, and the audience will then sense
something about what happened in the past. We can guess that a character had
a happy or unhappy childhood. We can guess that there have been difficult
dynamics within a character’s family or with an ex-spouse or with a
character’s career.
Sometimes, a backstory is talked about in a film, because it’s so important
that it drives all the character’s decisions. In Moonstruck, Ronny hasn’t talked
to his brother Johnny for years, and doesn’t intend to come to Johnny’s
wedding. There’s a good reason for this:
RONNY
(holds up his left hand to Loretta)
Look. It’s wood. It’s fake. Five years ago I was engaged
to be married. Johnny came in here, he ordered bread from
me. I put it in the slicer and I talked with him and my
hand got caught ’cause I wasn’t paying attention. The
slicer chewed off my hand. It’s funny ‘cause — when my
fiancée saw that I was maimed, she left me for another
man . . . I lost my hand. I lost my bride! Johnny has his
hand. Johnny has his bride.
A happy childhood can also drive actions in the present. We tend to think
that all dramatic action comes from dysfunction, but that’s not necessarily so.
I know that many people didn’t have happy childhoods according to
psychologists and according to many of my friends and acquaintances.
However, I was one of those fortunate people who had a happy childhood,
and I’ve often reflected about how that has driven my own wants and desires.
My curiosity was always acknowledged and affirmed by my parents, which
taught me to be very curious about people and things. This sometimes drove
my teachers to exasperation, but it also enhanced my creativity and my
fascination with many things in life, from music to physics to travel to
learning about other cultures.
In high school, my little town of Peshtigo, Wisconsin, felt very limiting.
This drove me to want to get out, to see, and to live in the big, big world.
Since my parents affirmed my desires, I didn’t have to leave my home town
out of rebelliousness, but out of a natural desire to grow. This freedom
allowed me to stay connected to my roots, and to return now and then, with
greater appreciation of my home town.
When creating characters, happiness, support, a good family life, and a
loving community can also create dramatically interesting characters.
Although we have only a few examples of this, we can see happy, functional,
probably-had-a-goodbackground characters in To Kill a Mockingbird, The
Lord of the Rings, You Can Count on Me, Life Is Beautiful, Saving Private
Ryan, Fargo, Avalon, Big, and Grand Canyon.
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9. Do Your Characters Change and Grow?
What Is Transformed?
My idea of transformation implies that something is wrong or out of balance
or flawed, so it needs to be changed. Greek heroes usually had a fatal flaw
that was their downfall because it prevented them from transforming. In our
present Western civilization, there may not be a character flaw, but a problem
that keeps someone from living a fuller and happier life. Sometimes this
problem is defined in psychological terms: a fear of intimacy or of
commitment, distrust of others, selfishness, lack of assertiveness for women
or too much aggressiveness for men, cowardice, rigidity. Sometimes this
problem is an emotional wound that must be healed. Perhaps it’s the result of
a childhood incident that was never resolved.
Sometimes a character’s flaw or problem is ethical or moral: dishonesty,
corruption, manipulation, greed, the use of power to oppress others.
A character’s problem doesn’t need to be a negative. It may be a quality
that is usually considered positive, but in a certain situation becomes a
problem. For instance, I grew up in a small town in the northwoods of
Wisconsin. I was well protected, naïve, innocent, positive, and trusting of the
world around me. Nothing was wrong with this set of qualities until I
encountered the betrayals and corruptions and insensitivities of the larger
world. My positive qualities then became a problem, since they left me
unprepared to handle these realities. First, I didn’t believe what I was seeing.
Then, I felt victimized. Yet, I didn’t want to give up my positive attitude
toward life. I felt angry, but since we didn’t express our emotions in
Wisconsin in the 1950s and 1960s, I was in dire need of some sort of
transformation. I had to find a way to put wisdom together with innocence,
strength together with flexibility, and trust together with discernment.
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An internal transformation is a character’s movement from a negative
personal trait to a positive one. If you look at some of the themes mentioned
in Chapter 5, you will see many examples of internal transformation in films
in which characters resolve life issues and become more capable people by
the end of the film.
In movies about children, a child’s or teenager’s internal transformation
often moves from low self-esteem to high selfesteem or from lack of
confidence to assertiveness and selfassuredness: Home Alone, The Karate
Kid, Dead Poets Society, Spy Kids, Billy Elliot, Almost Famous, Toy Story.
Films that revolve around characters in their twenties or thirties will often
show internal transformations from personal failure or work problems to
success and achievement. Sometimes characters also find love and intimacy
in the process: Rocky, Working Girl, The Full Monty, Jerry Maguire, Shine,
Bugsy, Shakespeare in Love.
Films about characters in their thirties through fifties might show an
internal transformation to a new value system, which deepens or humanizes
characters, or leads them to greater sensitivity. Sometimes a character’s lack
of success in the world’s terms leads to a different kind of success. Instead of
money, fame, and power, a character might find integrity (Quiz Show, The
Insider, Lone Star) or courage in the face of overpowering obstacles (Apollo
13, Braveheart) or justice (Running on Empty, Silkwood, In the Name of the
Father, A Soldier’s Story). Sometimes a character finds success by breaking
away from family or culture, discovering a new set of values in the process
(The Cider House Rules, A Room with a View).
