Scriptwriter
A gentle reminder that FIVE is screening at the Academy Cinemas later this week:
Cast and crew shall be in attendance at the premiere on Friday night so if you’re in that part of town at that time, c’mon in, siddown, and enjoy.
So many things to post about. So few braincells to spare. Meantime, I give you these wonderful links to enjoy:
FIVE has industry screenings at the Academy Cinemas on:
Friday 19 October at 10:30pm
Saturday 20 October at 11:00am and 10:30pm
Mark your dance cards accordingly.
After my last spleen-lancing post, I’ve had some imaginary emails and non-existent comments with valid questions like Who the [hell] do you think you are? and Why make do with the length you have?
To answer the first, I get paid to write, thank you. And although the polite and understated New Zealand way of explaining such a position would be to shuffle my shoes and bashfully say that I must be doing something right, the reality is that I’m good at what I do. I’m a professional. I deliver.
So there.
As for the second question, that was actually from some email or comment spam, so no response required.
I may have been a bit harsh with my accusations of lazy storytelling and a fear of audience confusion in my last post. It’s one thing to blame everything on the writer – and very easy: just trawl through a random sample of dissatisfied film reviews – but it’s another to ignore the fact of how fragile a feature film is. Anyone who’s made a film will tell you that everyone involved – every-bloody-one – has a hand in how it turns out. It’s a miracle they get made at all.
But back to the hapless writer and those ever-reliable chestnuts:
– the child/sidekick/damsel who don’t do as they’re told;
– the unnecessary lie; and
– egregiously dumb acts by characters.
I’ll be lazy and hereby categorise them as dumb things. Such dumb things can be avoided by providing a compelling reason so that the dumb thing becomes at least understandable.
Remember how the DAUGHTER got her MOTHER killed? What the hell was the kid doing outside the house? Well, what if…
Once MOTHER left to investigate the noises outside, we spend some time focussing on her DAUGHTER. All alone. So vulnerable.
There’s a LOUD NOISE from the back of the house: it’s the backdoor being busted down by a couple of mobile VENUS HUMANTRAPS! Their tendrils slither across the polished wooden floor, rushing towards the little girl until –
DAUGHTER
(sotto)
The hell with this.
– and she slips out the front door.
The same principle can be applied to the other situations. In the boy-meets-girl situation, what if…
BOY listens to his BEST MATE tell him that –
BEST MATE
– women are stupid. We, as manly men, lie to them to save them face.
Whereupon Boy ignores his friend’s advice and is upfront with GIRL about MEAN BOSS’s request – and the challenge then is to bring about a different yet interesting obstacle to put in the way of Girl and Boy’s embryonic romance.
And finally, what if…
HOT DOG COP and OLD BULL COP admire the form of NAKED WOMAN for a couple of slo-mo seconds as she hoofs it down the street, shrieking all the while.
HOT DOG
What’s she yelling about?
OLD BULL
You weren’t listening either?
HOT DOG
(sheepish)
I was a bit –
OLD BULL
Distracted? Yeah, me too.
HOT DOG
(beat)
I suppose we should call it in.
OLD BULL
(nods)
There was some blood on her.
(off Hot Dog)
Go on. I’ll call for backup while you run her down.
A mental image strikes Hot Dog:
HOT DOG
I... suppose I should.
So:
Knowing why the kid leaves the house won’t save her mother from being beheaded by some plant hybrid but at least no-one’s thinking of throttling the ill-disciplined sprog.
Having a realistic response to patently stupid advice may have generated some work down the line but at least viewers aren’t planning death-threats against the writer.
And replacing blind machismo with some droll humour doesn’t really work here, but at least police-procedural aficionados aren’t up in arms about blatant disregard of common-sensical law enforcement practice.
See? Provide a compelling reason for action – or inaction – and you make that moment yours.
It’s a four-hour flight to Melbourne and, despite the best efforts of the Purser, the in-flight entertainment wasn’t working so I took the opportunity to finish watching an action thriller Roger Ebert had awarded three stars to.
After about ten minutes, The Goddess, responding to my pained expression, asked, “If it’s so bad, why are you still watching it?”
“I think,” I said slowly, “that it’s good for me.”
“Good for you? It’s making you grumpy.”
