It surprises me, talking to folks who are new to screenwriting, how many of them don't have a movie in their head. If you don't see a film, how are you going to make anyone else see it? They are telling a story, not creating a film. This often becomes clear if you ask them - what is character y doing while x and z are talking here? Or some other detail about something they put in the room and then left alone. They aren't *seeing* the scene.
Of course, I've always imagined somewhat cinematically. Even my most abstract poems (with the exception of a couple of grad-school literary cut-up experiments) run in my head as a short film. And I can tell you what every detail of each frame looks like.
Then there's the other sticking point - once you have the movie in your head, knowing how much to put down on paper to evoke those images in another person's head. Most of us have been told enough times not to overwrite that it's less common to see an overly florid screenplay than one which chooses such generic descriptions/dialogue that they flatten out and the flavor of the imagined story is lost. You can do a lot with the flavor of the language, rather than endless description - something I learned from poetry.
Yes, the language of a screenplay is stripped down, basic and straight-forward. That doesn't mean it can't be evocative. Your hero can walk down a wet street, or they can splash through the wet grime of rain-slicked asphalt.
My signature on Triggerstreet is: "Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass..." (Chekhov) and it illustrated perfectly what I mean. The moon may be shining, but what we see is the glint of light...and that piece of glass can add to a threatening or a down-trodden tone, depending on context.
Every word matters, every word is a chance to evoke the movie you see, in your reader's head.
Showing posts with label screenplays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label screenplays. Show all posts
Reminder to Self: How to Sell a Script
You pass it on to your connections. A screenwriter without connections very rarely makes a sale. Hollywood is the most incestuous industry aside from the mafia. Even porn is more open to outsiders.
So how do you get connections? I hate that phrase: "get connections." Connections are made and maintained, they are something dynamic and living - not a purchasable product.
You start by talking to people, getting to know others who are interested in the business - sites like Triggerstreet help for those of us not in Hollywood. Read blogs by those devoted to the craft and participate in the dialogue in the comments.
If there are local film/screenwriting groups or organizations like a local Screenwriters Association or Women in Film, participate. (There are both in Dallas. I need to join them.) Go to film festivals. And talk to people (a tough one for many writers), get their contact info, follow up a couple of weeks later to say it was good to meet them, and only hit them up after that when you have something relevant to them, such as updating them on what you are doing (provided you are actually doing something worth updating them on).
Otherwise: look up the production companies for films you like that are similar to what you write. (use the Hollywood Creative Directory) Mail them (e-mail or snail mail) query letters asking if they would be interested in reading your script.
Look up the screenwriters for those films, and find out who represents them, and get the contact info for those agents or agencies at least - and contact them
Don't expect to sell your script, so much as to offer it as a writing sample. You should have 3-4 solid scripts (as in ready to produce,) and if told that one is not what they are looking for, you can offer the others. This also shows you're not a one-shotter, and may have the stuff to be a professional writer - so you might get considered for assignments. Most produced screenplays are assignments (and adaptations at that) rather than specs.
So how do you get connections? I hate that phrase: "get connections." Connections are made and maintained, they are something dynamic and living - not a purchasable product.
You start by talking to people, getting to know others who are interested in the business - sites like Triggerstreet help for those of us not in Hollywood. Read blogs by those devoted to the craft and participate in the dialogue in the comments.
If there are local film/screenwriting groups or organizations like a local Screenwriters Association or Women in Film, participate. (There are both in Dallas. I need to join them.) Go to film festivals. And talk to people (a tough one for many writers), get their contact info, follow up a couple of weeks later to say it was good to meet them, and only hit them up after that when you have something relevant to them, such as updating them on what you are doing (provided you are actually doing something worth updating them on).
Otherwise: look up the production companies for films you like that are similar to what you write. (use the Hollywood Creative Directory) Mail them (e-mail or snail mail) query letters asking if they would be interested in reading your script.
Look up the screenwriters for those films, and find out who represents them, and get the contact info for those agents or agencies at least - and contact them
Don't expect to sell your script, so much as to offer it as a writing sample. You should have 3-4 solid scripts (as in ready to produce,) and if told that one is not what they are looking for, you can offer the others. This also shows you're not a one-shotter, and may have the stuff to be a professional writer - so you might get considered for assignments. Most produced screenplays are assignments (and adaptations at that) rather than specs.
Barefoot In a Cactus Garden
EXT. SUBURBAN BACKYARD - DAY
A cactus garden - several shapes and kinds, cluster around a concrete platform. In the middle of them rises a mushroom-shaped aluminum vent, the blades on top spinning.
LYN (18), her red hair in braids, walks by. The edge of her Indian-print skirt catches on a large prickly pear. She bends to disentangle the fabric from the cactus.
Charlie (33), looks around the yard, and scratches his stubbly beard.
CHARLIE
Where is your pad, chickie?
LYN
Right here.
She frees her skirt, steps away from the cactus and onto the concrete, and points down.
INT. FALLOUT SHELTER - DAY
Lyn maneuvers around a small couch at the center of the cramped space.
Shelves are stocked with dusty cans. An AM/FM radio in the corner. An ashtray filled with butts, and some empty cans litter the floor.
Charlie makes his way down the ladder.
Lyn sits, uncomfortable, on the edge of the couch. Charlie sits beside her, she nervously jumps up - then sits again.
Charlie cracks a smile, an elfin grin of both sympathy and amusement.
CHARLIE
Tell me - what troubles you?
LYN
How - How did you know?
CHARLIE
Up in the Haight, I'm called the gardener.
He reaches into a shirt pocket and pulls out a joint, then sticks it behind an ear.
CHARLIE
I tend to all the flower children.
Lyn stands up now and faces him, but stays close.
LYN
Charlie. It's Charlie, right? I'm no delicate flower. And I don't need any gardener planting his seeds.
Charlie looks at her.
CHARLIE
Lynette. Lyn. Even a cactus -
He grasps the edge of her skirt, where it had caught the cactus above, and finds a needle there.
CHARLIE
-blooms once in a while. Flowers come in infinite variety. Some of them with thorns.
He pulls her arm out in front of her, opens her hand, and drops the cactus needle in her palm.
CHARLIE
That makes it special when you can get close to them.
Lyn melts, and flops back onto the couch. She leans slightly toward him, then pulls back again.
LYN
I guess I dig what you're saying.
CHARLIE
So, we're copascetic.
He pulls out the joint, and pats his pockets for a light. He stands, and starts looking through the stocks.
LYN
Over there. Matches are by the radio.
He lights the joint, then squats in front of her, and passes it to her. He waits for her to take a hit.
CHARLIE
When did your old man kick you out?
LYN
Wh- uh - he. How did you know?
He just grins.
She laughs.
LYN
Any little thing and he'd go ape, man. So, you know, I figured it was time to split.
She starts to tear up.
CHARLIE
Look, I've spent most of my life behind bars. Stupid shit mostly. Petty crimes.
LYN
Oh, that's golden. I've invited a criminal down here to get high. That's supposed to make me feel better?
CHARLIE
I'm tryin to tell you, man, for a lot of years I was seriously down on myself.
He holds her chin in his hand. Curiosity overwhelms her fear.
CHARLIE
Do you miss your daddy?
Lyn shakes her head no.
He holds her gaze a while longer.
She shakes her head yes.
CHARLIE
You wanted daddy to hit you.
She pulls away. Pushing Charlie from her, but with no real insistence.
LYN
Fuck you, Charlie.
CHARLIE
All little girls want their daddy's attention.
Lyn freezes. He gently pulls her into his arms, and strokes her hair.
CHARLIE
Prison was like that for me. I hated it, but I wanted it.
LYN
Do you still?
CHARLIE
No, man. I learned that the way out of a room was not through the door.
He taps his head.
CHARLIE
It's up here. Just don't want out, and you're free.
They both laugh.