Films about people in their sixties and up often show an internal
transformation to reconciliation and resolution (Driving Miss Daisy, Tender
Mercies, Trip to Bountiful) or realization of what’s important in life. In
Melvin’s Room, One True Thing, Magnolia—all of which deal with dying and
death—the story shifts from an ill person to a person who is not ill but needs
to find deeper values and understand what’s really important in life.
Not all internal transformations are dramatic or momentous. Occasionally a
film shows a small internal transformation—a character changes his mind. In
The Fugitive, Sam Gerard changes his mind about Kimble through a series of
small story beats that make him increasingly aware of Kimble’s possible
innocence. In Driving Miss Daisy, Daisy changes her attitude toward Hoke,
first seeing him as an employee who is always in her way, then seeing him as
her best friend. In Traffic, Javier changes his attitude toward the law-
enforcement system as he sees more of its corruption. In Chocolate, the
mayor changes his mind about the chocolate woman who has brought so
much magic to his town.
Who Transforms?
In most films, the protagonist transforms. But not always. Sometimes a
supporting character transforms as a result of a relationship with the
protagonist. In Philadelphia, Andrew goes through a external transformation
but very little in the way of an internal transformation. Yet he acts as a
catalyst character for the transformations of his lawyer, some of his family,
and some of the others in his firm. Keating, in Dead Poets Society, is a
catalyst for the transformation of most of the boys in his classroom. He
doesn’t need to change. The boys do. The boys move from conformity to
creativity and, at least with Todd, from lack of confidence to the ability to be
assertive, expressive, and more spontaneous. In Chariots of Fire, Eric Liddell
doesn’t transform, but those around him are affected by his integrity. In
Unforgiven, William Munny only marginally transforms, since he has already
given up his old life by the time the story begins. But the journey he takes
with the Schofield Kid transforms the Schofield Kid, so that he won’t become
the kind of person that Munny has been. In The Mission, Mendoza begins as a
warrior, but changes as a result of his relationship with the priest.
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I feel like I have something meaningful to say to women
... I’ve been an unemployed actor for years. I know what
it’s like to feel oppressed ... If I could impart ...
that information, that experience onto other women like
me —
AGENT
There are no other women like you.
At the same time, he tries, as Michael, to start a relationship with Julie, but
when he tries to pick her up, she throws her drink in his face. Clearly Julie
isn’t interested in Michael, even though she wants to be friends with Dorothy.
Julie’s relationship with Dorothy leads Julie to become more assertive in
her role. She becomes stronger and gives credit to her coach, Dorothy. Ron
realizes that Dorothy has been giving Julie assertiveness training, which
begins to threaten him and makes him put down Julie. Seeing this, Dorothy
confronts Ron, speaking up to him in a way that Julie is not yet capable of
doing. The lines are an affirmation of Dorothy’s identity but also an
affirmation of Julie’s emerging assertiveness.
DOROTHY
My name is Dorothy. Not “Tootsie,” not “Toots,” not
“Honey,” not “Sweetie,” not “Doll.”
RON
Oh, Christ.
DOROTHY
No, just Dorothy. John is always John, Rick is always
Rick, Mel is always Mel. I’d like to be Dorothy.
She stomps off to an adjoining set. Julie looks at Ron for a
moment, then moves off after Dorothy.
At the end of Act Two, Dorothy goes with Julie to the farm for
Thanksgiving and we see how much Michael has changed. Instead of
ignoring children, Michael/Dorothy holds Julie’s baby close to him. Instead of
seeing women as sexual objects or “just friends,” he empathizes with Julie
and sees that tenderness is a big part of love.
By the second turning point, Michael encounters a series of tests that force
him to choose between success or love. Of course, since this is a comedy,
each test is humorous. Michael/Dorothy tries to tell Julie who he really is, but
she misunderstands and thinks that Dorothy is a lesbian and decides they
shouldn’t see each other. Les, Julie’s father, proposes to Dorothy. Brewster
tries to seduce Dorothy. Sandy hears that there’s another woman in Michael’s
life. She’s enraged, and finally in touch with her anger. Michael wants to
unmask immediately, but his agent tells him that if he unmasks now, they’ll
face a scandal and be sued.
Finally, Michael finds his unmasking opportunity when they have to redo a
section of the soap opera—this time live. He unmasks and clarifies that he has
become a better man for having been a woman: “Being a woman was the best
part of my manhood, the best part of myself.”
Tootsie is a film with more subplots than most. There’s the Michael/Julie
subplot, the Michael/Dorothy subplot, the Michael/Sandy subplot, the
Dorothy/Les subplot, the Dorothy/Brewster subplot, the Julie/Ron subplot,
and Jeff’s play. Each person, each event, and each subplot forces Michael
further into his transformation. It takes many people and many subplots to
transform Michael because he’s a difficult case.
As Good As It Gets
In As Good As It Gets, Melvin is introduced as one of the most insensitive,
uncaring, mean-spirited, rude people that anyone could ever meet. He’s
shown to hate dogs, which proves what a terrible person he is. He hates
homosexuals. He hates his neighbors. And they hate him. He’s racist and
sexist. And he has an obsessive/compulsive disorder.
