second edition

^C£lPTW£lTlN4
-fwt-ftJe sce.££NA
Scriptwriting for the Screen

‘An excellent resource for students and teachers alike'

In the Picture
'...a valuable addition to every screenwriting bookshelf'
Screentalk
‘this is one of the best guides to help screenwriters think visually that I have ever read'
Creative Screenwriting
‘The inventive exercises in Scriptwriting for the Screen give it the potential for
revitalizing the experience of even experienced scriptwriters. Moritz's book brings a
new perspective to discussions about scriptwriting'
‘Scope’ Online Journal of Film Studies

Scriptwriting for the Screen is an accessible guide to writing for film and television. It details the
first principles of screenwriting and advises on the best way to identify and formulate a story
and develop ideas in order to build a vivid, animated and entertaining script.

Scriptwriting for the Screen introduces the reader to essential skills needed to write effective
drama. This edition has been updated to include new examples and an entirely new chapter on
adaptation. There are examples of scripts from a wide range of films and television dramas such
as Heroes, Brokeback Mountain, Cororuition Street, The English Patient, Shooting The Past,
Spaced, Our Friends in the North and American Beauty.

Scriptwriting for the Screen includes:

• advice on how to visualise action and translate this into energetic writing

• how to dramatise writing, use metaphor and deepen meaning

• tips on how to determine the appropriate level of characterisation for different types of drama

• practical exercises and examples which help develop technique and style
• a section on how to trouble-shoot and sharpen dialogue

• a guide to further reading

Charlie Moritz has worked as a writer for theatre, television and film. Alongside work as a
scriptwriter, storyliner and script editor he has taught screenwriting and scriptwriting to under­
graduates in both the School of Film and T V and the School of Theatre at Manchester Metro­
politan University. He has also taught postgraduate writing students at Sheffield Hallam
University and at the R IT S School of Film and Television in Brussels, and trained young
writers of television drama in Skopje, Macedonia.
T h is p a g e intentionally left b la n k
Scriptwriting for the Screen

Second Edition

Charlie Moritz

1 J Routledge
jj j^ Taylor&Franch Croup
LONDON AND NEW YORK
First published 2001
by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon 0 X 1 4 4RN
Simultaneously published in the U SA and Canada
by Routledge
711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Second edition published 2008
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an infonna business
© 2008 Charlie Moritz
The right of Charlie Moritz to be identified as the Author of this Work has been
asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Typeset in Goudy by Wearset Ltd, Boldon, Tyne and Wear

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in
any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter
invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or
retrieval system, without pennission in writing from the publishers.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Moritz, Charlie, 1952—
Scriptwriting for the screen / Charlie Moritz. - 2nd ed.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Motion picture authorship. I. Title.
PN1996.M66 2008
808.2'3"dc22 2008014189

ISBN 13: 978-0-415-46518-2 (hbk)