CHARLIE
We've got a bus. Painted black, full of cushions and groovy people.
LYN
Yeah? OK.
CHARLIE
We're going up north again. Into the woods. Maybe back to the Haight. Come with us.
LYN
I can't.
He pushes her away from him.
She tries to lean on him again, but he pushes her up.
He stands up, and goes to the ladder.
LYN
You're leaving already?
He shrugs and goes up the ladder.
CHARLIE
Well, I can't make up your mind for you. Stay here with your Daddy if you want... But I think you'd love the Family.
She sits a moment, and looks at the cactus needle still clutched in one hand. She takes it and presses it into her fingertip, drawing out a small drop of blood.
LYN
Charlie? I'm coming.
She licks the blood from her finger, and follows him out of the shelter.
round 2, Murder at India House
FADE IN
EXT. INDIA HOUSE HOSTEL IN NEW ORLEANS, BACK PATIO - NIGHT
TOPHER (24) is slumped over in his wheelchair with a backpack on the back, a wine bottle propped between his scrawny legs.
A beach ball comes flying through the air and bounces off his head.
He pulls himself straight, one eyebrow raised high, smacks his lips and looks around.
FEMALE VOICE
Knock it off, guys. Hey Topher - you OK?
Topher whips the wheelchair around, and pops a wheelie - but ends up losing control and tipping backward. The wine in his lap spills all over his shirt and face.
Laughter (O.S.)
Inside the house, Topher sees the shadows of partiers on the walls, movement and dancing.
LEVI, a short guy with a trendy hair, looks down at him, and winds an unlit cigarette between his fingers. Without turning, he gestures for someone behind him
HIRO, expensive digital camera in front of his face, comes to the window. Levi whispers something in his ear.
Hiro lowers the camera, and gives Levi a playful punch.
Levi makes pistols with his fingers and shoots, "bang, bang" - not at Topher, but at someone nearby.
Hiro turns his camera in the same direction.
EMILY comes to his rescue and and lifts the chair back up.
EMILY
Those guys are jerks when they drink.
TOPHER
Me, on the other hand - I'm an amateur in the drunken asshatery department, but I think I've got a good start.
EMILY
Epic fail, dude. Next time aim the wine spillage in his direction.
She points up at Levi.
TOPHER
What's your name again?
EMILY
Oh? I may have to re-evaluate your amateur standing.
TOPHER
Oh come on. We just met. I would've forgot your name even sober.
EMILY
Well, that's reassuring. Emily.
Levi comes over with a drink in his hand.
LEVI
Topher my man, you seem to have run dry.
TOPHER
I don't think you could call me "dry."
He gestures to the spilled wine.
LEVI
One more. My signature cocktail.
Topher accepts the beverage, takes a sip.
Levi crouches down behind Emily, leans his chin on her head.
LEVI
Now, Em, if you don't get your rest, tomorrow I'm just going to kill you.
EMILY
Ha. Ha.
Topher nods off again.
INT. INDIA HOUSE, DORM ROOM - NIGHT
Topher is passed out, drooling on a pillow.
A scream somewhere in the building awakens him with a start.
TOPHER
Emily?
He sits up, and swings his legs over the side of the bed.
Woozy, he sways a moment. The room is dark. In fact, the whole place seems remarkably dark and quiet.
Another scream.
TOPHER
What the fuck? Hello? People?
His chair is parked at the foot of the bed. He scoots down to it, rummages through the backpack hanging on the back, and pulls out a flashlight.
He flashes it around the dorm room. No one is in any of the other beds. Hiro's camera sits on one of them, pointed at a spot in the middle of the floor, on and recording.
Topher rubs his face to wake up, and pulls his wine-stained shirt away from his body. He climbs into his chair, and wheels over to the camera.
He starts rolling, and then suddenly stops. Something wet and sticky on his hand. Something wet and sticky on the wheel.
He takes a deep breath, and shines the flashlight at his hand. Red. Not wine. Thicker. Visceral. Blood.
He shines the light around the room again. Stops on the camera. Looks in the direction it's pointed.
Face down on the floor, in a pool of dark wetness, is a body.
TOPHER
Oh shit.
He wheels to it, shining the light on it.
It's Hiro. And wet tracks lead back to Topher's bed.
Topher pulls his backpack into his lap, and digs through it. He pulls out his phone, flips it open, and gets a black screen.
TOPHER
No. No. I refuse to accept that.
He tried turning it on, and nothing happens. He throws it across the room.
Levi stands in the shadows at the doorway.
LEVI
Temper, temper.
TOPHER
We've got to call 911.
LEVI
No.
TOPHER
What?
He shines his flashlight on Hiro.
TOPHER
We've got to call 911, man.
Levi shakes his head. Walks away.
LEVI
Hey, man, where's your little girlfriend?
He disappears into the dark hall.
Topher's face drops.
FLASHBACK
Levi making a shooting gesture at someone, just before Emily picked up Topher's chair.
END FLASHBACK
Topher starts toward the hallway, but then pauses, and shines his flashlight around the room, desperately looking for something. He stops, then weighs the flashlight in his hands. It's got some heft. He swings it, then turns it off.
Closing his eyes for a moment, he adjusts to the dark. There is some light coming from outside, so it's not as pitch black as he first thought.
He slowly wheels into the hallway, flashlight in his lap, listening carefully.
HALLWAY
A squeak. The faint silhouette of Levi, who seems to be facing him.
He pushes forward.
Levi steps back.
COMMON ROOMS
They are in the common area now, with a little more light coming in from outside. Christopher stops and looks around.
There are people here - all sitting quietly, as if waiting, like they are waiting for a bus.
One of the party girls from last night sips a mug of coffee.
A guy nods to him.
TOPHER
Where is she? Where's Emily?
PARTY GIRL
It's her turn to die. I'm next.
No one reacts.
Levi continues to back away, leading him. In the dim light, Topher can see that Levi has another camera.
From under the door of one of the private rooms, a bright light shines.
Topher ignores Levi and rushes to it.
He slams the door open, and floodlights blind him for a moment.
PRIVATE ROOM
When they adjust, he sees Emily, gagged and tied to a leg of the bed, struggling. Her wrists are raw. Her clothes are slashed and bloodstained.
She sees Topher, and her eyes widen. She shakes her head no desperately.
Topher rushes in, but can't negotiate the small room.
A camera hangs from the ceiling, spinning, recording Emily's struggle.
Topher throws himself from the chair, and crawls to her.
Levi is behind them, recording them.
Emily looks at Levi, confused, then at Topher.
She reaches up, and pulls the gag out of her mouth.
EMILY
Dude. You ruined my scene.
Levi laughs.
Topher looks confused.
Levi walks over to the dangling camera, and turns it off.
He leans in close to Topher.
LEVI
Cut.
FADE IN
*squeeeeeeeeeeeee!!*
So, uh, that competition?
The one I barely managed to complete the assignment for, with zero editing?
Figured I'd do Ok. Top third. Enough so that I could do well in the overall, since the points for each round accumulate.
I placed #1 in my group.
Wow.
Just a reminder that deadlines are good for me.
Specifically short, tight, non-negotiable deadlines.
Keeps me from over-thinking.
The one I barely managed to complete the assignment for, with zero editing?
Figured I'd do Ok. Top third. Enough so that I could do well in the overall, since the points for each round accumulate.
I placed #1 in my group.
Wow.
Just a reminder that deadlines are good for me.
Specifically short, tight, non-negotiable deadlines.
Keeps me from over-thinking.
Desire's Revenge
Here it is, exactly as submitted. Genre: Horror, Location: Shipwreck, Object: Pillow
Written in 1 hr 40 minutes, with zero outlining, editing or proofreading.
(My first try posting something with scrippets, still have some kinks to work out with the formatting.)
Written in 1 hr 40 minutes, with zero outlining, editing or proofreading.
