Author: d f mamea

Posted on

Resuming

You’ve watched all of The Wire – Season Four that you bought with your Borders voucher (chur Ash). There’s no more of The Shield until next week. The toilet’s clean and sparkly. You’ve been for a run, and The Dog, at least, is happy.

Time to write.

This is worse than starting with a blank page – most times I bring up a blank screen, I’ve an idea of what I’m writing. No, this is when you have to pick up from where you last left off – a day, a week, a month, or years ago.

You’ve had some time-out, right? You’re refreshed! You’re raring to go! Bring it on!

Except… the last CUT TO: sneers at you from it’s right-alignment: And then what happens, sparky?

You open a NeoOffice window and your fingers, previously frozen, erupt onto the keyboard:

Okay. Okay. Back to basics. Whose is the dead body in the alley? H. E. Roe.

How did s/he die? S/he did the right thing.

And what was that? S/he stepped up. S/he took a stand. S/he took a chance (and lost – but the point is that s/he backed hirself).

Anything specific? … Nothing comes to mind.

You don’t know, really, do you? … Nope.

…

How’s your Christmas shopping going?

Share
Posted on

Naming Names

In the beginning, I didn’t care much for my character’s names. They just were, know-what-I-mean? Didn’t serial killers just happen to be called Gacy and Bundy? Didn’t Stallone and Schwarzenegger become action film brands? So what if my sister and I were named after our neighbours? (And why do people find this amusing?)

Names are important, though:

A name is like a tightly-wound DNA molecule, capable of conveying information about characterisation, tone, story and theme.
– Elliott & Rossio

I’ve long since run out of first and middle names of friends, family and acquaintances. Unlike John August, no streetnames I can remember or think of lend themselves to being affixed to my puppets characters.

I have to work at it. But maybe I learnt from the best:

INT. LOUNGE, MY PARENTS’ HOUSE – EVENING – SOME TIME AGO

My MOTHER cradles her week-old grandson, DAVID (not his real name), and makes coo-ing noises. My FATHER peers at the packet of swaddling and wrinkles.

FATHER

What’s his name?

ME

(proudly)

David.

My mother wrinkles her nose.

MOTHER

What sort of name is David?

ME

‘S a great name – direct and unambiguous.

My father nods slowly and, after a beat, clears his throat:

FATHER

(to child)

We will call you... Safune.

DAVID/SAFUNE

Gurgle.

MOTHER

(to Father)

He likes that.

ME

(getting a little cross)

What’s wrong with David?

Safune and his grandparents ignore the recently-minted father and leave the room.

Share
Posted on

How Long Does It Take?

After the play’s opening scene was given a group reading, I did a Q&A on the script’s background, why’s and wherefores, and there was one question I didn’t get around to answering (sorry Bronwen): How long did it take to write?

Thirty minutes including a couple of passes at dialogue and characterisation.

Such a glib response, however, is disrespectful to the craft. The actual writing typing may have taken only a half-hour but that doesn’t take into account that:

  –  I’d had the idea since May;
  –  I didn’t start making notes about it until July;
  –  and the mental image of actors lying on the stage before the audience only occurred in September, and kicked around my head for a week before I put finger to keyboard.

I continue to live in hope that my creative process would be something like being struck by a sustained series of creative lightning, long enough to thump out a feature-length script… but the reality is a much more mundane process:

    eureka-moment -> cogitate -> avoid -> make notes -> procrastinate -> write

Sometimes, due to sheer inspiration, utter bullheadedness or an insane deadline, it can all occur within a matter of weeks. Other times… it takes as long as it takes.

Share
Posted on

Openings

The play I’ve been doodling with is slowly coalescing. So far I have notes aplenty about character, background, theme, motivation – you know, all that stuff that gives me warm fuzzles – almost everything. Except a story.

Pshaw! I hear you say. Mere details! I agree, like, totally.

So here I am, a few months on, and all I have is the first scene:

The stage is in DARKNESS. A hint of CITY SOUNDS – cars passing, honking in the distance. A BLAST OF TECHNO MUSIC as –

BOUNCER

(unseen)

I gave you fair warning so – get – OUT!

TWO BODIES crash onto the stage as the TECHNO MUSIC is muted with the SLAM of a FIRE-DOOR CLOSING. BEAT.

DAVE

(unseen)

Ow. Ow. I think he broke my elbow. Ow.

BEN

(unseen)

Good. I hope it hurts.

LIGHTS ON so we see DAVE and BEN lying on the stage, their heads to the audience.

BEN FEPULEA’I is a thickset New Zealand-born Samoan in his twenties, his trendy clothes always a little tight to emphasise his musculature.

DAVE TAN is a slim New Zealand Chinese also in his twenties, conservatively dressed but with little flourishes of ‘personality’.

BEN

(sits up)

This is all your fault.

DAVE

My -?!

(is about to sit up but -)

Ow! Ow. Ow.

BEN

My beer -.

(scrambles to his feet)

My beer!

DAVE

Ben, don’t make a scene –

Ben pounds on the nightclub door.

BEN

I PAID TEN BUCKS FOR THAT BEER!

