d f mamea

23 May 2011

Say What

Let’s say you’ve watched the story of a man who reluctantly cleans up his long estranged father’s affairs, discovers details of the difficult circumstances of his parents’ marriage and his childhood, and realises how it is only now, having grown up and started a family of his own, that he can begin to understand his father as a man.

It’s been a bit of an emotional journey, and you’ve invested in it willingly. The story is very near the end as the man goes to visit his father in hospital, and you look forward to something like this:

INT. HOSPITAL – DAY

The OLD MAN (60s) lies in his HOSPITAL BED, tubes and pumps abound, his eyes open, staring upward.

The Old Man’s SON (30s) pulls up a VISITOR’S CHAIR and sits down, hands clasped in his lap. He looks at his father, breathing – no, living – with the aid of machines. The father’s eyes don’t shift from the ceiling.

SON

Dad –

He clears his throat.

He tries to start again but he can’t as sobs erupt from his body, and it is all he can do to reach out and hold his father’s bloodless, frail hand.

No more need be said, right? We’ve followed the son’s journey, both physical and emotional. That’s why we’ve found a hanky to cry into, to share the catharsis.

Alas, what you get is:

INT. HOSPITAL – DAY

The OLD MAN (60s) lies in his HOSPITAL BED, his eyes open, staring upward.

The Old Man’s SON (30s) pulls up a VISITOR’S CHAIR and sits down. He looks at his father. The father’s eyes don’t shift from the ceiling.

SON

Dad -.

He clears his throat.

SON

Dad. I just wanted to say I -, I forgive you for all the love you witheld from me, all the sports games you never came to, all the opportunities you had to say just one nice thing to me but instead you made fun of me, and belittled me.

The Son blinks, his cheeks wet from tears.

SON

Dad, I -. I love you. You were always okay by me, Dad, and I wish I’d never stayed away as long as I did and I’m so sorry I held all that anger against you. You were doing your best, Dad. And that’s all a son can ever ask of his Dad.

He takes hold of his father’s hand and begins to weep.

What is it that I like so much about the less-is-more approach?

I like ambiguity. It makes me feel like an adult, with a licence to read between the lines.

17 May 2011

Box Watch Update

With winter tapping politely on the windows and sliding leaves under the doors, it’s that time of year when the Fortress Mamea’s viewing statistics increase dramatically.

We’ve a terrible backlog of films and shows, but we’ve begun scraping away at that mountain.

— In Plain Sight Season One is interesting in that it doesn’t really work for either myself or The Goddess but I’m still watching it (alone from ep five onward). Nope, it’s not the blonde lead (hey it’s Whatshername from The West Wing!). I think, for me, there’s comfort in the cop show formula, and the twinkly dialogue between the marshals is sometimes entertaining. I’ll see it through to the end of the season at least.

— Sopranos Season One is a cracker. Someone has very generously lent us all six seasons of this sucker, and it’s great television. But not exactly must-see telly. I suspect the fact that the boxset sat almost forgotten under my desk for three months has given us a certain complacency in getting around to watching it.

— Go Girls Season Two is a hoot. Two years ago, if someone had listed the component parts of this show to me and told me that I would like it, I would’ve broken both their legs and laughed uproariously while doing so and yet… rarely an ep goes by without me chortling happily beside The Goddess. A great New Zild show. I’m looking forward to the third season which finished screening recently.

And that’s just the legit stuff. Speaking of which, I shan’t be listing any more shows which haven’t been officially made available in New Zild. Probably at year’s end as part of the annual round up, but day-in, day-out, as a citizen, It’s Not Really Legal, and as a scriptwriter, It’s Not Right.

9 May 2011

Nom

I was looking for a fancy synonym for pseudonym that was particular to a certain trade – my standbys of nom de plume and nom de guerre unable to accommodate in that instance – when this came up:

Jus’ sharing.

4 May 2011

How We Got Here

The latest abridged script‘s opening made me laugh out loud:

EXT. LOS ANGELES

LOS ANGELES is getting ASS-FUCKED by ALIENS.

VARIOUS MARINES IN HELICOPTERS

(shouting)

OO-RAH! LET’S GO GET THOSE ALIENS!

AUDIENCE

Yay, they’re getting directly into the action! Maybe this will do that good-movie thing of jumping right in and cleverly filling us in on the backstory as we go along.

(pause)

Or it might do that bad-movie thing where...

TITLE CARD: “36 HOURS EARLIER”

AUDIENCE

Fuck.

Once the chuckles abated, I had to search hard to find out what kind of storytelling device this is: a how we got here trope.

I used to think this device/trope was a nicely grabby way of starting off stories until Battlestar: Galactica killed that enjoyment with overuse in its second season.

I inwardly groan whenever I see such a title card now. For me, it’s become an unnecessary obstacle a film or show has to overcome for me to continue watching. Grinning and baring it has been occasionally rewarding – Breaking Bad and Band of Brothers come to mind – but for the most part, deservedly or no, a time-travelling title card provides an excuse to stop watching and move on to the next show.