(My first try posting something with scrippets, still have some kinks to work out with the formatting.)
EXT. OCEAN - NIGHT
Darkness, and the subtle shimmer of moving water.
Light, the beacon from a lighthouse, sweeps across the water, revealing sharp rocks and churning waves breaking on them.
The light sweeps by, then is gone leaving darkness for a moment. When it sweeps by again, a broken board floats by.
On the third pass, more flotsam - and among the wreckage, a man clinging to the remains of his bunk, clutching a white pillow. He appears dead, until his hands start to tremble, and he shivers.
One more pass. Something slippery and scaly slips from sight just as the light hits it. The man tilts into the water, floats a moment, bobbing, then is pulled underneath.
FLASHBACK
EXT. THE SCHOONER DESIRE'S REWARD - DAY
Quartermaster JOHN DUNHAM oversees the distribution of fish and goods from a net.
JOHN DUNHAM
Looks like we'll be eating well for a week boys.
The sailors, about a dozen men on the boat all cheer.
Just past the Desire is a fishing boat, run up on the rocks and sinking slowly.
JIM BLACK, the boatswain, watches the wreck.
JIM BLACK
Mister Dunham, sir, if I may?
JOHN DUNHAM
Yes, Boatswain?
JIM BLACK
If we could anchor here in the shallows a while, I could use some of the lumbar and ropes from the fishing boat to finish some repairs to the Desire.
John looks around, spys Captain WILL POWER inspecting the rigging, and waves him over.
JOHN DUNHAM
Ask the Captain.
WILL POWER
What can I do for you, Johnny?
JOHN DUNHAM
Mr. Black here proposes we stay a while, and cannibalize that unfortunate tub over there for the Desire's betterment.
WILL POWER
Is that so Jim?
JIM BLACK
Yes Captain. Since we've got food here to hold us a bit, I thought it would be a good time to remain still for a couple of days.
WILL POWER
Allrighty then, we will.
He notices something shine among the fishes in the nets, and reaches for it. It's a fancy comb, silver and mother of pearl. A pretty thing, tangled with seaweed.
WILL POWER
Quartermaster, I claim this small prize for myself. A pretty for one of me wenches when we return to Port Royal.
He plucks out the seaweed, and then is overcome by a sudden shiver, despite the sunny day.
INT. CAPTAIN'S QUARTERS - NIGHT
Will and John sit at the captain's table with the FIRST MATE.
John and the First Mate are laughing. John eats with his fork, carefully cutting of pieces of fish, and squeezing lemon over the top.
JOHN DUNHAM
Fresh fish and fresh lemons.
FIRST MATE
Better than salt cod and ancient limes. My skin was starting to form a salt crust.
Will is distracted, pulling bites of fish off the bones with his fingers and eating them. He toys with the comb under the table.
LATER
Alone, Will lays on his bunk, and tucks the comb into the cover of his pillow.
He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, a beautiful woman is lying close beside him. Her blue-green eyes are full of the dreaminess of a calm sea, and her smile is warm and inviting.
She strokes his cheek, and then suddenly kisses him with forceful passion. Rolling him on his back, she rips open his shirt, and he realizes she is naked.
He reaches for her breasts, and she slides downward, kissing his chest, wiggling along his body.
LATER
Will opens his eyes again, and sits up. He's alone. He starts to shake off the dream, but notices his shirt is torn.
He touches the pillow where the mysterious woman appeared. It's wet.
EXT. DESIRE'S REWARD - DAY
Will wanders along the deck. The sharp eye that was inspecting the rigging has faded, his gaze is dull.
The sailors whisper to themselves as he passes.
The wreck in the distance has been stripped down to its bones.
FIRST MATE
Captain Power, sir, the men were wondering.
WILL POWER
The men?
FIRST MATE
Well, I was wondering - when might we be setting sail again?
WILL POWER
Well, when we are done with repairs.
FIRST MATE
Allright then sir.
He looks concerned and confused and walks away.
JOHN DUNHAM
Will, the repairs were completed yesterday. You said we'd sail after one more night.
WILL POWER
Oh? Did I? Then we will. We will sail tomorrow.
JOHN DUNHAM
What is going on? I can't remember the last time you were content to be in one place for nearly 7 days.
WILL POWER
This place has its charms, is all. But we'll sail tomorrow. Time to head to Port Royal.
INT. CAPTAIN'S QUARTERS - NIGHT
Will lays on his bunk, clutching the pillow to his cheek, eyes squeezed shut. He opens them again. Nothing has changed. He is still alone. He tries again, with the same result.
EXT. DESIRE'S REVENGE - DAY
Will has more bounce in his step, he's focused and awake.
WILL POWER
Allrighty men, what are you waiting for? To Port Royal?
EXT. DESIRE'S REWARD - NIGHT
A storm lashes at the ship.
Will stands at the helm, but there's a glazed expression on his face. He stares into the distance, as if he sees something.
JOHN DUNHAM
Will! Mind the rocks!
WILL POWER
Do you hear it?
JOHN DUNHAM
I hear only the storm.
WILL POWER
Her voice.
He walks away, and John tries to grab hold of the steering and bring the ship back under control, but the wheel is too hard to turn.
Suddenly a calm overcomes the ship.
Women climb over the railings. A dozen of them. Beautiful and naked, their skin glowing pink like the red tides. They each approach a man, taking his hand. The men all leave their posts and follow them. They lay down on the deck with the women.
John still fights with the wheel, as if he still sees the storm. He looks up and across the deck, as a wave washes over it, and sees the men, alone, lying down.
JOHN DUNHAM
What are you doing?
The captain, looking at the same deck, but in a calm and foggy night, sees the woman from his dream. She takes his hand and leads him into his room.
INT. CAPTAIN'S QUARTERS - NIGHT
She lays him down gently on the bunk, lays beside him, pressed against him, both of them resting their heads on the pillow.
Suddenly, again, she flips him on his back and straddles him.
EXT. DESIRE'S REWARD - NIGHT
The ship's bow breaks against the rocks, splintering, splitting open and letting the stormy water rush in.
Darkness, and the subtle shimmer of moving water.
Light, the beacon from a lighthouse, sweeps across the water, revealing sharp rocks and churning waves breaking on them.
The light sweeps by, then is gone leaving darkness for a moment. When it sweeps by again, a broken board floats by.
On the third pass, more flotsam - and among the wreckage, Will, clinging to the remains of his bunk, clutching a white pillow. He appears dead, until his hands start to tremble, and he shivers.
One more pass. Something slippery and scaly slips from sight just as the light hits it. William tilts into the water, floats a moment, bobbing, then is pulled, still clutching the pillow underneath.
Sequence - the "Secret" Structure of Movies
I knew there was something I was forgetting. When Malvin Wald died recently, I tried to remember what I actually learned in his class...but that was so long ago. I only remembered that he didn't know how to use a VCR, wrote the script for the most popular documentary of Marilyn Monroe, and the guy who wrote a Crossroads won the Nissan FOCUS award.
What I was missing, and so desperately needed to remember, was Sequence. I was reminded of this when someone on Triggerstreet asked if anyone used the Sequence approach. Ding-ding! Bells went off, and I Googled it. Turns out there's a book on the subject now.
Now, you read a lot about the Three Act Structure, which is the most common (though certainly not only) dramatic structure for plays in Western literature. Screenplays, in many ways, evolved from stage plays...but there was one physical element of early movies that was a stronger determining factor than drama in how a film was put together: the reel.
Reels were ten minutes long. Each reel typically was a self-contained mini-movie, or sequence. The sequences still hold together in the context of a larger narrative, build on one another and move the overall story forward - but by making each ten-minute section it's own piece of narrative, you keep the movie, well, moving.
An average movie would have eight or nine sequences. Each one focuses on a character, leads up to a complication, and has a resolution (if only a partial one, that leads to further complications - and thus further sequences.) These sequences can blend well with a three-act structure, the mini-resolutions falling around the turning points, or they can be seen as following their own rhythm. Shorter sequences, interspersed, can be used to develop sub-plots.