ISBN 13: 978-0-415-46517-5 (Pbk)
 Contents

List of illustrations vii

Preface ix

Acknowledgements xi

1 Scripting stories: some first principles 1

2 Ideas into action 29

3 Just picture it: visualising the action 48

4 Character: the ‘Who?’ and the ‘How?’ of characters in action 66

5 Dialogue 89

6 Making scenes, building sequences 107

7 Adaptation 141

8 Metaphor and moment: deepening your drama 159

9 Subtext 181

10 Pulling it all together 198

Bibliography and suggested reading 212

Index 21.3
T h is p a g e intentionally left b la n k
 Illustrations

1.1 24 © Fox-TV 2
1.2 Arenas of conflict 9
2.1 A ‘mind-map’ 30
3.1 Daniel Day-Lewis in My Left Foot © Granada/Miramax/RGA 55
4-1 Chart of character development 71
4-2 A character compass 83
4.3 Masi Oka in Heroes © NBC/Universal TV 86
6.1 Renee Zellweger in Nurse Betty © Abstrakt/Gramercy/IMF/
The Kobal Collection/Birmelin, Bruce 137
7.1 The Birds © Universal/The Kobal Collection 142
7.2 Encounter© Joe Tucker 146
8.1 My Life as a Dog© 1985 AB Svensk Filmindustri 168
8.2 Mina Suvari in American Beauty © Dreamworks/Jinks/Cohen/
The Kobal Collection/Sebastian, Lorey 173
8.3 Jeff Bridges in The Fisher King © Columbia/Tri-Star/RGA 178
9.1 Spaced © Channel 4 Television Corporation 195
10.1 Daniel Craig in Our Friends in the North © BBC 199
T h is p a g e intentionally left b la n k
 Preface

T h is book is about how to start out telling stories for the screen, and then
how you can set about com plicating and enriching your scripts. It is also
about finding and keeping your own voice w hile you build and put together
all those moments, scenes and sequences in a viv id , anim ated and entertain­
ing way.

O ve r the last fifteen years, I ’ve worked w ith lots of people just starting out
w ith their screenwriting. M an y o f them have had little or no experience of
creative w riting in any shape or form, and some have felt frightened o f chanc­
ing their arm at all, feeling sure screenwriting was som ething beyond them. It
is both the progress some have made and more im portantly perhaps, the
obvious enthusiasm m any have gained for the a ctivity, w hich has persuaded
me that some of the principles and ideas I work w ith could be of wider
interest.

W h a t I ’m setting out here is a graduated, practical guide for beginners. T h is is

not a m anual a ll about w riting a feature film or a short film , scriptw riting for a
popular series or penning a one-off television drama. You w ill find examples
drawn from all these forms and com m ent passed on aspects o f their differ­
ences, as w ell as their sim ilarities. A long the way I ’ll indicate other books
w hich focus on different specialised aspects o f screenwriting and w hich o b vi­
ously go into more detail. T h is book offers you some strategies towards drama­
tising for the screen, applying them right across the board. It approaches the
huge field of screenwriting like a geologist taking a core-sample: looked at
carefully, that sample should reveal useful inform ation about the deeper
terrain, and suggest the relationship to the bigger landscape.

M any books on screenwriting seem to gloss over or take for granted the
im portant little m atter o f being able to w rite drama at all, let alone put it
onto the screen. In this book I try to pay special attention to that essential
x Preface

skill, supporting your journey w ith examples, exercises and suggestions for
useful further reading. Books alone w ill not develop your imagination, skills
or awareness. I cannot overstate the importance of trusting instinct and
passion, and of finding good teachers, courses or writing-groups. W ritin g itself
has to be a solitary and dedicated activity. Partly because of this I think there
can be great value in joining or forming a group of like-minded enthusiasts to
share your development as a scriptwriter. Although most of the exercises
included in the book w ill be useful to you if you do choose to go it alone,
many are designed with collaboration in mind.

There is nothing accidental about a good script. N or can that first tingle of
recognition, the feeling that a character, a moment, an event has the
makings of a good drama ever be translated onto the page effectively, without
a lot of application, craftsmanship, and critical awareness. Every outing with
the pen or cursor presents a new learning curve, and if drama is to come off
the page w ith conviction and energy, there can be no short cuts.

Nobody gets there straightaway, but stick with the challenge and you could
be well rewarded. W ritin g scripts can be tremendous fun and also hugely ful­
filling. I hope Scriptwriting for the Screen reflects that spirit and proves to be a
trusty companion on your journey.
 Acknowledgements

My thanks are due to Trea Smallacombe and Granada T V for permission to

include the excerpts from the Coronation Street script and storyline; to Peter
Flannery for kind permission to include the unpublished excerpt from Our
Friends in the North; to past students Ian Mayor, Joanna Smith and Joe Tucker
for letting me include examples drawn from their work; to Omar and Adam
Sattaur for their help with the graphics.