Carol, a waitress, is the only person who seems able to deal with him. She’s
a woman who doesn’t take any guff. When Melvin insults a customer at the
restaurant and says they’re all going to die, including her son, she makes him
swear that he’ll never mention her son again. This hits a nerve with Melvin.
The next time he comes to the restaurant, she ignores him, but he then asks
her what’s wrong with her son. She tells him about her son’s illness.
Melvin’s increased sensitivity makes Carol more sensitive to his potential
humanity, and her response to him makes him more responsive to Simon, his
neighbor. At the first turning point, when Simon, who is an artist and a
homosexual, is beaten up, Melvin is told to take care of Simon’s dog. In the
beginning of the second act, the dog begins to transform Melvin, which leads
Carol to being kinder to Melvin. She tells him that the next time he comes to
the restaurant with the dog, he can bring the dog inside. They talk some more.
Her kindness to him makes him kinder to the dog. He gets bacon for the dog,
takes him for a walk, and allows him to sit beside him as he finishes his book.
The dog has begun to transform Melvin. When he has to give the dog back,
he starts to cry. The fact that he is now without a dog forces Melvin to return
to his psychiatrist and ask for help.
When Melvin doesn’t find Carol at the restaurant one day, he insults
everyone. He wants only Carol to wait on him. Desperate to have Carol back
in his life, he bribes the busboy for her address. He goes to confront her.
She clearly is not happy to see him, and explains that her son, Spence, is
sick. As Melvin is ready to leave, Spence’s fever gets worse, so she asks
Melvin to give them a lift in the cab. He does. Seeing Spence sick makes
Melvin more compassionate. He sends a doctor to take care of Spence and
diagnose his condition. Melvin will pay for everything. The doctor promises
that Spence will now start to feel a lot better.
Melvin’s response to Carol’s son makes Melvin more sensitive to others.
He offers to take Simon’s dog for a walk. And, when Simon tells Melvin that
he will lose his apartment because he was beaten up and is unable to continue
his painting, Melvin feels sorry for him and sits down to talk with him.
At the film’s midpoint, Melvin begins to manifest his humanity. He pays
for Spence’s treatment, endearing him to the people around him and to the
film’s audience. Melvin helps Simon.
Carol is confused by Melvin’s sudden humanity, so she confronts him. Why
is he paying her son’s medical bills? Here, at a film’s midpoint, Melvin’s
motive for helping Spence is by no means altruistic. He is doing it mainly to
get Carol back to work so that he can go back to his same routine at the
restaurant. Yet, he is slowly beginning to be humanized by his associations
with Carol, Spence, Simon, and the dog.
In the second half of Act Two, Carol writes a thank-you letter to Melvin.
When she tries to give it to him, he won’t take it. He insists, instead, that she
accompany him and Simon to Baltimore to see Simon’s folks, hoping they’ll
help Simon out. Carol is happy to be on this journey and tells Melvin, “I’m
happy and you’re my date.” They go out to dinner. Melvin insults her, so
Carol prepares to leave. She tells him, “Pay me a compliment.” He tells her
that he has gone back to his psychiatrist and is now back on his medication.
He tells her that she makes him want to be a better man. He tells her that she
makes him want to take his medicine. Carol asks why he brought her with
them. Melvin tells her that he hoped that she’d sleep with Simon so he’d stop
being homosexual. She’s insulted and leaves, and bonds with Simon. Carol’s
understanding of Simon helps him draw again. He decides to draw her, and
the two spend most of the night talking while he draws.
At the second turning point, Carol tells Melvin that he makes her feel bad
about herself. She leaves him. This forces Melvin to look at himself and the
consequences of his behavior. He clearly is not getting what he wants out of
life: He has no Carol, no friends. He now has to make a choice—to continue
his transformation or to return to the isolated life he led in Act One.
His insight into his own sorry plight makes him more caring toward Simon.
He invites Simon to stay at his apartment. Simon thanks him and says he
loves him. Melvin replies that he’d be the luckiest guy in the world if that did
it for him.
Carol returns home and sees that Spence is doing well. She calls Melvin to
apologize to him. She tells him that she enjoys his company, but there are
problems. Simon encourages Melvin to go over to Carol’s. Melvin and Carol
go for a very early morning walk. He compliments her. He kisses her and they
head for the bakery for breakfast.
Throughout this film, one character’s kindness pushes another character
toward kindness to others. The characters are catalysts for each other. Frank,
Simon, Carol, Melvin, Carol’s mother, and the dog all influence each other’s
transformations.
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10. Say It Well
If done well, a film’s dialogue is memorable. We quote it, and sometimes live
by it. It crops up in our common language. We have film dialogue for every
occasion.
To taunt: “Go ahead, make my day.” (Dirty Harry) To express outrage:
“I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore.” (Network)
To show unease: “I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.” (The
Wizard of Oz)
For all the crazy attitudes we have: “I love the smell of napalm in the
morning.” (Apocalypse Now)
To comment on relationships: “In every way but socially, you’re my role
model.” (Broadcast News)
To express our philosophy of life: “Life is like a box of chocolates.”
(Forrest Gump)
To express our greatest desires: “I’ll have what she’s having.” (When Harry
Met Sally)
To justify our behavior: “I’m not bad, I’m just drawn that way.” (Who
Killed Roger Rabbit)
Make It Strong
The art and craft of great dialogue is making the words sing, echo, resonate,
surprise, excite, and give insight to the human experience. The love of
dialogue is the love of the power and music of words—their meanings and
rhythms. It’s finding the exact word, hitting the right note. In great dialogue,
words and cinematic images are paired to give us a great depth of information
about story, character, and theme.