As a screenwriter, it's less intimidating to approach ten- to twelve-page sections. As a film-goer, it's more interesting to watch a film that has smaller sequences with rising action, conflict and resolution in each of them. It's also closer to the approach used by TV writers (each section between commercials is sometimes called an "act" but is really a sequence.)
By focusing on sequences, it becomes much easier to keep the story moving through the dreaded middle-of-the-second-act doldrums.
I've been stuck on a screenplay for months. Starting it, stopping, looking at my outline, re-evaluating my characters - because I couldn't find a way to get through the middle to the end. I had my beginning and ending down, and was on the verge of letting this one go...but remembering Sequences has let me work out an outline for the entire main plot of my screenplay, and I'm going through now and fine-tuning it. But it's all there. And my "second act" has not four Sequences, but five. And if I feel that I need to break them down further, I can - keeping in mind that each one needs to have rising action and a resolution.
What I was missing, and so desperately needed to remember, was Sequence. I was reminded of this when someone on Triggerstreet asked if anyone used the Sequence approach. Ding-ding! Bells went off, and I Googled it. Turns out there's a book on the subject now.
Now, you read a lot about the Three Act Structure, which is the most common (though certainly not only) dramatic structure for plays in Western literature. Screenplays, in many ways, evolved from stage plays...but there was one physical element of early movies that was a stronger determining factor than drama in how a film was put together: the reel.
Reels were ten minutes long. Each reel typically was a self-contained mini-movie, or sequence. The sequences still hold together in the context of a larger narrative, build on one another and move the overall story forward - but by making each ten-minute section it's own piece of narrative, you keep the movie, well, moving.
An average movie would have eight or nine sequences. Each one focuses on a character, leads up to a complication, and has a resolution (if only a partial one, that leads to further complications - and thus further sequences.) These sequences can blend well with a three-act structure, the mini-resolutions falling around the turning points, or they can be seen as following their own rhythm. Shorter sequences, interspersed, can be used to develop sub-plots.
As a screenwriter, it's less intimidating to approach ten- to twelve-page sections. As a film-goer, it's more interesting to watch a film that has smaller sequences with rising action, conflict and resolution in each of them. It's also closer to the approach used by TV writers (each section between commercials is sometimes called an "act" but is really a sequence.)
By focusing on sequences, it becomes much easier to keep the story moving through the dreaded middle-of-the-second-act doldrums.
I've been stuck on a screenplay for months. Starting it, stopping, looking at my outline, re-evaluating my characters - because I couldn't find a way to get through the middle to the end. I had my beginning and ending down, and was on the verge of letting this one go...but remembering Sequences has let me work out an outline for the entire main plot of my screenplay, and I'm going through now and fine-tuning it. But it's all there. And my "second act" has not four Sequences, but five. And if I feel that I need to break them down further, I can - keeping in mind that each one needs to have rising action and a resolution.
Script Frenzy
I do well with deadlines, so something like Script Frenzy is perfect for me. A complete screenplay in 30 days (or less.)
Also -
I used to direct those seeking a quick summary of screenwriting format to the Nicholl's page on the subject, but Script Frenzy's is more complete, plus they have worksheets for character, setting and such. So this is my new go-to.
Also -
I used to direct those seeking a quick summary of screenwriting format to the Nicholl's page on the subject, but Script Frenzy's is more complete, plus they have worksheets for character, setting and such. So this is my new go-to.
Write What You Know
Imagination is a powerful tool. It can carry us into areas that no one before has ever conceived of, it can solve problems, it can pull beauty from nearly nothing. Imagination is essential to a writer. So why then, are new writers so often admonished to "write what you know?"
The truth is, for a writer who knows themselves, there is no contradiction.
Our imaginings are the product, just as everything else about us, of a combination of genetics and instinct with experience. It serves a function in our personal cognitive and social development (and in our development as a society, allowing humanity the diversity and adaptability that makes us so distinct from other species...even our ability to communicate with one another through language involves a level of abstraction that's greater than most species and thus an imagination to interpret - but that's another topic.)
In short, even the most grandiose or unusual imaginings are founded on things we know. But for most writers, imagination is not a problem. Those of us who are driven to create are more likely to have an active imagination that tends to wheel off in its own direction, that becomes it's own incentive to create. Thus, the admonition "write what you know" is a way to help ground our work.
It can function in the basic sense of knowing your material. Do research, character background studies, and know the reality behind the story.
It can function to encourage writers to experience life, to have a broader range to draw from.
But I think that the most useful and powerful function of writing what you know is specificity. The more specific and personal a work, the greater the likelihood that it will transcend itself and become universal.
It becomes "real" in ways we can't anticipate when we know that a brand of tennis shoes that were popular in a time a place our characters occupy, when we know that a certain carpet color is common to cheap motels built in the 80's, when we know how you hold a fishing line and how much room you need to cast a fly. Because when we know these things, our audience has a point of reference, and it becomes real to them.
Humans are social. We desire belonging, we are constantly (usually unconsciously) searching for connection. When a writer provides points of connection by giving specific, clear details, then the audience will join them.
It becomes "real" in ways that are surprising when we talk about our bi-racial friend who buys giant dubs to prove he's black while bragging about "sounding" white on the phone. Or about the dweeb who tells us for weeks how beautiful and sexy we are, turning up when we're out for coffee or at the grocery store, but the minute we say clearly that we're not interested pointedly calls us a fat bitch, and then whines because being a "nice guy" gets them nowhere. And the feeling of helplessness as we watch our mother on life support, surrounded by plastic tubes and wires that seem to hold a once-dynamic woman in stasis. The more specific you are about your experiences, the more likely you are to have people tell you they understand, and that it's "just like" something they've gone through.
So that feeling of helplessness gets attached to an image of an astronaut, so dependent on the tubes that connect her to life. Or the dweeb backs up their aggressive response to rejection with a knife. And bi-racial guy becomes a human raised in an alien environment. Focus on the specifics, and these situations will become familiar not only to us, but to an audience.
Thus, a writer must know themselves, so that when they do imagine flying, they can place the sensation of the rush as they dive through the air as something akin to riding a roller coaster. So that when feel a rush as they ride a roller coaster, they can think: this is what superman feels like when he's flying.
Know yourself. Pay attention. And then write what you know.
The truth is, for a writer who knows themselves, there is no contradiction.
Our imaginings are the product, just as everything else about us, of a combination of genetics and instinct with experience. It serves a function in our personal cognitive and social development (and in our development as a society, allowing humanity the diversity and adaptability that makes us so distinct from other species...even our ability to communicate with one another through language involves a level of abstraction that's greater than most species and thus an imagination to interpret - but that's another topic.)
In short, even the most grandiose or unusual imaginings are founded on things we know. But for most writers, imagination is not a problem. Those of us who are driven to create are more likely to have an active imagination that tends to wheel off in its own direction, that becomes it's own incentive to create. Thus, the admonition "write what you know" is a way to help ground our work.
It can function in the basic sense of knowing your material. Do research, character background studies, and know the reality behind the story.
It can function to encourage writers to experience life, to have a broader range to draw from.
But I think that the most useful and powerful function of writing what you know is specificity. The more specific and personal a work, the greater the likelihood that it will transcend itself and become universal.
It becomes "real" in ways we can't anticipate when we know that a brand of tennis shoes that were popular in a time a place our characters occupy, when we know that a certain carpet color is common to cheap motels built in the 80's, when we know how you hold a fishing line and how much room you need to cast a fly. Because when we know these things, our audience has a point of reference, and it becomes real to them.
Humans are social. We desire belonging, we are constantly (usually unconsciously) searching for connection. When a writer provides points of connection by giving specific, clear details, then the audience will join them.