Pm grateful to Wout Thielemans of the R IT S for inviting me to teach in

Brussels, for many valuable conversations on the subject of screenwriting and
for continued advice with this book. Thanks also to Christopher Cudmore at
Routledge for initially sponsoring and gently guiding the project and to
Aileen Storry for her enthusiastic support and sensitive advice with this
second edition. I also want to acknowledge the late Geoffrey Sykes, Director
of the Manchester Youth Theatre, who did so much to inspire a passion for
drama and to encourage my writing when I was starting out.
Heartfelt thanks to Sue Hampton for her care and support, and to my good
friend and mentor Andy Logan, for unflagging encouragement to do my
thing.
And finally to students past and present at Manchester Metropolitan Univer­
sity, the V O SS post-graduate scriptwriting course in Belgium, and elsewhere,
my sincerest thanks for the privilege of teaching you, and along the way
learning a lot.
xii Acknowledgements

Extracts from the following books are used throughout the book.
Story by Robert McKee, Methuen 1999. Adventures in The Screen Trade by
William Goldman, Warner Books 1983. The Fisher King by Richard LaGrave-
nese, Applause Books 1991. The Art of Dramatic Writing by Lajos Egri, Touch­
stone Books 1960. Writing The Character-Centred Screenplay by Andrew
Horton, University of California Press 2000. On Directing Film by David
Mamet, Penguin 1992. Some Mother's Son by Terry George and Jim Sheridan,
Grove Press 1996. My Left Foot by Shane Connaughton and Jim Sheridan,
Faber 1989. Shallow Grave by John Hodge, Faber 1996. Collected Works of
Paddy Chayefsky - The Screenplays, Applause Books 1981. The Poetics by Aris­
totle, translated by Malcolm Heath, Penguin 1996. American Beauty by Alan
Ball, FilmFour Books 2000. The English Patient by Anthony Minghella from
the novel by Michael Ondaatje, Methuen 1997. Casablanca: Script and Legend
by Howard Koch, Overlook Press 1992. Our Friends in the North, re produced
by permission of The Agency (London) Ltd © Peter Flannery 1994- Broke-
hack Mountain, Story to Screenplay by Annie Proulx, Larry McMurtry and
Diana Ossana, Harper Perennial 2006. Nurse Betty by John C. Richards and
James Flamberg, Newmarket Press 2000. The Birds and Other Stories by
Daphne du Maurier, Virago 2007. Truly, Madly, Deeply by Anthony
Minghella, Heinemann 1991. Encounter © Roy Jacobsen 1989. English trans­
lation by Frankie Shackleford. Reprinted with kind permission from Roy
Jacobsen and Cappelen Damm Agency. Screenplay of Encounter by Joe
Tucker, based on the short story Encounter © Roy Jacobsen 1989. Screenplay
reprinted with kind permission from Joe Tucker, Roy Jacobsen and Cappelen
Damm Agency.
 1
Scripting stories:
some first principles

W ritin g can feel like a very risky business, and any newcom er to the craft
of scripting for the screen takes on numerous challenges sim ultaneously:
there’s turning ideas into stories, creating moments and scenes, building
those into sequences or acts, anim ating characters and m aking them
behave engagingly and convincing ly. It is a ll too easy to be discouraged by
the various tasks facing you: it can also be rather tem pting to ignore paying
these tasks the close attention they do indeed deserve, choosing to believe
that the thing about w riting is it’s all a gift anyway, and w hat’s more
you’ve defin itely got it. T h a t way, when you do manage to get something
w hich looks like a script down on paper, w ith action w hich moves and
characters who speak, you can convince yourself there’s really nothing to
th is business of juggling pictures, sound, characters, action and dialogue
w hilst incorporating them into structured scenes and sequences w hich w ill
hold them selves together and also hold an audience! Perhaps you are one
of the very few for whom this is true. For most o f us, it can be helpful to
sim plify the process, juggle w ith fewer elem ents to begin w ith, and in so
doing really notice what it is we are attem pting to do.