Dialogue is not just chat. It’s not just discussion. It’s not just hanging out
and shooting the breeze. It’s also not about narrating a story or talking about
things. Nor is it an opportunity for writers to share their philosophies of life. It
should give only information that is relevant and essential to a story or the
revelation of a character. Dialogue expresses a theme, reveals a character,
implies a transformation, and helps clarify a character’s transformation.
Good writers develop an ear for dialogue in the same way that musicians
develop an ear for music. They listen. Like a philosopher searching for the
perfect phrase to express an idea, the great writer searches for language’s
shadings and nuances. Writers intuit character’s ulterior motives and subtext
in much the same way psychologists listen for hidden meanings beneath their
clients’ words.
Unless you’re an unusually gifted writer, great dialogue doesn’t come
easily. Writers must constantly work at finding and hearing the right word.
They listen to how different people speak and listen to the patterns and
rhythms and dialects and cultural nuances of speech. They listen to the
languid rhythms of the cowboy in the West. They listen to the slow rhythms
of the gracious Southerner. They listen to the clipped sounds of the Easterner.
They hear all this as they would hear music.
They listen to their aunts, uncles, mothers, fathers, siblings, and friends.
They listen to persuasive teachers and fireand- brimstone preachers and the
soft, quiet coos of the mother with her child.
Many writers tape-record some of the dialogue they hear. Many good
writers read their dialogue aloud, seeking the right music for each character
and the right rhythm for each scene. Some have read-throughs with actors so
that they can hear what it sounds like when spoken by others. Dialogue, as
Shakespeare said, should fall “trippingly on the tongue.” It should be easily
spoken. Like phrases in a song, it needs room for a breath. Words need to
flow easily, one into the next, so the actor doesn’t trip up on an alliteration or
pronunciation or word combinations.
In college, I was in the chorus of the ancient Greek play Hecuba by
Euripides. I had only one line of dialogue. I practiced and practiced but found
no way to say it well. The line was “Surely, no man could be so calloused or
so hard of heart that he could hear this woman’s heart-broken cry and not be
touched.” After a number of rehearsals, the line was taken away from me and
assigned to another chorus member, who had no more luck with it than I did. I
wondered if anyone could deliver this line well. I could find no place to take a
breath and still create an easy flow with the line. I knew my acting limits (I
had gotten a “C” in acting), but I also knew that, sometimes, when dialogue is
extroardinarily well-written, even the worst of actors become passable.
It has been said that Tennessee Williams wrote such brilliant dialogue that
you could read it like you were reading a telephone book and it would still
sound good. That was my experience: One of the few acting-class scenes I did
that got compliments was playing a desperate and drunken lesbian in
Williams’ Something Unspoken. I knew that if I, a naïve young woman from
northern Wisconsin, could pull that one off, the dialogue must be brilliant.
In my work as a script consultant, I come across a great deal of dialogue
that has no sense of rhythm. It’s wooden. It does not use contractions, and is
not easily spoken. I come across dialogue that is bland, banal, trite, and too
straightforward. It has no subtext. It doesn’t sing. As a result, audiences don’t
believe the characters and don’t believe the story.
Dialogue As Rhythm
Dialogue is rhythm. It’s a rat-a-tat-tat, a bouncing tennis ball moving back
and forth—bonk, bonk, bonk, and right back to you.
Dialogue has pace and rhythm. We talk fast, in a flow of words, or slowly,
searching for each thought. Our words tell others whether we’re loquacious or
taciturn. The rhythm of our words tell others where we’re from—north or
south, east or west, one level of society or another. The energy behind our
words tell others whether we’re desparate or calm. Dialogue can set the style
and period of an entire film through its rhythm and pace.
Listen to the rhythmic movement back and forth from Witness. “Drop the
gun. Drop it. Drop the gun. Put the gun down, gun down, gun down.”
Listen to dialogue from Moonstruck, where rhythm is established with
short sentences, repetitive words, and alliteration.
RONNY
They say bread is life. So I bake bread, bread, bread.
And the years go by! By! By! And I sweat and shovel this
stinkin’ dough in and outta this hot hole in the wall and
I should be so happy, huh, sweetheart? You want me to
come to the wedding of my brother Johnny?!! Where is my
wedding? Chrissy! Over by the wall! Gimme the big knife
... I’m gonna cut my throat!”
In Born on the Fourth of July, the dialogue again relies on short and
repetitive statements, capturing the desperate rhythms of confrontational and
angry men.
CHARLIE
They made me kill babies, man, little gook babies. You
ever have to kill a baby?
RON
Yeah. Okay. Come on, let’s go ... let’s get a ride ...
let’s get back to the villa.
CHARLIE
Fuck you ... whaddaya mean okay ... whatdya mean okay —
you ever kill a baby? You ever kill a little gook baby?
Did you! Did you!
RON
What?
CHARLIE
Did you ever have to kill a baby?
RON
No. No. I never killed a baby.
CHARLIE
Yeah, I didn’t think so. I didn’t think so.