It becomes "real" in ways that are surprising when we talk about our bi-racial friend who buys giant dubs to prove he's black while bragging about "sounding" white on the phone. Or about the dweeb who tells us for weeks how beautiful and sexy we are, turning up when we're out for coffee or at the grocery store, but the minute we say clearly that we're not interested pointedly calls us a fat bitch, and then whines because being a "nice guy" gets them nowhere. And the feeling of helplessness as we watch our mother on life support, surrounded by plastic tubes and wires that seem to hold a once-dynamic woman in stasis. The more specific you are about your experiences, the more likely you are to have people tell you they understand, and that it's "just like" something they've gone through.
So that feeling of helplessness gets attached to an image of an astronaut, so dependent on the tubes that connect her to life. Or the dweeb backs up their aggressive response to rejection with a knife. And bi-racial guy becomes a human raised in an alien environment. Focus on the specifics, and these situations will become familiar not only to us, but to an audience.
Thus, a writer must know themselves, so that when they do imagine flying, they can place the sensation of the rush as they dive through the air as something akin to riding a roller coaster. So that when feel a rush as they ride a roller coaster, they can think: this is what superman feels like when he's flying.
Know yourself. Pay attention. And then write what you know.
Man Who Fell to Earth
A little while ago, I bought a copy of the Man Who Fell to Earth on eBay. Just as I was wondering where it was, I got an e-mail promising that it had been shipped today priority mail. Seems it fell through the cracks.
It's been ages since I've seen it, so I will wait to discuss it at length until I have the screenplay (written by the same man who wrote Croupier, The Last Samurai, and Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence). I saw it when I was about 13 or 14 (my parents didn't realize how much sex was in it) - and some of it went over my head, but as an adolescent I certainly could relate to the sense of loneliness and isolation that he felt, and still consider this the central theme of the movie. In fact, the themes of being in the wrong circumstances, of having to pretend to fit in, of feeling isolated - these recur in other ways in some of Roeg's films.
At any rate, I'm looking forward to taking a look at the screenplay... now I just need to get a copy of the movie... preferably the uncut version... (but first I need to get a job. Rapidly running out of money and trying hard not to stress.)
It's been ages since I've seen it, so I will wait to discuss it at length until I have the screenplay (written by the same man who wrote Croupier, The Last Samurai, and Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence). I saw it when I was about 13 or 14 (my parents didn't realize how much sex was in it) - and some of it went over my head, but as an adolescent I certainly could relate to the sense of loneliness and isolation that he felt, and still consider this the central theme of the movie. In fact, the themes of being in the wrong circumstances, of having to pretend to fit in, of feeling isolated - these recur in other ways in some of Roeg's films.
At any rate, I'm looking forward to taking a look at the screenplay... now I just need to get a copy of the movie... preferably the uncut version... (but first I need to get a job. Rapidly running out of money and trying hard not to stress.)
finding the spine
I'm working on a collaboration, as part of a dare on Triggerstreet - and I was fortunate to be paired with a writer who owns a small production company in Spain, and wants to write this as a possible feature for himself to produce.
So far, we've been bouncing back and forth some very general ideas. There is a Japanese myth that I wanted to use as the basis for a screenplay, and which I had some notes, characters, images, scenes developed for... but that idea was an epic fantasy, hardly suitable for a small indie. So, using the same myth (heck no I'm not telling), we looked at setting it in modern-day southern Spain.
I had a trio of characters at the center of my other idea, and I kept those same basic character relationships, but found myself wanting them to be very different other than that. I found a characteristic for the protagonist which lent itself to a good arc, and that told me what I needed from the other two in order for them to push that arc... but I was still lacking something that would make the idea gel.
I was lacking a thematic spine - the idea behind the story, which connects all of the characters and shapes the direction they all go as they come into conflict.
And it just came to me. A single emotional thread which runs through each of the three central characters and motivates them, and defines them. As I did that, more details about the characters, their relationships, and some of the major plot points clicked into place.
Which, again, is so very much like writing a poem. In a poem I might not have characters - but I would have different images or phrases, and it's when I find the common emotional thread that they all come into clear relationship to one another, both in harmony and in contrast.
Ah, that is so satisfying.
Now, assuming my writing partner digs my ideas, we have the basis for a powerful screenplay.
So far, we've been bouncing back and forth some very general ideas. There is a Japanese myth that I wanted to use as the basis for a screenplay, and which I had some notes, characters, images, scenes developed for... but that idea was an epic fantasy, hardly suitable for a small indie. So, using the same myth (heck no I'm not telling), we looked at setting it in modern-day southern Spain.
I had a trio of characters at the center of my other idea, and I kept those same basic character relationships, but found myself wanting them to be very different other than that. I found a characteristic for the protagonist which lent itself to a good arc, and that told me what I needed from the other two in order for them to push that arc... but I was still lacking something that would make the idea gel.
I was lacking a thematic spine - the idea behind the story, which connects all of the characters and shapes the direction they all go as they come into conflict.
And it just came to me. A single emotional thread which runs through each of the three central characters and motivates them, and defines them. As I did that, more details about the characters, their relationships, and some of the major plot points clicked into place.
Which, again, is so very much like writing a poem. In a poem I might not have characters - but I would have different images or phrases, and it's when I find the common emotional thread that they all come into clear relationship to one another, both in harmony and in contrast.
Ah, that is so satisfying.
Now, assuming my writing partner digs my ideas, we have the basis for a powerful screenplay.
Page One
I'm going to blather about my process, and talk too much about my story - because I'm working things out in my head.
Not long ago, I posted about the Script Frenzy writing project. I intended to participate, writing a new screenplay from scratch during the month of June.
Instead, I've gotten stuck on my rewrite of "From the Ashes," a script I wrote the first draft of three years ago and then lost, and found again. I love the imagery. I love the characters, and the protagonists arc. I love the theme... but I've realized that it's, well... boring.
I write my first draft by hand in a notebook, and as I type it up, I tweak it - solidifying the character's voices, improving action lines, smoothing out progression in scenes, adding transitions in or between scenes. As I was working through my hand-written draft, I realized that I had written the same two scenes over and over again, with tiny variations. There's no progress for the first 2/3 of the story - just tiny revelations about the characters. Not surprising, because when I wrote this - I was stuck myself, and the theme deals with my own issue. My own attempt to rise from the ashes. So I have a 70 page character study about two messed up people and one somewhat stable one who doesn't do much.
Great. Solid characters, but not a film. At least not one I would go see.
So I added a new opening with more on the backstory, because it's the protag's past which makes her present dillema so intense. But, well, it's backstory. So I took it out. Then added it back, and considered bringing more of that story into the present - making the two timelines overlap.
Backstory:
She was a model for a controversial fetish photographer, who was her husband. He was abusive, and that abuse became part of his art. She took it, because he was a "genius." Until she couldn't. Then he died - under circumstances she could have prevented but made the conscious choice not to.
Secondary character's backstory (not the antagonist, as the antagonist is herself): a kid, who, tries to show off for his mom who is a bit permissive and a little drunk at the time, has an accident which nearly kills him - and leaves him badly scarred, and (as we find out) epileptic.
The story opens with these two, a few years later, encountering one another. He's a teen and trying not to need his dad so much, mom is an absent parent - gone off to chase an adolescent dream. She is closed off and trying not to need anyone... but he latches on to her, and she finds herself befriending him. She needs to help him, but doesn't trust herself - worries that her baggage means that she'll do him more harm than good... but she also needs to redeem herself, and so, when she realizes the extent of his problems - rather than tell his father, she tries to "fix" things herself...
which is all I've really got for the first two acts.
So, next thing I do when I'm rewriting is to take all the scenes I have so far, write them on cards and shuffle them. I add new scenes, and take out scenes and set them aside. In reality, I do much of this in my head.