M ain ly, and most often, what we’re attem pting to do in scripting drama for
the screen is to formulate stories. Through this ancient art we tell tales w hich
w ill involve our audience, evoking their thoughts and feelings w hile they get
in touch w ith our thoughts and feelings as expressed through the drama. It’s a
universal tradition, and hum anity’s way of trying to make sense and meaning
out of our experience of being, and of then sharing w ith each other both
those outer adventures and the innermost journeyings they provoke.

G ETT IN G H O L D O F Y O U R S T O R Y
H ere’s a very broad working definition of what is generally meant by story in
classical narrative:
2 Scripting stories

For a story to occur, something extraordinary must happen to so upset the

balance of a chosen character's life that he is then impelled to pursue a goal
generated by the change in his life. In doing so, he will face obstacles and
antagonistic forces until he does or does not get what he wants, reaches a
point of change from which there will be no going back, and in this way a
new order is established.
W hen Aristotle discussed ancient theatre in his Poetics he observed and set
down certain principles and conventions which later came to be known as
the Rule of the Three U nities - these being time, place and action. It was
thought ideal that the events in a play should unfold in one setting only, over
a period of 12 or 24 hours, and should concern themselves w ith just one plot;
hardly your average James Bond movie. Although that said of course the
Am erican television drama 24 is predicated almost exactly on the classical
unity of time, each episode contrived to give the convincing appearance of
running in real time, and each season’s programmes intended to span just
twenty-four hours in Counter Terrorist U n it operative Jack Bauer’s life. This
illusion is further supported by the split-screen transitions and the regular
appearance of a digital clock on screen counting down the time. And 24’s
intricately plotted stories, in which Bauer and L A C T U consistently fight to
protect the nation’s safety, for the first six seasons also adhered fairly closely
to the classical unity of place, being for the most part based in Los Angeles
and nearby locations w ith only occasional forays to Washington D C. O f
 Scripting stories 3

course there is a paradoxical quality to the idea of twenty-four hours of, as it

were, real-time action being screened over several months, and certainly with
its pacey, mobile, action packed content 24 is in many ways far removed from
classical Greek or Roman drama. It’s difficult to think of many screen dramas
which adhere to these ancient story-telling principles, though where they
most closely do so, they are often derived from stage plays, such as Twelve
Angry Men {Reginald Rose) or Sleuth (Anthony Shaffer), and, as films they
can prove to be remarkably absorbing and powerful.

The fundamental principles of classical story-telling have abiding relevance,

and form an invaluable core-model for new writers to familiarise themselves
with and work around. It can be very useful to take the idea of U nity of
Action on board and just try writing a single-strand narrative around a single
central character to start off with, whilst allowing yourself the luxury of
taking leaps in time, and space: we are all so familiar with screen dramas
leaping forward and changing location that it can feel very constraining not
to do the same. (That said, with a little ingenuity, it is perfectly possible to
work out a story which does adhere to all those Classic Unities and the
discipline of doing so can help you produce remarkable results.) Once you’re
very comfortable designing stories along the most straightforward of classical
lines, it becomes much easier for those who want to deviate from that model
with confidence. Naturally this is a generalisation and, of course, there are
those who w ill want to manage more complex, unconventional narrative
structures from very early on. M y experience of working with a lot of people
who are just beginning to learn about screenwriting has taught me that it is a
tiny minority who actively resist the classic model and that, for those who do
stick with it in their early practice, the benefits are significant.

It can be worthwhile remembering that the word ‘drama’ comes from the
Ancient Greek verb meaning ‘to do’, and it is worth holding this in mind
when you start out dreaming up and shaping stories for the screen. W riting
a drama w ill, of course, spring from playing with ideas, but when we form
those into a script we are not going to write the idea of the story or even
write about the idea: our aim, instead, is for actors to convey what lies at
the heart of the matter through what their characters do and say. It is that
actual ‘doing’ of the drama we must aim to write. First and foremost, think
in terms of a story unfolding as inter-connected action, one part causing
another to occur, and so on, until the hero’s struggle reaches its natural
conclusion. To begin with, forget about making characters speak and think
about letting them act.