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Actually, none of us on this planet ever really choose
each other. It’s all Quantum Physics and molecular
attraction. There are laws we don’t understand that bring
us together and break us apart ...
EBBY
Is somebody gonna go to bed with somebody or what?
ANNIE:
You’re a regular nuclear meltdown, honey — cool off a
little.
(Crash rises to leave)
ANNIE
Where are you going? I barely got started.
CRASH
After twelve years in the minor league, I don’t try out.
Besides, I don’t believe half the garbage coming out of
your mouth.
ANNIE
Only half? What do you believe in?
Annie’s question slightly taunting. He stops and speaks with both aloofness
and passion.
CRASH
I believe in the soul, the cock, the pussy, the small of
a woman’s back, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good
scotch, long foreplay, show tunes, and that the novels of
Thomas Pynchon are self-indulgent, overrated crap.
(beat)
I believe that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe
that there oughtta be a constitutional amendment
outlawing astro-turf and the designated hitter. I believe
in the “sweet spot,” voting every election, soft-core
pornography, chocolate chip cookies, opening your
presents on Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve,
and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that
last for three days.
ANNIE
(breathless)
Oh, my ...
Clarifying Motivation
In most scripts, characters clarify their motivations for doing what they do. In
Dangerous Liaisons, Marquise de Merteuil clarifies the reason for her cruel
and manipulative scheme. She explains her desires to Valmont, hoping that he
will enjoy her scheme as much as she does.
MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
Do you know why I summoned you here this morning? ... I
need you to carry out a heroic enterprise ...
She explains her desire: She wants “revenge” against Bastide. She explains
her motivation for choosing Bastide: He’s her former lover who left her. And
she explains why she has concocted her scheme: Bastide wants to marry the
virgin Cécile de Volanges, because “his priority, you see, is a guaranteed
virtue.” Marquise de Merteuil intends to make sure that the virtue Bastide
expects will be compromised by Valmont’s sleeping with Cécile.
But Valmont isn’t sure he wants to be part of de Merteuil’s gameplan.
VALMONT
No, I can’t ... it’s too easy ... I have my reputation to
think of.
Valmont has his own gameplan. He wants to seduce the very virtuous
Madame de Tourvel. He explains why he chooses de Tourvel above Cécile:
VALMONT
To seduce a woman famous for strict morals, religious
fervour, and the happiness of her marriage. What could
possibly be more prestigious? I want the excitement of
watching her betray everything that’s most important to
her. Surely you understand that. I thought betrayal was
your favourite word.
MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
No, cruelty. I always think that has a nobler ring to it.
Valmont and de Merteuil’s evil, driving intentions are the engines for the
entire story, eventually destroying both characters and those around them. The
writer has masterfully layered the dialogue to answer all the motivational
questions, and to direct the journey of the story.
Setting Up The Context
Dialogue needs to set up the world inhabited by a film’s characters—the
context in which they live. Dialogue in combination with images set up the
characters’ occupations, period, locations, and cultures.
Some context is revealed through the character’s vocabulary. By our choice
of words, we all convey who we are, telling others about our educational
background, economic level, occupation, country, region, and much more.
Are our words big or small? What kind of grammar do we use?
A doctor’s occupation might be expressed by the use of medical language.
A cop might use law-enforcement slang. Occupations might be expressed
through the languages of archaeology, aviation, editing, writing, ranching, or
farming.
The film Notting Hill has a charming scene that makes fun of the
sometimes obscure contextual dialogue we find in certain films. William, the
bookseller, is helping actress Anna with her lines for her next film. He asks
her, “Basic plot?”
ANNA
I’m a difficult but brilliant junior officer who in about
twenty minutes will save the world from nuclear disaster
...
WILLIAM
Message from command. Would you like them to send in the
HKs?
ANNA
No, turn over four TRs and tell them we need radar
feedback before the KFTs return at nineteen hundred —
then inform the Pentagon that we’ll be needing black star
cover from ten hundred through 12.15.
If dialogue is so weighted down with vocabulary that it’s not
understandable to the ordinary person, some translation is needed in order for
the audience to understand it. Often this translation is given visually. We see
the scalpel when the doctor asks for it. We see a legal brief or we see a scene
of an attorney taking a deposition or we see the strange-sounding chemical as
it’s carefully handled or transported. If Anna’s new film were actually
produced, we’d undoubtedly see some KFTs and we’d notice when the black
star cover comes into play between 10:00 and 12:15.
Conveying The Culture Through Dialogue
Good dialogue conveys a sense of a character’s culture and environment. In
Moonstruck, My Left Foot, The Full Monty, Billy Elliot, and The Color
Purple, dialogue gives us the flavor of the culture and the geographical
location.
Often, dialogue includes slang that is part of a culture or occupation. Many
writers read slang books when working on specific subject matter. For a
nautical film, they probably need to know words such as “galley” and “brig”
and “head” and “bilge.” If writing a cowboy film, a writer may need to know
about the “latigo” and “billet” and “cantle.” For films about horses, a writer
would need to know the difference between a “lope” and a “hand gallop,” and
what it means if the horse is on the wrong “lead” or the rider is on the wrong
“diagonal.” For a theatre film, a writer would need to know what’s “the green
room” and what it means to move “stage right” or “stage left.”