No response from the nightclub.

BEN

BASTARDS!

He goes to his friend who’s still on the ground.

BEN

This is all your fault!

DAVE

We were just talking!

BEN

The next time we’re talking about the differences between cultures, use me as your prop rather than some random guy, okay?

Dave takes the outstretched hand and is soon beside Ben, brushing himself off.

DAVE

Some people have no sense of humour –

BEN

You dropped to your knees and unzipped some guy’s pants!

DAVE

I was making a cultural point. Anyway, you would’ve made a bad example.

(off Ben)

You’re my best friend.

LIGHTS OUT for a scene change.

This got an airing a month or so ago, largely because a). a gathering of writers needed something to sink their teeth into, and b). I’d left my prep a little last minute.

After the group reading, an uppity actor asked, Of all the different ways you could’ve introduced these two friends, why this way?

I confessed that although I’d written a whole lot around my idea for the play I hadn’t given much thought to the logistics of theatre. Then I had a what-if? moment: what if it started with the actors lying on the stage before the audience? I suppose I worked backwards from that, making up dialogue and movement would answer the burning question of how come they’re lying on the stage, as well as establish their friendship and dynamic.

It’s rough. And clunky. Even though it read okay out loud. And it’s a start.

Share
Posted on

Lunch

Last week, The Goddess and I had lunch with Sean Molloy and Helen Rickerby. It was a great get-together: even though I’d met Sean only one time earlier, the atmosphere was very congenial. A fellow screenwriter and Guild board member, the conviviality was due largely to his being a fellow blogger and Guild forum loiterer. Oh, his taste in comics can’t be faulted; well, except for his Marvel bias. Anyway, we sat around a table and talked and talked and talked, and all of a sudden two hours had just gone.

I’ve tried to post about the very pleasant experience but, despite five false starts, have been unable to satisfactorily tie it in to the business of this blog. I knew what I wanted to say but was unable to execute it in such a way as to be a). appropriate, b). informative, c). entertaining, and d). easy on the reading eye.

Yes, meeting fellow scribes is b). informative and c). entertaining, and the lunchtable conversation was a). blog-appropriate – but you, Gentle Reader, don’t want a transcript of the conversation that accompanied our repast.

You want something to take away from this post, some nugget of wisdom observation, some kind of distinct perspective on an everyday occurrence (having lunch, not meeting fellow scribes).

… Nope. Still don’t have it.

But I got a lot farther with this post than the others.

– No, wait, I have it: if after [PICK A NUMBER] attempts, you lose heart and focus, remember: Every time God closes one door, He opens another.

Here endeth the lesson.

Share
Posted on

Cut to the Chase

(I type this as a DVD plays in a corner of the screen.)

I bring this on myself, really.

EXT. SEMI-RURAL HOUSE – DAY

POLICE SUPERIOR and YOUNG COP approach the house.

POLICE SUPERIOR

Just breathe through your nose.

EXT./INT. SEMI-RURAL HOUSE – DAY

The FRONT DOOR opens to reveal DISGRACED COP.

DISGRACED COP

What the %@$# do you want?

POLICE SUPERIOR opens his mouth but --

-- DISGRACED COP looks on in disbelief as --

-- YOUNG COP urinates against DISGRACED COP’s leg.

Yes, it hurts, a voice whispers in my head. It builds character.

Share
Posted on

The Shield – In Memorandum

Six years I’ve waded faithfully – or is it blindly? – through The Shield‘s rising turpitude, its serpentine storylining brushing unseen against my immersed body, the show’s writing satisfying the need to resolve each ep’s crime-of-the-week while each season’s caper escapade escalating crisis builds towards a season ending that’s as welcome – and inevitable – as dementia. Lately I’ve been flashing on Alan Moore and Neil Gaiman‘s comics runs in the eighties and nineties – each and every ep, I’m led down back-of-my-hand familiar back- and dead-end-alleys, and each time I reach the end, whatever I find is a). not what I expect and b). the most obvious or logical thing in the world.

My TradeMe connections brought me right up to Season 6. The final season (Season 7) is half-way through its run in the States as I type this. And thanks to my leetle frien’, I’m just a few days behind them.

It’s all building towards a James Ellroy ending. And just like in Ellroy’s L.A. Quartet, the following thoughts are uppermost in my mind with this final season:

  • no good turn goes unpunished;
  • the rule of unintended consequences applies supreme;
  • things, no matter the best of intentions, will not – can not – end well.

So often in film and television these days, I recognise the portents and the foreshadowing, and can comfort myself that, even if/when things go bad, I was braced for it. But now, despite six seasons of faithful viewing, and with only seven eps to go, my sleeps in between are fitful with drowning dreams…. I can’t contemplate the show ending. It has to, I know that. I accept it. It’s the how that scares the bejesus out of me.

… Mr Ryan – I’m in. All the way.

Share
Posted on

Point & Click

‘S been a while since I’ve done one of these.