I've been writing poetry for nearly 30 years. My process with that is thus: I write it once on paper (sometimes, now, I do write it electronically.) Then, I write the whole thing again, simply transcribing it, making small tweaks. This may be on paper once more, or may be typing it into an e-doc. Same as I do with the screenplays. Next, I take every line and I put spaces between them, making them into separate entities. I may leave a few stanzas together, as I do sequences of scenes in a script - because I'm confident that the progression there is exactly as I want it. Then I shuffle. Sometimes a random re-arrangement gives new energy to tired lines, points to a new direction. Sometimes I end up putting things back much as they were. Sometimes I cut out most of it, keeping only a fraction of the original. And sometimes I add in a great deal more.
And often, I do all of that in my head - juggling images and lines. I've been doing it long enough that I can manage much of it that way, see the effect without actually executing it. (I do the same with recipes when I cook. I can taste how certain ingredients will effect one another before I put them in the pan together.)
So, while I haven't typed or written much in the last couple of weeks - I've stripped down and re-built this thing in my head several times. I scan the draft - and re-consider. Make a note or two. I've figured out which scenes contribute nothing new, and which are essential to the theme and the characters. Only a couple are essential to the plot, as thin as the plot is. I've merged two characters (in an already small cast.)
I decided I needed a strong subplot to liven things up.
I had the seed of one, but hadn't really brought it out - related to her modeling, rather than focusing on her as the widow of an abuser.
I looked at the logline again, and realized that the fact that she's a widow is nowhere near as interesting as the fact that she's a former fetish model. (Mentioning both makes it a bit clunky.) But if I call her that in the logline, I need to bring that element into play earlier.
And that's when the whole thing turned inside out.
I'm now switching my A story and my B story. Which means cutting way back on the boy, who I've written so many pages about. Simplifying his dilemma - so that I can focus on an entirely new dramatic conflict for my protagonist. One which is actually external. One which involves a real antagonist. And which externalizes the theme, so that the B story can be the internal struggle.
But that means I'm scrapping all but about ten scenes, and starting from scratch.
So it is: a page one re-write. Back to the outline. I hope to have the outline (an actual written one) complete by Friday, and "From the Ashes" will be my project for Script Frenzy.
Yes, I've talked a lot about my ideas. Am I worried someone might steal them? What, are you kidding? Because the story of a widowed fetish model and abuse victim and a troubled epileptic boy is so commercial? Even if I had the nearly 12,000 people reading this blog that I have as friends on my poetry profile - I doubt any of them would have the personal experience to elucidate those characters even if they wanted to. And I've not said anything about my new A plot, except that it ties back to the modeling.
Nah, this one's mine. It's personal. And now that I've found the key to making it a movie, I'm excited about it again, and making progress on paper and not just reconstructing in my head.
Not long ago, I posted about the Script Frenzy writing project. I intended to participate, writing a new screenplay from scratch during the month of June.
Instead, I've gotten stuck on my rewrite of "From the Ashes," a script I wrote the first draft of three years ago and then lost, and found again. I love the imagery. I love the characters, and the protagonists arc. I love the theme... but I've realized that it's, well... boring.
I write my first draft by hand in a notebook, and as I type it up, I tweak it - solidifying the character's voices, improving action lines, smoothing out progression in scenes, adding transitions in or between scenes. As I was working through my hand-written draft, I realized that I had written the same two scenes over and over again, with tiny variations. There's no progress for the first 2/3 of the story - just tiny revelations about the characters. Not surprising, because when I wrote this - I was stuck myself, and the theme deals with my own issue. My own attempt to rise from the ashes. So I have a 70 page character study about two messed up people and one somewhat stable one who doesn't do much.
Great. Solid characters, but not a film. At least not one I would go see.
So I added a new opening with more on the backstory, because it's the protag's past which makes her present dillema so intense. But, well, it's backstory. So I took it out. Then added it back, and considered bringing more of that story into the present - making the two timelines overlap.
Backstory:
She was a model for a controversial fetish photographer, who was her husband. He was abusive, and that abuse became part of his art. She took it, because he was a "genius." Until she couldn't. Then he died - under circumstances she could have prevented but made the conscious choice not to.
Secondary character's backstory (not the antagonist, as the antagonist is herself): a kid, who, tries to show off for his mom who is a bit permissive and a little drunk at the time, has an accident which nearly kills him - and leaves him badly scarred, and (as we find out) epileptic.
The story opens with these two, a few years later, encountering one another. He's a teen and trying not to need his dad so much, mom is an absent parent - gone off to chase an adolescent dream. She is closed off and trying not to need anyone... but he latches on to her, and she finds herself befriending him. She needs to help him, but doesn't trust herself - worries that her baggage means that she'll do him more harm than good... but she also needs to redeem herself, and so, when she realizes the extent of his problems - rather than tell his father, she tries to "fix" things herself...
which is all I've really got for the first two acts.
So, next thing I do when I'm rewriting is to take all the scenes I have so far, write them on cards and shuffle them. I add new scenes, and take out scenes and set them aside. In reality, I do much of this in my head.
I've been writing poetry for nearly 30 years. My process with that is thus: I write it once on paper (sometimes, now, I do write it electronically.) Then, I write the whole thing again, simply transcribing it, making small tweaks. This may be on paper once more, or may be typing it into an e-doc. Same as I do with the screenplays. Next, I take every line and I put spaces between them, making them into separate entities. I may leave a few stanzas together, as I do sequences of scenes in a script - because I'm confident that the progression there is exactly as I want it. Then I shuffle. Sometimes a random re-arrangement gives new energy to tired lines, points to a new direction. Sometimes I end up putting things back much as they were. Sometimes I cut out most of it, keeping only a fraction of the original. And sometimes I add in a great deal more.
And often, I do all of that in my head - juggling images and lines. I've been doing it long enough that I can manage much of it that way, see the effect without actually executing it. (I do the same with recipes when I cook. I can taste how certain ingredients will effect one another before I put them in the pan together.)
So, while I haven't typed or written much in the last couple of weeks - I've stripped down and re-built this thing in my head several times. I scan the draft - and re-consider. Make a note or two. I've figured out which scenes contribute nothing new, and which are essential to the theme and the characters. Only a couple are essential to the plot, as thin as the plot is. I've merged two characters (in an already small cast.)
I decided I needed a strong subplot to liven things up.
I had the seed of one, but hadn't really brought it out - related to her modeling, rather than focusing on her as the widow of an abuser.
I looked at the logline again, and realized that the fact that she's a widow is nowhere near as interesting as the fact that she's a former fetish model. (Mentioning both makes it a bit clunky.) But if I call her that in the logline, I need to bring that element into play earlier.
And that's when the whole thing turned inside out.
I'm now switching my A story and my B story. Which means cutting way back on the boy, who I've written so many pages about. Simplifying his dilemma - so that I can focus on an entirely new dramatic conflict for my protagonist. One which is actually external. One which involves a real antagonist. And which externalizes the theme, so that the B story can be the internal struggle.
But that means I'm scrapping all but about ten scenes, and starting from scratch.
So it is: a page one re-write. Back to the outline. I hope to have the outline (an actual written one) complete by Friday, and "From the Ashes" will be my project for Script Frenzy.
Yes, I've talked a lot about my ideas. Am I worried someone might steal them? What, are you kidding? Because the story of a widowed fetish model and abuse victim and a troubled epileptic boy is so commercial? Even if I had the nearly 12,000 people reading this blog that I have as friends on my poetry profile - I doubt any of them would have the personal experience to elucidate those characters even if they wanted to. And I've not said anything about my new A plot, except that it ties back to the modeling.
Nah, this one's mine. It's personal. And now that I've found the key to making it a movie, I'm excited about it again, and making progress on paper and not just reconstructing in my head.
Storytelling Objects: Props as Story Devices in Dead Again
I watched Dead Again for the umpteenth time. It's one of my favorite movies, but it's been a while since I'd seen it - and I've never listened to the writer's commentary on the film.