Dialogue shows cultural differences. The taciturn American cowboy flavor
of Unforgiven:
MUNNY
(to his son, Bill)
Before I met your ma, God rest her soul, it used to be I
was kinda ... wicked ... drinkin’ spirits an’ gettin’
into scrapes an’ all. Only she made me see the error of
my ways an’ ... I ain’t like I was no more.
The Irish flavor of My Left Foot:
MR. BROWN
Give me a pint and a chaser there, Brian.
FRIEND
Congratulations.
MR. BROWN
On what?
FRIEND
The new boy, Christy.
MR. BROWN
Are you trying to make a jackass out of me or what? The
child’s an imbecile. A moron. A vegetable. I says to the
doctor, ‘Is there any hope for him?’ and the doctor says,
‘Well, Mr. Brown, there is some movement in his left
foot.’ His left foot! He’ll never be able to pick up a
trowel or mend a gable wall. He’s shagged good and proper
... I’ll tell you one thing, though, that’s the end of
the road for me in the breeding stakes.
FRIEND
How will you manage that?
MR. BROWN
Abstinence.
The Southern flavor of The Color Purple:
SHUG
You know, Celie, God love everything you love, and a mess
of stuff you don’t ... I think it pisses God off if you
just walk by the color purple in a field and don’t notice
it.
CELIE
You mean it want to be loved, like the Bible said.
SHUG
Yes, Celie, everything wants to be loved. Us sing and
dance, make faces, give flower bouquets ... Just trying
to be loved ...
The Full Monty’s sounds of the industrial north of England:
ALAN
Oi, Patricia the Stripper, where you bloody been?
GAZ
What’s it to you?
ALAN
Well, what’s goin’ on? I’ve had to buy in twenty barrels
and I’ve heard not a peep from you ... You’re bloody
famous.
The Catholic culture of Moonstruck:
LORETTA
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned ...
PRIEST
What sins have you to confess?
LORETTA
Twice I took the name of God in vain, once I slept with
the brother of my fiancé, and once I bounced a check at
the liquor store ...
PRIEST
What was that second thing you said, Loretta?
Sometimes, dialogue gives us a sense of a character’s educational
background, which may be a surprise.
In Taxi Driver, there’s a scene where Wizard tells Travis that he’s no
Bertrand Russell. We don’t expect Wizard to know philosophers. In Pulp
Fiction, we don’t expect the killer Jules to be religious and to quote Ezekiel,
and to try to be “a better shepherd.” In Bull Durham, we don’t expect Annie
to mention quantum physics.
From dialogue’s external dimension, we get the facts and a liberal dose of
character detailing, which includes rhythm and vocabulary. But a character
also needs depth, which comes from a writer’s knowledge of a character’s
internal and invisible dimensions.
Dialogue’s Internal Dimension
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Dialogue’s internal dimension expresses a character’s psychology. This
dialogue is often designed to hide as much as to reveal the elements that make
a character tick. These include the secrets that a character doesn’t want
anyone to know and the fears that a character tries to hide. A character knows
his or her own wants and fears, but isn’t telling anyone. A character tries to
hide who s/he really is, but dialogue gives us glimpses into a character’s true
identity. It expresses a character’s needs and motivations and yearnings and
desires. The “Why” that I discussed in Chapter 8 still motivates the character,
but to it we add an inner motivation, a personal, internal desire that drives the
character.
We can look in several directions to find a character’s inner motivation. We
can look for life’s transition points. Perhaps a character is at a transition point
in her life—moving from conformity to creativity or from materialism to a
spiritual perspective or from isolation to intimacy or from failure to success.
The character is moving because life is pushing for change. The story has set
the change in motion.
We can take any one of the transitions discussed in Chapter 9 and build an
arc from the negative to the positive. A film might show a child moving from
low self-esteem to selfconfidence or an adult from materialism to spirituality
or from isolation to intimacy. If a character’s desire is conscious, the character
will often express that desire, revealing the psychology that drives him or her,
and then take action to fulfill that desire.
In American Beauty, Lester expresses his desire to change:
LESTER (V.O.)
Both my wife and daughter think I’m this gigantic loser
and ... they’re right ... I have lost something. I’m not
exactly sure what it is, but I know I didn’t always feel
this ... sedated. But you know what? It’s never too late
to get it back.
These lines in Act One set up the story track, the thematic line, and begin the
character’s transformational arc. They express Lester’s understanding of
where he is now in his life and express his intention to change. By the
beginning of Act Two, Lester admits that he’s changing.
Dialogue Expresses Subtext
Without subtext, everyone says exactly what they mean and characters have
no layers. They have no mystery. They have no psychological depth. We get
no feeling for the complexities of a character. Without subtext, dialogue is on-
the-nose. It’s obvious. Often it’s a cliché. And without subtext, dialogue can
become preachy and characters can become cardboard mouthpieces for a
writer. Mastering subtext is one of the most important skills for the
screenwriter. Without subtext, characters will never come to life and actors
will have few dimensions to play.
Sometimes a character’s psychological drive is expressed through subtext.
We could define subtext as what a character really means, even though s/he
might actually say something quite different. Subtext might be called the
meaning under or behind the text or the meaning between the lines.
Sometimes characters know the subtext they’re communicating, although they
hide it from others.