She had a point. Sure, I won’t get the two hours (two freaking hours!) back but I’ve been soundly reminded of what I don’t like to see in films, and why I intend to never ever use them in my writing.
1. Kids who don’t listen
The following exhibit is a prime example of why I hate kids in films.
EXHIBIT 1-A
INT. HOUSE – NIGHT
MOTHER and DAUGHTER peer vainly through the windows.
DAUGHTER
Mommy, I’m scared.
MOTHER
I’m scared too, honeykins.
She snatches up a CRICKET BAT.
MOTHER (CONT’D)
You stay right here. Mommy’ll be right back.
EXT. HOUSE – NIGHT
The Mother creeps out onto the FRONT PORCH, cricket bat at port arms. A RUSTLE to her right beckons her over to an inconspicuous BUSH. She approaches it, hands gripping and re-gripping her bat. Ten yards. Five yards. Two yards. The bush rustles innocently.
DAUGHTER (O.O.S.)
What is it?
MOTHER
Aaagh!
– and she turns to find her Daughter at her side.
MOTHER (CONT’D)
I thought I told you –
The bush rustles – and transforms into a giant VENUS HUMANTRAP, its bulbous head SNAPPING FORWARD and neatly beheading the Mother. The Daughter is sprayed in arterial blood as her mother’s headless corpse drops beside her.
DAUGHTER
Mommy! ... Mommy?
What’d you freakin’ expect, kid? You were freakin’ asked to stay in the house! Why didn’t you bloody listen?!
2. Stupid plot devices.
I’m all for devices to propel the story. Call me picky, but I’d like those devices to be, oh I dunno, naturalistic… characteristic… even logical.
I think Ebert refers to these as idiot plots – y’know,
– BOY meets GIRL,
– Boy asks Girl out on a first date,
– Boy’s MEAN BOSS asks Boy to entertain a client’s HOT DAUGHTER on the same day of his first date with Girl or lose his job,
– Boy asks his BEST MATE for advice,
– Best Mate says If you’re honest with Girl about why you’re breaking your first date, she. Won’t. Understand,
– Boy tells Girl that he’s got an old college friend in town that he has to entertain…
Puh-lease.
3. Stupid characters
Stupid characters are the human equivalent of idiot plots.
EXHIBIT 3-A
EXT. APARTMENT BLOCK – DAY
In a tired and dented CRUISER, a HOT DOG COP and OLD BULL COP look at the WARRANT they have to serve.
HOT DOG
This is just beneath me, old timer –
His whiney bitch-ass rant is cut short when the cops observe a STARK NAKED WOMAN run screaming from the apartment block.
NAKED WOMAN
(between shrieks)
He’s trying to kill me! Help me!
Hot Dog is out of the cruiser and heading straight for the APARTMENT ENTRANCE when his elder partner’s shouts make him pause:
OLD BULL
Shouldn’t we wait for backup?
The slap of ceramic on reinforced plastic as Hot Dog draws his GLOCK PISTOL:
HOT DOG
This is all the backup I need, old timer.
How will Hot Dog Cop appear in the next scene? Will he be –
A. shot to death by assailant/s unknown;
B. kidnapped then tortured to death at an unspecified location by assailant/s unknown;
C. buried with full honours while his heavily pregnant FRESH-FACED WIFE weeps pathetically; or
D. seduced by SORORITY SISTERS who’ve just sent out a new member (remember shrieking Stark Naked Woman?) on an initiation rite/run.
Hoo-ooo.
I feel better now. The bitter taste of that film has begun to fade, and I’ve unloaded onto you, dear reader, for which I’m always grateful.
I suspect however that the above three items are one and the same. Sorry. They reveal a couple of things though: lazy storytelling and a fear of incomprehension. In my next post, I’ll explain how these wonderful chestnuts can be made to work.
Oooh, a few minutes of exposure to broadband at a hotspot and lookee what I gots for you:
This post-dated post – and possibly the next – is because the Mamea aiga are off to Melbourne for a week (yesss). Play nice now.
Finally saw The Bourne Ultimatum, quite enjoyed it, and I didn’t even notice the camera-work and editing. That’s story-telling.
One exchange in particular struck me: after Bourne (the impressively impassive yet still sympathetic Matt Damon) traverses seemingly half of Tangier by roof to save Nicky Parsons (a vulnerable but believably plucky Julia Stiles) –
BOURNE
Why are you helping me?