And how would yours truly do it?

In film, Memento and 21 Grams have shown the way in forcing your audience to work without title cards.

As for TV, I wouldn’t use it in a pilot*. I was going to say it’s been done to death but I’ve gone back three years in my viewing diary and haven’t even been able to make a list of five. I blame BSG for my sensitivity.

And as for Battle Los Angeles, I enjoyed it immensely despite health advisories from Mr Ebert and Mr Slevin. Maybe my low expectations carried me over that title card hurdle.

* And yet… a pilot script of mine starts just like this – though, in my defence, it doesn’t have a title card.

27 April 2011

The Home Office

I ain’t braggin’ or nuttin’ but I’ve got a sweet workspace in a corner of Fortress Mamea: trusty Powerbook, USB hub, ergonomic keyboard, a wee print of Oriental Bay to remind me of my hometoon, multimedia speakers (and headphones for when I’m playing Meth), small but significant things from, or of, my lovely family, wifi, and enough desk space for my growing external hard-drive collection. Work gets done in that little corner.

Not as much as I’d like, but.

Emma Hart says it best about working from home: having thought about providing some helpful advice for fellow earthquake-affected Cantabrians forced to work from home for possibly the first time in their lives —

I got right on [to it], and slightly over a week later, the typing started. There were a few games of solitaire first, of course, and some time spent chair-dancing while I warmed up, and since the top of this page I’ve checked Twitter six times and it’s one in the morning. Which is kind of appropriate [Game of Scramble] because one of the hardest things to deal with when you’re working from home [check comments at The Stroppery] is distractions.

There’s more where that came from.

As for me, once I’ve clicked the Publish button for this post, watched the news, had dinner (The Boy‘s doing macaroni cheese tonight), checked my blogfeeds, watched some appointment telly with The Goddess, checked the newsfeeds, and walked The Dog, I’ll be ready to rumble.

25 April 2011

Fast Five

Have just noticed that the latest Fast and Furious instalment has Dwayne Johnson in it.

Yes, Mr Johnson’s name is right up there with series (ir)regulars Paul Walker and Vin Diesel but I’ve never cared for the latter two in this series.

But Mr Johnson – well, I’ve been a fan since Welcome to the Jungle and Walking Tall. Here, finally, I thought to myself at the time, is the true heir to the Schwarzenegger throne.

The Boy has already seen the film. But I suspect he may not object to having to watch it again. For his old man’s sake.

21 April 2011

Exercise

I’ve always been suspicious of writing exercises, particularly in a group setting. I think it harks back to Sunday school were ~~rote exercises~~ fun activities were foisted upon the pupils in an environment where failure was a lack of faith (leading to an eternity in hell).

But I digress.

Writing exercises in a room with fellow writers, with the facilitator calling out five minute intervals as the clock runs down, and a blank sheet of paper in front of you laughing and cackling and spitting in your face.

Not my idea of fun.

But it serves a purpose: it gets you to write, there and then, and sometimes, just the act is all that matters.

13 April 2011

Beethoven 2008-2011

There’s something I like about this pic of Beethoven: the speed blur, the beady-freaking eye -. I know: her hope that there’s food beside the camera.

Last Sunday, a dog – the same one as last time – breached Fortress Mamea and attacked Beethoven. I’ve tried to write up the circumstances of the discovery a few times now but they kept yanking the post – understandably – into righteous and incandescent Frank Castle revenge fantasies.

So. A dog got another of our chickens. This one I had to put out of her misery. I’m still quite angry at how avoidable it all could have been but what’s done is done.

Beethoven was the oldest of our current squadron and, although not the brightest or most interesting, was a big fan of The Goddess’ garden (it led, at times, to some stern heart-to-hearts between them) and never passed up the offer of crickets and worms found on the property.

She may have been just a chicken.

But she was one of The Goddess’ chickens.

She is missed.

12 April 2011

On Writing: Mike Mignola

For me, making up stories is a little like building furniture, but with twelfth-century tools and only the vaguest idea what I’m trying to build. There’s a lot of grunting and banging, a lot of hammering on square pegs to get them to fit into round holes. It’s fun and I love it, but, usually, it’s a lot of hard work.

— from Mike Mignola‘s afterword to BPRD: The Black Flame.

7 April 2011

Tother

A screenwriter’s journey could be compared to a steeplechase – jumping fences and/or ditches one after another – but what’s sorely missing from the analogy is that the jockey and his mount can see the obstacles beyond their immediate jump, and pace themselves accordingly.

Maybe it’s like… attempting a steeplechase with a miniature horse: each obstacle a sheer, towering wall of green, and it’s only when you’ve scaled that sucker, Mister Snuffles under one arm, you see up ahead another goshdarned wall of green.

My current project has been a long steeplechase.

1. I had my what-if moment.

2. A reality check of the idea was set aside in the spirit of how-hard-can-it-be.

3. Breaking the story has been a humbling experience.

And now as I grind through the script, something happened.

I can see the finish line.