A good way to start out can be to try writing a few short, self-contained
screenplays, say 10 to 15 minutes in duration, and to write them in the
4 Scripting stories

classical mould. H ere’s an exam ple, a short anim ation script I wrote which
pulls together and illustrates som e o f the m ain working priiiciples outlined
above.

TWO SHARP

FADE IN

INT. CLAYTON'S BEDSITTER. SIX A.M.

It's dark. CLAYTON dozes blissfully as the alarm goes off. He reaches out an arm and
pats the bell off. He tosses and turns. Tetchily THE CLOCK reaches up and sets its bell
ringing again. CLAYTON starts up glaring, then tries to swipe at THE CLOCK which
dodges the blow. CLAYTON swings again and connects, sending it skidding across the
chest of drawers before sticking his head under the pillow. THE CLOCK collects itself,
strides over and, grabbing CLAYTON by the collar, pulls him up nose-to-clock-face.
Pointing towards CLAYTON'S drawing board, it rings extra loud.

A deeply reluctant CLAYTON staggers across to his unfinished cartoon strip.

INT. BATHROOM. 6.05 A.M.

Troubled, CLAYTON showers. We see the as-yet empty cartoon frames which fill his
thoughts.

INT. CLAYTON'S BEDSITTER. 9.30 A.M.

CLAYTON paces broodily, still haunted by the empty frames.

He breaks off to plunge the coffee in his cafetiere.

INT. CLAYTON'S FANTASY. CONTINUOUS.

CLAYTON plunges a detonator attached to some wires.

INT. EDITOR'S OFFICE. CONTINUOUS.

The wires link to dynamite under the editor's chair. It explodes.

INT. CLAYTON'S BEDSITTER. CONTINUOUS.

A happy smile fades from CLAYTON'S face as he catches THE CLOCK'S pitying smirk.
Turning back to his work, CLAYTON purposefully picks up his dog-eared pencil (its top
surmounted by a rubber modelette of him holding the same pencil). CLAYTON perks up.
Inspiration has struck. CLAYTON kisses the pencil-top effigy. As the pencil makes contact
with the paper there is a loud ping and the pencil-point breaks off. CLAYTON searches
the desk-top, to no avail, then opens drawers, rooting first through one, then another, as
his irritation mounts.

INT. CLAYTON'S BEDSITTER. A LITTLE LATER.

Surfaces are piled with mess. Drawers have been pulled out and CLAYTON tosses aside
unwanted pens, paper and so on in his unsuccessful quest.

INT. CLAYTON'S BEDSITTER. A LITTLE LATER.

 Scripting stories 5

The whole room has been turned over. Breathless, CLAYTON sits amidst the chaos
clutching his pencil.

THE CLOCK coughs discreetly, tetchily tapping an imaginary wrist watch. CLAYTON
wings something at THE CLOCK who neatly side-steps.

INT. KITCHEN. A LITTLE LATER.

CLAYTON tries to sharpen the pencil with a pair of scissors, to no avail. Switching to a
kitchen knife, he manages a point.

Triumphantly he holds his pencil aloft and makes for the drawing board.

INT. BEDSITTER. CONTINUOUS.

CLAYTON marches across to the table, lowers the pencil to work and the point drops
out. CLAYTON re-inserts the point. It falls out again.

INT. KITCHEN. A LITTLE LATER

CLAYTON attempts to sharpen the pencil using a cheese-grater. He is taken aback when,
in the wink of an eye, his pencil is appreciably shorter... and still blunt.

INT. BEDSITTER. A LITTLE LATER.

Perspiring freely, CLAYTON furiously rubs at the pencil point with sand-paper. A big pile
of saw-dust, and no point to the pencil. CLAYTON peers sadly down the business-end
and shakes his head.