There were two aspects of the screenplay that he discussed which really interested me: the use of objects as storytelling devices
the modulation of tone in scenes
The plot of this story is complex. If you haven't seen it, you won't be able to follow my discussion... so go watch it already. It's great fun.
I think that the first subject is interesting, because as a writer, I find it easy to get too much in my head - and the real 3-D world of plastic, material objects can be overlooked. In Dead Again, objects are used as clues, as character development, to imply relationships between the present and the past, and to reveal plot points.
Minor objects include the gloves and furniture... The gloves. Grace has only one glove when Mike meets her. It's a clue - both about her, and it ends up being a clue about who is behind her attempted abduction. (Who could know she was missing a glove?)
Furniture - specifically chairs. Grace blocks her door at night with a chair. Mike collects furniture that could have been in Roman's home, and comments specifically on a chair (which she then uses to block her door.) When the adult Frankie comes into his home, he comments on one of the chairs, also subtly revealing his connection to that period. Couches - the first time Roman and Margaret have sex, they are wet on a couch, and the sex scene with Mike and Grace mirrors this.
The most important are the scissors, and the anklet.
The story revolves around a murder that was done with a pair or scissors. "Grace" (aka Amanda) dreams about them. We see several around Mike's house. In one scene, he uses them to cut up bacon while he's cooking.
They've been shown and we've built up fear around them - so the scene in which he tries clumsily to assure Grace that he's not dangerous works well. He storms around the house, pulling her along, picking up each pair of scissors and giving them to her, forcing them into her hand. This is also a nice way of showing that it was not he, but she, who held the scissors which were the murder weapon in the past.
When we finally take Grace/Amanda back to her house, we see that she's been obsessed with scissors for a while. Suddenly the three or four pair that Mike had don't look nearly so ominous as compared to the dozens of paintings and sculptures she has.
Then there are the actual scissors which were used in the murder. We see them in the memories, used to cur hair, sitting on a dresser... as well as in Grace's nightmares - where they threaten her, and finally in the scene of the actual murder. When the antiques collector pulls them out, and shows that he owns them now, we already know that it was he who used them to kill Margaret. The other scissors have all just been echoes of this pair, and none carry the threat that these do.
The anklet: This object has a myth attached to it. It becomes a symbol of their love, of their romance. When Frankie considers stealing it, it is a threat to the couple and not simply the theft of an object. When she wears it in to the party, and Gray Baker admires it - he is, unconsciously perhaps, not admiring her only, but admiring them as a couple. It connects Roman and Margaret for all time, two halves of one whole, so that they return to one another in their new life. When Frankie kills her, and takes the anklet, he pulls it - snapping the clasp, as though breaking the bond.
When Frankie's mother pulls it out to give it to Mike, it is as though she's been the guardian of the love for all these years. She was always the protector - of Frankie, but also of Roman... and despite his love for another woman, she preserved the symbol of his happiness. She returned it to Mike, and the return of the anklet precipitates the resolution, and thus ends the artificial separation between the lovers.
But before that can occur, of course, justice must be done and the murderer is done in by his own weapon - the original scissors are buried in his back.
Thus the two central symbols of the film are opposites - the scissors which divide, and the anklet which unites.
There were two aspects of the screenplay that he discussed which really interested me: the use of objects as storytelling devices
the modulation of tone in scenes
The plot of this story is complex. If you haven't seen it, you won't be able to follow my discussion... so go watch it already. It's great fun.
I think that the first subject is interesting, because as a writer, I find it easy to get too much in my head - and the real 3-D world of plastic, material objects can be overlooked. In Dead Again, objects are used as clues, as character development, to imply relationships between the present and the past, and to reveal plot points.
Minor objects include the gloves and furniture... The gloves. Grace has only one glove when Mike meets her. It's a clue - both about her, and it ends up being a clue about who is behind her attempted abduction. (Who could know she was missing a glove?)
Furniture - specifically chairs. Grace blocks her door at night with a chair. Mike collects furniture that could have been in Roman's home, and comments specifically on a chair (which she then uses to block her door.) When the adult Frankie comes into his home, he comments on one of the chairs, also subtly revealing his connection to that period. Couches - the first time Roman and Margaret have sex, they are wet on a couch, and the sex scene with Mike and Grace mirrors this.
The most important are the scissors, and the anklet.
The story revolves around a murder that was done with a pair or scissors. "Grace" (aka Amanda) dreams about them. We see several around Mike's house. In one scene, he uses them to cut up bacon while he's cooking.
They've been shown and we've built up fear around them - so the scene in which he tries clumsily to assure Grace that he's not dangerous works well. He storms around the house, pulling her along, picking up each pair of scissors and giving them to her, forcing them into her hand. This is also a nice way of showing that it was not he, but she, who held the scissors which were the murder weapon in the past.
When we finally take Grace/Amanda back to her house, we see that she's been obsessed with scissors for a while. Suddenly the three or four pair that Mike had don't look nearly so ominous as compared to the dozens of paintings and sculptures she has.
Then there are the actual scissors which were used in the murder. We see them in the memories, used to cur hair, sitting on a dresser... as well as in Grace's nightmares - where they threaten her, and finally in the scene of the actual murder. When the antiques collector pulls them out, and shows that he owns them now, we already know that it was he who used them to kill Margaret. The other scissors have all just been echoes of this pair, and none carry the threat that these do.
The anklet: This object has a myth attached to it. It becomes a symbol of their love, of their romance. When Frankie considers stealing it, it is a threat to the couple and not simply the theft of an object. When she wears it in to the party, and Gray Baker admires it - he is, unconsciously perhaps, not admiring her only, but admiring them as a couple. It connects Roman and Margaret for all time, two halves of one whole, so that they return to one another in their new life. When Frankie kills her, and takes the anklet, he pulls it - snapping the clasp, as though breaking the bond.
When Frankie's mother pulls it out to give it to Mike, it is as though she's been the guardian of the love for all these years. She was always the protector - of Frankie, but also of Roman... and despite his love for another woman, she preserved the symbol of his happiness. She returned it to Mike, and the return of the anklet precipitates the resolution, and thus ends the artificial separation between the lovers.
But before that can occur, of course, justice must be done and the murderer is done in by his own weapon - the original scissors are buried in his back.
Thus the two central symbols of the film are opposites - the scissors which divide, and the anklet which unites.
the First 4 Pages
Watching the extras on a DVD can be so enlightening. On "Stranger Than Fiction," Emma Thompson said she read the first 4 pages of the script and knew she wanted to do it.
I've heard other actors (and directors) make similar comments... that they read the first 5 or 10 pages and knew they wanted to do it.
This just emphasizes the need to make the first few pages absolutely shine. To make them clean and clever. To introduce the main characters quickly. To have a strong hook... and, I think, a voice of your own.
Go back and look at your first 4 or 5 pages. Are they good enough to get your A-list choices to jump at the chance to do this movie? (I've re-written the first ten pages of both of mine several times now.)
I've heard other actors (and directors) make similar comments... that they read the first 5 or 10 pages and knew they wanted to do it.
This just emphasizes the need to make the first few pages absolutely shine. To make them clean and clever. To introduce the main characters quickly. To have a strong hook... and, I think, a voice of your own.
Go back and look at your first 4 or 5 pages. Are they good enough to get your A-list choices to jump at the chance to do this movie? (I've re-written the first ten pages of both of mine several times now.)
Painting Pictures with Light and Words
Originally posted here
When you are writing the script, what is driving it? Is it character? Plot? Structure? Do you see the words in your head, hear the dialogue, know the characters as if you remember them like old friends (or enemies)?
Or do you see the movie, and set about describing it?
I was surprised in a recent thread on Triggerstreet, that I seem to be among the minority in being a visually driven screenwriter. People were talking about their technique, about what they begin with, how they develop the story - and among all of the comments, I was the only one who said I began with an image.