NICKY
It was difficult... for me... with you.
(off Bourne)
You... really don’t remember, do you?
BOURNE
... No.
From onlooker in Identity to unwilling participant in Supremacy, and now full-fledged helper in Ultimatum, was Nicky his sweetheart once upon a time? Was there some swooning from afar that’s on the cutting room floor from the preceding two films? What is she on about?
It doesn’t matter.
Yes, of course I’d love to know. Or maybe I’m just exceedingly grateful to have been spared something like this –
NICKY
I’ve loved you. I’ve always loved you. But you were always running around, trying to stay alive. I thought I lost you when you took up with that Kraut floozy but I was down with that. But now that it’s... it’s just you... and me...
Messrs Liman, Gilroy and Greengrass – thank you.
Yep. Here I am again, in another jam of my own boiling. I got all excited, had a blizzard of creative activity… and I’m set fast in a berry-flavoured condiment.
I’ve got three elements compelling me through my current script:
Now, I might think these elements alone are as cool as heck – I’m flashing on scenes to illuminate and entertain, set-pieces are tugging at my sleeve to be written now or be lost forever, I can see the trailer already – but there’s no story here. This rather glaring omission is quite clear in the thirty-odd pages of set-ups and teasers and clues that I’ve excitedly but rashly typed up.
Yes, it may have been fun to get this far but I do want this script to not only be readable, I want it to be a gripping/thrilling/enjoyable read, right? And if I can achieve those things, it gets the script that much closer to being made, right?
So I’ve started outlining the script from scratch. I don’t think I’ve wasted my time and energy on those thirty pages. Some pieces from those thirty pages will fit right into the outline. And there’s dialogue and stuff about the characters that wouldn’t have occurred to me if I’d just started with the dry work of outlining.
It was fun while it lasted but all good things come an end, and that’s okay. It sucks that the story won’t ‘write itself’. But it’s all part of the process for this particular script.
Onward ho.
Whoa. Best Feature – Action/Thriller – way to go, Amit!
I’ve been miserable with lurgy this past week but I’m feeling humanoid again.
‘S not bad.
A couple of years ago, my wonderful Alcatel gave up and stopped working. Old age. And probably one drop too many. Money was short at the time so when I went looking for a replacement, the main criteria were the ability to make and take calls, and low cost. I got me a Motorola VZ170:
I’ve used phones from Nokia, Ericsson and Alcatel, and I’d learned that though the different brands had their idiosyncrasies, they did their main jobs without much fuss. I assumed that the Motorola, a brand I hadn’t used before, would be much the same: a period of adjustment, and then business as usual.
Silly me. Voice calls were straightforward enough but texting was frustratingly slow – each button-push required a half-second wait before anything happened or anything else could be done – and when I wanted to send a message, I’d have to jump through hoops:
ME
(finish txt message)
Send
PHONE
Send Message? Y / N
ME
Y
PHONE
Send Message Now? Y / N
ME
Y Y! Y!! Y!!!
Navigating the menu was much the same – with the added frustration of the ‘Yes/Confirm’ and ‘No/Cancel’ buttons switching sides with no apparent logic to it.
I loathed that phone.
After two hair-yanking years of putting up with it, I eventually snapped that fucker in half (and then jumped on it) (several times) and killed it.
Of course, I immediately needed a new cellphone – and thanks to my decade-plus-long patronage of Vodafone, I scored this for a hundred bucks:
It makes calls – even two-way video calls. It texts – ooh, the button response is so quick! – with an intuitive functionality that harks back to the Alcatel, Nokia and Ericcson cellphones.
But that’s not all. I can take photos and short blocky video clips with it. The original Lalo Schifrin Mission: Impossible theme has been set to ring out in the very rare instance that someone video-calls me. And I’ve finally caught the podcast-listening wave – I may look like I need stereo to make calls on the Z400 – but I’m enjoying working through my backlog from KCRW’s The Treatment and The Business, National Radio and my favourite Vidiots.
So this is why they’re pumping cellphones full of features.
Anyway. The moral of this story?
Don’t buy a Motorola.
(This post was supposed to segue into a rant discussion about appropriate screenwriting tools – does one really need Final Draft to be a screenwriter? – but my PTSD got the better of me. Another time maybe.)