Sometimes, a character intends to convey a particular meaning to another
character, even though his or her words might state quite the opposite.
“What’s wrong, honey?” she says to her silent, brooding spouse.
“Nothing.”
Clearly something is wrong, but he’s not telling her. He might not be telling
her because he doesn’t want to talk about it or beecause he may not know
exactly what’s wrong, although he probably knows something is wrong.
If you asked him, he might tell you that he’s “just a little tired,” although
we—and he—know it’s more than that. The subtext is the rest. What’s really
wrong? A whole series of things, but he’s only conscious of some of them.
Subtext tells us the truth. When it’s conscious, the character knows the truth,
but isn’t saying it.
In The Accidental Tourist, Muriel invites Macon over for dinner. He says,
“Oh. Well, I could come. If it’s only for dinner.” And she responds, “What
else would it be for?” We know, and she knows, that she’s interested in him.
But she’s not saying it. Her ulterior motive lies under the surface of her
response.
Sometimes subtext is used for irony: “I only want to hurt him a little” says
the hitman, as he lovingly fingers his AK-47. Clearly, the desire to hurt is
there. But we know it’s not to hurt him a little, the desire is to hurt him a lot.
The Character’s Hidden Subtext
Usually subtext is invisible to the main character, and often to all of the
story’s characters. The difference between internal subtext and invisible
subtext has to do with whether the character is conscious of the truth. If the
character is conscious of the truth, it’s an internal subtext. If the character is
unconscious of the truth, it’s an invisible subtext. If someone said to you, “I
love you,” you might answer, “And I love you.” If you mean it, it’s a
conscious truth. However, you might not mean it but say it anyway, avoiding
eye contact with the person, thereby revealing the line’s subtext—which is, “I
don’t love you but am afraid to say so.” You know the truth but feel you can’t
convey it to the other person. Or you might not realize that you really don’t
mean it. In many films, characters think that they’re a loving husband or wife
as they abuse their spouse or disrespect them or insult them. The truth about
their relationship is invisible to them, but it’s boiling underneath the surface.
It stays hidden until another character or an event or some stress forces the
subtext to be revealed. Great subtext, however, is not invisible to the
audience. The audience knows what’s going on, even when no one in a film
does.
When the truth is unconscious to a character, the character may be in denial
or doesn’t understand or isn’t aware of the invisible, unconscious forces that
bubble beneath the surface. Sometimes the hidden subtext slips out against a
character’s wishes. Sometimes dialogue uses an object or a prop to convey the
hidden subtext. In Ordinary People, as the grandparents try to take a
Christmas photograph, there’s a great deal of discussion and confrontation
about who will be in the picture, whether they’ll smile, who will take the
picture. It’s clear that the frustration is not about the photography, but about
the dysfunction within the family. Finally Calvin, the father, shouts, “Give her
the goddamn camera!” By the time the photo is finally taken, Conrad has
turned away from his parents, his body language clearly visualizing the
problem.
From A Writer’s Mind To The Characters Words
Sometimes writers have specific ideas, insights, and wisdom they want to
express through their characters. These may be words of wisdom that they
want to convey to the audience, hoping they’ll have a transforming influence
on the audience. This kind of dialogue, if not done adeptly, can feel as if it’s
preaching to us. If done well, it can encourage a character, and lead to that
character’s transformation. It can be words that help a character find inner
balance and insight. As the character achieves understanding, we in the
audience also get the message.
In On Golden Pond, Ethel is a voice of wisdom who tries to help her
grandson understand the insensitive behavior of his grandfather.
ETHEL
Sometimes you have to look hard at a person and remember
that he is doing the best he can. He is just trying to
find his way. That’s all. Just like you.
Sometimes dialogue is used by one character to encourage another. This
kind of dialogue can be a testament to the care that one person can have for
another.
Katherine, the piano teacher in Shine, encourages David and lets him know
that she understands his talents.
KATHERINE
Each time you play “Sospiro” it expresses so completely
... The inexpressible.
DAVID
Is that good?
KATHERINE
It’s divine.
Sometimes one character’s encouragement leads another character to new
behavior. In Babe, the sheep explain to Babe that wolf-like violent behavior
isn’t necessary, even though Fly, the dog, has her own opinion of how to herd
sheep.
FLY
Make them feel inferior ... Abuse them! Insult them!
BABE
They’ll laugh at me.
FLY
Then bite them! ... Be ruthless! Whatever it takes! Bend
them to your will!
BABE
Move along there, you you b-bbloody b-buggers!
The sheep can’t contain themselves. They erupt in hysterical
laughter. Babe glares with as much venom as he can muster,
runs at the nearest sheep, and bites her on the leg. She
squeals.
MAA’S VOICE
(indignant)
Babe! Stop this nonsense ... What’s got into you?
BABE
I’m sorry, Maa. I wanted to be a sheep dog.
MAA
No need for all this wolf nonsense, Babe. All a nice
little chap like you need do is ask.
With Babe walking beside them, the flock, in ORDERLY
FORMATION, proceeds calmly toward the open gate.
BABE
(to sheep)
Thanks very much. Very kind of you.
VARIOUS SHEEP
(chorus of comments)
A pleasure! Thank you, young ‘un. What a nice little
chap!