I'm sure there are others, but what I mean is this:
I start with an image. Every idea for a poem, or a screenplay, or novel, or anything I've attempted - starts with an image. Sometimes static, sometimes moving. I can describe every nuance of that image: the textures, the focus, the light.
From that image, I figure out what is happening, and to whom. The story and the characters come from the image.
As I outline, and write my scenes, I have an image of them in my head. Usually, from the original image, I get a series of other images.
For example:
one script (which is now taking a very different direction) began with the image of a large white cat with a red collar, sitting on the chest of a dead man in a snow-blanketed forest, looking him in the face. The man was asian, and had a moustache, which had frosted over from his breath - so I knew he had been alive recently, and yet he was quite pale and frozen.
other images that came up while outlining: a man with golden skin and a pretty (yes, pretty) face, dressed as a warrior, barechested - the sun shines behind him as he rides a large horse with a golden mantle, beside him is a rough-looking bearded man, and just behind - a boy on a pony with a banner, also in gold. Several yards behind are more mounted men.
A pale asian woman in white, with a red collar around her neck, walking around a battlefield among the dead - she bends to one man who is gasping for breath. He smiles slightly as she caresses his cheek, but then, as she brings her her lips close to his - panic flits across his face for a brief moment. She breathes in, and his eyes glaze over.
The golden man, sleeps in a sumptuous tent on the battlefield, on furs laid across a divan. Beside him is a morrocan-style table, sexagonal and elegantly carved. On the table rests a silver bowl filled with oranges. The pale woman stands a few feet from him, looking down on him. She reaches a hand cautiously toward his face, as though warming it at a fire, and holds it there. She edges closer, and grasps one of the oranges. As her hand closes on it, his hand closes on her wrist. He turns his head and opens his eyes to see who the orange thief is, and blinks in wonder. She pulls away and in three steps, disappears from sight - without disturbing the door to the tent or the guards posted outside.
When you have the film in your head, and write from that - describing what you see, then it's rare to write "unfilmables." And yet, with these purely visual scenes, I was able to learn about my characters, and see the potential story between them.
By seeing the scenes clearly, you also can find ways to hint at camera direction without spelling it out. For instance, the last scene might be scripted something like this (note, this is NOT from the actual script, I'm just winging it)
Rei sleeps in a sumptuous tent on the battlefield, on furs laid across a divan. Beside him is a morrocan-style table, sexagonal and elegantly carved. On the table rests a silver bowl filled with oranges.
Itsura stands a few feet from him, looking down on him. She reaches a hand cautiously toward his face, as though warming it at a fire, and holds it there.
She edges closer, and grasps one of the oranges.
As her hand closes on it, his hand closes on her wrist.
He turns his head and opens his eyes to see who the orange thief is, and blinks in wonder.
She pulls away and in three steps, disappears from sight - without disturbing the door to the tent or the guards posted outside.
-----
I threw some names on the characters, his derived from him being the king - and of the sun, hers similar to the Japanese word for frozen... but other than that, just broke up the paragraph of description in a way that suggests the shots as I see them in the film. It suggests that the camera is focused on him, lying on the divan, pulls back to show her nearby
Then the focus is on her, as she moves forward, and then a close shot on her hand and the oranges - and then his hand.
Then it pulls back to show his face, and back again to encompass both of them, closing with a shot of the tent doors, and the silhouettes of the guard.
Now, I'm certainly not saying this is the right way to write a screenplay... I'm still a novice, so I can't even say that it's a good way... but I read so many screenplays that have unfilmable scenes, or scenes where the action doesn't quite make sense - or where opportunities for visual themes are missed - and I wonder if the writer was seeing the movie.
Do you see the movie when you write? At what point do the images coalesce for you?
When you are writing the script, what is driving it? Is it character? Plot? Structure? Do you see the words in your head, hear the dialogue, know the characters as if you remember them like old friends (or enemies)?
Or do you see the movie, and set about describing it?
I was surprised in a recent thread on Triggerstreet, that I seem to be among the minority in being a visually driven screenwriter. People were talking about their technique, about what they begin with, how they develop the story - and among all of the comments, I was the only one who said I began with an image.
I'm sure there are others, but what I mean is this:
I start with an image. Every idea for a poem, or a screenplay, or novel, or anything I've attempted - starts with an image. Sometimes static, sometimes moving. I can describe every nuance of that image: the textures, the focus, the light.
From that image, I figure out what is happening, and to whom. The story and the characters come from the image.
As I outline, and write my scenes, I have an image of them in my head. Usually, from the original image, I get a series of other images.
For example:
one script (which is now taking a very different direction) began with the image of a large white cat with a red collar, sitting on the chest of a dead man in a snow-blanketed forest, looking him in the face. The man was asian, and had a moustache, which had frosted over from his breath - so I knew he had been alive recently, and yet he was quite pale and frozen.
other images that came up while outlining: a man with golden skin and a pretty (yes, pretty) face, dressed as a warrior, barechested - the sun shines behind him as he rides a large horse with a golden mantle, beside him is a rough-looking bearded man, and just behind - a boy on a pony with a banner, also in gold. Several yards behind are more mounted men.
A pale asian woman in white, with a red collar around her neck, walking around a battlefield among the dead - she bends to one man who is gasping for breath. He smiles slightly as she caresses his cheek, but then, as she brings her her lips close to his - panic flits across his face for a brief moment. She breathes in, and his eyes glaze over.
The golden man, sleeps in a sumptuous tent on the battlefield, on furs laid across a divan. Beside him is a morrocan-style table, sexagonal and elegantly carved. On the table rests a silver bowl filled with oranges. The pale woman stands a few feet from him, looking down on him. She reaches a hand cautiously toward his face, as though warming it at a fire, and holds it there. She edges closer, and grasps one of the oranges. As her hand closes on it, his hand closes on her wrist. He turns his head and opens his eyes to see who the orange thief is, and blinks in wonder. She pulls away and in three steps, disappears from sight - without disturbing the door to the tent or the guards posted outside.
When you have the film in your head, and write from that - describing what you see, then it's rare to write "unfilmables." And yet, with these purely visual scenes, I was able to learn about my characters, and see the potential story between them.
By seeing the scenes clearly, you also can find ways to hint at camera direction without spelling it out. For instance, the last scene might be scripted something like this (note, this is NOT from the actual script, I'm just winging it)
Rei sleeps in a sumptuous tent on the battlefield, on furs laid across a divan. Beside him is a morrocan-style table, sexagonal and elegantly carved. On the table rests a silver bowl filled with oranges.
Itsura stands a few feet from him, looking down on him. She reaches a hand cautiously toward his face, as though warming it at a fire, and holds it there.
She edges closer, and grasps one of the oranges.
As her hand closes on it, his hand closes on her wrist.
He turns his head and opens his eyes to see who the orange thief is, and blinks in wonder.
She pulls away and in three steps, disappears from sight - without disturbing the door to the tent or the guards posted outside.
-----
I threw some names on the characters, his derived from him being the king - and of the sun, hers similar to the Japanese word for frozen... but other than that, just broke up the paragraph of description in a way that suggests the shots as I see them in the film. It suggests that the camera is focused on him, lying on the divan, pulls back to show her nearby
Then the focus is on her, as she moves forward, and then a close shot on her hand and the oranges - and then his hand.
Then it pulls back to show his face, and back again to encompass both of them, closing with a shot of the tent doors, and the silhouettes of the guard.
Now, I'm certainly not saying this is the right way to write a screenplay... I'm still a novice, so I can't even say that it's a good way... but I read so many screenplays that have unfilmable scenes, or scenes where the action doesn't quite make sense - or where opportunities for visual themes are missed - and I wonder if the writer was seeing the movie.
Do you see the movie when you write? At what point do the images coalesce for you?
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