THE CLOCK impatiently drums its fingers. The phone rings. THE CLOCK picks up the
receiver and proffers it to CLAYTON who mutters angrily under his breath before putting
on an over-sweet smile and taking the call. We hear the muffled rise and fall of an
impatient EDITOR, mixed with indistinct yet soothing monosyllables through CLAYTON's
gritted teeth. CLAYTON replaces the receiver and taps impatient fingers as he stares,
blank with anxiety.

THE CLOCK rolls its eyes in disbelief. CLAYTON's eyes light on the Yellow Pages.
A flurry of page turning and hunting down columns, then undisguised relief as he picks
up the receiver.

EXT. PARADE OF SHOPS. DAY.

CLAYTON searches for and eventually finds the stationery shop.

The moment he does so the 'Open' sign is switched to read 'Closed'. CLAYTON makes
overtures to the shopkeeper; a gentle tapping, rapidly escalating via door handle shaking
to banging and kicking.

EXT. ANOTHER SHOP. MINUTES LATER.

CLAYTON rattles at another door, maybe a newsagents. Same story. In great distress
and near to exhaustion he slumps down in the doorway grasping his pointless pencil.

A PASSER-BY stops and looks. Plaintively CLAYTON indicates his plight. The PASSER-BY
6 Scripting stories

points to a clock. It reads 1.05 p.m. CLAYTON is close to tears. The Good Samaritan
helps him to his feet and leads him by the arm.

EXT. STREET. MINUTES LATER.

CLAYTON and the GOOD SAMARITAN step off a bus and enter the front of a tall
apartment building.

INT. BUILDING. CONTINUOUS.

They climb many flights of stairs. CLAYTON shows the strain but every time the stranger
looks round he puts on a smile. Reaching the top, the SAMARITAN fumbles for the key.
CLAYTON recovers.

They enter.

INT. GOOD SAMARITAN'S LOUNGE. MINUTES LATER.

CLAYTON sits impatiently fretting about time. The SAMARITAN appears brandishing the
kettle enquiringly. A simpering CLAYTON holds up his pencil. The SAMARITAN takes it
off CLAYTON. He crosses to a super sharpener attached to a desk. A few turns and the
point is restored. An ecstatic CLAYTON kisses the bewildered SAMARITAN and rushes

INT. CLAYTON'S BEDSITTER. 1.35 P.M.

Breathless, CLAYTON skids to a halt by his drawing.
THE CLOCK points at its face and shakes its head with a wry smile.

CLAYTON takes a deep breath, flourishes his pencil, sweeps it grandly up to table-top
level and catches the edge of the table with the point. It pings off and bounces across the
floor. THE CLOCK is amused, CLAYTON is grief-stricken.

The phone rings. THE CLOCK picks it up. CLAYTON is galvanised. He does frantic
Tm-not-here' dumb-play at THE CLOCK. CLAYTON rushes for the door. He
double-takes, rushes back for the drawing and tucks it under his arm. He dithers and
picks up the pencil, before hurtling out.

INT. LANDING OUTSIDE SAMARITAN'S FLAT. MINUTES LATER.

CLAYTON knocks. No answer. Desperate he looks around, grabs his chance and breaks
in using his credit card.
He sharpens the pencil, scribbles a 'thank you’ note and leaves a fiver before tucking the
pencil, point uppermost in his breast pocket.
Rushes out straight into burly POLICEMAN. His pencil point pings off once more as he is
cuffed and led off, protesting, while busy-body NEIGHBOURS nosily speculate.
INT. INTERVIEW ROOM. POLICE STATION. 1.53 P.M.
Forlorn and solitary, CLAYTON sits awaiting his fate. Several OFFICERS enter. One sits
opposite and slaps CLAYTON'S credit card on the table. CLAYTON unfurls his unfinished
art-work, holds up his broken pencil and breaks down sobbing. Unimpressed, the
OFFICER brandishes a biro and starts to fill out a charge sheet. CLAYTON spies a
newspaper in a jacket pocket, grabs it and turns to the cartoons. He finds his own strip
and points to the name. Much sceptical laughter. By way of a challenge, CLAYTON's
pencil is whisked away and returned to him with a gleaming point. Like lightning he
 Scripting stories 7