Great writers write and rewrite their dialogue, honing it, saying it out loud,
shaping the rhythms, sometimes using alliteration and rhymes. Once they
know who a character is and how s/he talks, they’ve taken an important step
toward creating an imaginative cinematic world for the character to inhabit.
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11. Creating a Style
Most films strive for realism. Kitchens look like our own kitchens, except
maybe a little bit bigger. Offices look like our own. Cars might be a little
fancier than most of ours, but they’re recognizable. Champagne and wine
look like what we drink, although film characters often drink the more
expensive brand.
A writer decides just how realistic to make a story. Do we see people eating
in their kitchens, scraping food, loading dishwashers, and putting dishes
away? Do we see the bullet enter and the wound spurt out blood? Do we hear
the ping of the bullet, as in Boyz N the Hood? Do we hear the sounds of battle
or do they get muted, as in Born on the Fourth of July. Do we see the lovers
in ordinary surroundings or in glamorized silhouette, as in Bugsy?
Some films are deliberately not realistic. Robert Altman, the Coen brothers,
David Lynch, Baz Luhrmann in Moulin Rouge!, Roberto Benigni in Life Is
Beautiful all create styles that define them as quirky or visionary artists who
push us into new realities. How do they do it?
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12. The Roar of the Crowd
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Introduction
1. A Realistic Tale Well Told
The Linear Structure In Drama
Storytelling Patterns
The Journey Story
The Descriptive Story
Repetitive Structures
Parallel Structures
Parallel Journeys
The Spiral
The Unraveling-Mystery Structure
The Reverse Structure
2. A Cinematic Tale Well Told
The Circular Structure
The Looping Structure
Playing With Cinematic Time
Experimenting, And Making It Work
3. Keep It Moving, Moving, Moving
Using A Clear Narrative Line To Create A Cohesive Script
Creating The Scene Sequence
Creating Action-Reaction Links Between Scenes
The Delayed Response
Linking Scenes By Using Similarities
Creating Momentum Through Contrast
Understanding The Information Between Cuts
Creating Connections Through Music And Wordplay
What Can Go Wrong With Transitions?
Creating A Thread To Hold Your Story Together
Creating A Thread With A Character
Creating A Thread With An Idea
Creating A Thread With An Object
Creating A Thread With Place
4. Making a Scene
The Establishing Scene
The Exposition Scene
The Catalyst Scene
The Love Scene
The Confrontation Scene
The Pay-Off Scene
The Resolution Scene
The Realization Scene
The Decision Scene
The Action Scene
The Reaction Scene
The Realization-Decision-Action Scene
The Flashback Scene
The Frame
The Revelation Scene
The Epiphany Scene
The Reflection Scene
Scenes Of Magic And Wonder
The Show-Stopper Scene
The Montage
5. Twists and Turns, Secrets and Lies
Defining The Turn
Creating The Twist
Creating Secrets
What Makes A Great Twist?
How To Achieve The Twist
Potential Twists That Never Happened
Exposing Secrets & Lies
6. What’s It Really About?
What Is A Great Writer?
The Ever-Present Identity Theme
Theme As Movement
How Is A Theme Expressed?
Reversing The Theme
Toxic Themes And Transforming Themes
Theme Expressed Through The Story
Theme Expressed Through Character
Theme Expressed Through Image
Theme Expressed Through Metaphor
Character As Metaphor
The Theme Has To Fit The Audience
Childhood
The Teen Years
Young Adulthood
Twenties Through Forties
Fifties Through Eighties
Old Age
Toward The End Of Life
Finding The Issue Related To The Theme
The Theme That Sums Up The Point Of The Story
7. Show, Don’t Tell
Image As Context
Images That Move Through A Film
Image As Contrast
Creating The Visual Metaphor
Image Systems
Using An Image System To Define Character
Writing With Images
8. There’s More to a Character than Meets the Eye
Who?
What?
The Internal Goal
The Invisible Need
How?
Why?
The Underlying Value System
How Do Multiple Character Layers Work Together?
What Can Go Wrong With A Character’s Desire?
9. Do Your Characters Change and Grow?
What Is Transformed?
How Does Transformation Happen?
The External Transformation
The Internal Transformation
Who Transforms?
Structuring The Transformational Arc
Transforming Michael Dorsey
As Good As It Gets
Creating A Transformation In A Single Scene
Those Who Can’t Transform
Missed Potential Transformations
Why Are Transformations So Rare And So Hard To Pull Off?
10. Say It Well
Make It Strong
Dialogue As Rhythm
The Dimensions Of Dialogue
Dialogue’s External Dimension
Dialogue That Expresses Intention
Clarifying Motivation
Setting Up The Context
Conveying The Culture Through Dialogue
Dialogue’s Internal Dimension
Dialogue Expresses Subtext
The Character’s Hidden Subtext
From A Writer’s Mind To The Characters
Words
11. Creating a Style
The Point Of View
Creating Style Through Character
Creating Style Through Story And Character
Creating Style Through Image
Creating Style Through Genres
Creating Style By Mixing Genres
12. The Roar of the Crowd
Dumbing Down To The Audience
The Condescending Stance
Knowing Your Intended Audience
Educating The Audience
Focusing The Audience
Transforming The Audience
What To Do About It?
In The Realm Of The Senses
Connecting With The Audience
Making Sure The Audience Gets It
Stories Can Make A Difference
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