  • I wish I could break down my projects like this:
… The Mentalist is no different from any of its mediocre-to-lousy brethren.  You’ve got Simon Baker as the TROUBLED HERO WITH A TRAGIC PAST, who is BRILLIANT IN A DISTINCTIVE AND UNUSUAL WAY.  He has a flirty, clashing rapport with Robin Tunney, the NO-NONSENCE LAW ENFORCEMENT GAL WHO SECRETLY WANTS TO BONE HIM SENSELESS, YOU CAN TOTALLY TELL.  She works with her TEAM OF MISMATCHED SUBORDINATES, including the BIG LUG (Owain Yeoman), the UNEXPECTEDLY FUNNY GUY (Tim Kang), and the HOT, WIDE-EYED ROOKIE GIRL (Amanda Righetti).  A baffling crime is committed, to and by rich people living someplace sunny and appealingly photographed, and involving a beautiful-yet-mutilated lady-corpse and a TAUNTING SERIAL KILLER ARCHENEMY.  One hour later, after the hero has a few opportunities to DO QUIRKY THINGS, BROOD ABOUT HIS SECRET PAIN, and DEMONSTRATE HIS UNIQUE GIFTS, guns are drawn, people are shouting authoritatively, the hero is smiling, and the case is neatly wrapped up.

For the rest of the article, click on over to Teevee.org.

  •  Over at The Rouge Wave, Julie Gray wrote up a list of writerly traits, amongst them:
    • Many writers, regardless of age, have not seen the classics
    • No new writer is realistic about breaking into the business
    • Action scripts are almost always written by men of any age

    Guilty as charged. Let’s see how you fare. (Fedora-tip: Jill Golick.)

  •  Speak of the devil – Ms Golick recently wondered aloud about a world where you only got nice notes.
  • In these uncertain post-West Wing times, New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd writes how got Aaron Sorkin to script some face-time between Democratic presidential candidate Barack Obama and former president Jed Bartlet might go. (Fedora-tip: Dan Slevin.)
  • And over at What I Write, Sean Molloy provides some pretty detailed insights into one of his script projects (in five parts, with addenda).
Share
Posted on

Mild vs Mild

A while back, Amit made the mistake of posting one of his mouth-watering recipes and, after a sustained campaign of a little arm-twisting and a lot of cajoling, he kindly allowed himself to not only travel all the way across town to have lunch with our family, but make it for us, too.

(Hell, if you’re gonna post your fave recipes, some prey-driven reader’s gonna catch you up, bud. Anyway.)

He arrives with lunch, we half-joke that he can go now, we get stuck in to lunch with noises of anticipation… then appreciation – it’s a damned fine meal we tell Amit, pooh-poohing his modest protestations. And then —

— The Girl excuses herself to get a glass of milk —

— The Goddess excuses Herself to blow Her nose —

— The Boy grovelled to his sister for a glass of milk for him, too, puh-lease —

— and, unable to control my sinuses any more, I whipped out my hanky and blew as discreetly as I could.

A bit hot, is it? our guest chef ventures with a straight face.

The thing was, in consideration of our non-Indian palates, he’d made the meal ‘mild’.

We thought we knew ‘mild’. We have monthly family outings to Asian and Indian restaurants where we order and enjoy meals that ranged from ‘medium’ to ‘hot’. How spicy could our very considerate Indian-born guest’s cooking be?

We learned a few things that day:

  • one person’s mild is another’s medium-hot;
  • Amit has so made himself this family’s curry king;
  • and the local ethnic restaurants have been taking our palates for a ride.

Buried somewhere in this post is a moral about knowing your audience. Or the juggling of thinking you know your audience when your audience has their own idea of what you’re presenting them with.

Thanks to The Goddess, the moral is: pushing your audience means you’re engaging with them. Engage with them and they’ll look forward to your next presentation.

(And Amit lives a whole lot closer now. We look forward to his next recipe posting.)

Share
Posted on

Quis Custodiet

Saw the trailer for the Watchmen film the other day.

It got me pretty excited. I suspect the faithfulness of the visuals to the source material is a big factor, though the voice-overs sounded a bit undercooked.

Although Terry Gilliam, and then Paul Greengrass, had been attached to direct this monstrous adaptation in the last couple of decades, it’s taken Zack Snyder to bring it this far. I haven’t seen Snyder’s Dawn of the Dead; not really my cuppa. I kinda/sorta/maybe was going to see 300 when it first came out but was quite disappointed by the graphic novel I borrowed from my friendly local in preparation for my viewing. Maybe, one very rainy day/week/month, I will might try either/both.

Anyhoo – wait a minute: I’ve got scripts of Watchmen – a 2003 Hayter draft and an undated Tse draft.

INT. CAVE – NIGHT – A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER

Some… measured anticipation has replaced the excitement.

I had, in my post-trailer, pre-blog-post-drafting excitement, already typed –

 

I can’t freaking wait

– but I was a bit hasty. It’s a big ask to condense a complex twelve-issue limited series into a two-hour adventure. (C’mon: it’s got superheroes – whether we like it or not, if it’s going to be a superhero movie, it has to be a kind of adventure.) And now, thanks to Mr Slevin, I can’t get this out of my head:

It’s eight-nine months away. Let’s see how I feel then, eh?

Share