dashes off a finished frame. A quick comparison with the paper and the terrible truth
dawns on Plod and Co.
EXT. STREET. MOMENTS LATER.
A police van speeds along, lights flashing, sirens wailing.
INT. POLICE VAN. CONTINUOUS.
CLAYTON finally gets to finish his cartoon strip. As the POLICE ESCORT admire the
finished product, CLAYTON stows the pencil, point uppermost in his breast-pocket. He
thinks again, removes it and smugly re-positions it point downwards.
INT. CARTOON EDITOR'S OFFICE. MOMENTS LATER.
The CARTOON EDITOR, in mid-tantrum, breaks off and rushes to the window with his
YES MEN at the sound of police sirens and screeching brakes. The sound of feet rushing
upstairs.
The door is flung open. Exhausted but triumphant, CLAYTON stands on the threshold, as
the town hall clock strikes two. Tantrums turn to oily delight. The CARTOON EDITOR
whips the cartoon off CLAYTON, and clasps CLAYTON to his bosom. CLAYTON reels
dizzily, it seems.
The CARTOON EDITOR takes the cartoon over to the light. He laughs. His YES MEN
laugh. He laughs more strongly. They laugh more strongly. Sticking a cigar in
CLAYTON's mouth, the CARTOON EDITOR and his happy entourage sweep him back
out with them.
INT. CORRIDOR. CONTINUOUS.
Leaving him there they move on to show the cartoon to the editor-in-chief. Swaying
slightly, CLAYTON stands alone. A gale of laughter is heard in the distance topped off by
the sound of popping champagne corks, the sound more muted as a door slams. All the
while we stay with CLAYTON. It costs him everything to raise his hand and peel back his
jacket. He is in time to see the pencil sticking into his heart. CLAYTON shakes his head in
silent disbelief and dies.
FADE OUT.

Exercise
Before you do anything else, take a piece of paper and write down in single words or
short phrases whatever comes into your head. Don't hesitate; don't censor your reactions
(though do feel free to stop short of gratuitous abuse!). Part of the object of this exercise
is to get past that internal critic who so many of us have, offering us unwanted advice
which can so badly hobble the natural flow of what we want to write. Spend, say, ten
minutes assembling a whole range of words and phrases which sum up what you notice
about the piece - both its content and its form, as well as feelings or perceptions it may
have evoked in you. When you've done that, take a look at what you've got; perhaps
share this exercise with some others and see what you've all come up with. Please do
this now.
8 Scripting stories

SETTINGS AND C O NFLIC T

The setting for any story, the arenas in which it can unfold, may be usefully
seen as a set of concentric circles spreading out from the mind (or even the
soul) of the protagonist, and reaching out into the cosmos.

C onflict is the life-blood of all drama, and though screen dramas can be pre­
dom inantly about inner conflicts (say, the battle against an addiction or
illness) or outer conflicts (perhaps, most obviously, wars) handled well, it is a
story’s potential for conflicts on many levels (inner and outer) which can be
most satisfying and effective to explore.

Starting w ith his own indolence, the antagonistic forces bearing down on
Clayton soon mount up. There is his creative block; he hasn’t got an idea in
his head. Then, as soon as he does get one, the point of his lucky pencil
breaks, which brings him into conflict with another inner-demon - supersti­
tion. A fter that, he is challenged by the absence of a pencil-sharpener: he
tussles w ith his immediate environment trying first to find and then to impro­
vise a sharpener. Tim e is, of course, an ever-present enemy, in the shape of a
looming deadline and as embodied in the clock. Added to which, his editor
waits w ith mounting impatience and then anger. Desperate, Clayton breaks
the law, and throughout is dogged by the bad luck of depending on a lucky
pencil which keeps breaking. And, beyond all this, there are also his count­
less unseen readers, ‘the world’, waiting to be satisfied.

In telling an engaging story, it’s very important to escalate and intensify the
action, to raise the stakes, to place the hero in danger and - in his bid to
triumph against the odds - to take your hero to his lim it.

So, for example, in the film Patriot Games (W . Peter Iliff and Donald Stewart
from the novel by Tom C lan cy) Jack Ryan is taken on a journey which starts
with a chance and instinctive moment of heroism. A n innocent bystander,
his training as an intelligence operative enables him to foil an assassination
attempt; in doing this, he kills one of the terrorists and consequently invites a
vendetta from the dead man’s brother, another of the terrorists, Sean M iller.
Ryan’s intervention starts a chain of events which leads him first to tussle
w ith his own resolve to stay away from his old life, the C IA , and once his
family is threatened finds him drawn into the vortex. After many ups and
downs, and just when order appears to have been restored, the story offers an
unexpected surprise, pulling him from the bosom of his fam ily into a place of
extreme danger. The postponed, private ceremony to mark an award for
saving the minister’s life held at Ryan’s home is infiltrated by a traitor. Ryan’s
family is attacked and the house plunged into darkness. During the game of
cat and mouse, whilst the attackers search for Ryan, he uncovers the traitor
 Scripting stories 9

and kills him . T he clim ax of the film is a power boat chase across Chesapeake
Bay, in a storm. As R yan’s boat catches fire, he is forced to fight hand-to
hand w ith a crazed M ille r whom he overcomes and impales on the anchor
lying on deck, moments before he is forced to dive off the boat w hich then
crashes into rocks and explodes. Good beats evil, order is restored and Ryan is
free to lead his new life, w hich w ill include the birth o f his new child. So
from a struggle w ith his conscience at the beginiiing of the film (intra-
personal), the story takes him into indirect and then direct conflict w ith the
enemy (inter-personal) and, at its clim ax, introduces the universally elem en­
tal - air and water (a raging storm at sea), fire (on deck, culm inating in an
explosion) and earth (the rocks his boat finally founders on). U ltim ately, we
see him face-to-face w ith his arch-enemy, whom he finally vanquishes and
who is then blown to smithereens. O ur hero has been taken to his lim it in
extreme danger and triumphed to get what he truly wants, against a back­
ground in w hich right has triumphed over might (transpersonal). He and we
are satisfied.

In Two Sharp, C layton, a two-dimensional character (albeit w ith some three-

dim ensional anxieties) is at the centre of an altogether more light-hearted
escapade; but one w hich nonetheless still fulfils some of these over-riding
principles. T he action does escalate, the protagonist’s dilemma is intensified
(tim e marches on, the law gets broken, the cartoon is still not drawn), the
hero is placed in danger (o f prosecution, of dismissal) and a surprise reversal

TRANSPERSONAL

UNIVERSAL FORCES
Figure 1.2 Arenas of Conflict
10 Scripting stories

occurs; just when Clayton has succeeded he dies. The very editor he has
worked so hard to satisfy, carelessly and unwittingly kills him. Just when our
hero gets what he wants, he does not. C layton’s comically-obsessive quest
could certainly have been even more ridiculously intensified, and in any
comedy what transpires must always be ‘too much’. However, the guiding
principle should be to know when you have at least done enough. In Patriot
Games, that need is clearly satisfied.

S O M E M O R E A B O U T STORY
You may think there are many kinds of story, and you may also be feeling a
need to identify them all accurately before you can try your hand at writing
one successfully. In Hamlet, with the touring players about to perform at Elsi­
nore, Polonius shows off his extensive grasp of the full range of dramatic
possibilities, reminding us plays may be:

tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral,

tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral; scene indivisible, or
poem unlimited.
Hamlet, William Shakespeare, Act II, Scene ii, lines 395-8

Shakespeare clearly had his tongue firmly in his cheek when he gave the
pompous, interfering courtier this exhaustive survey of genres to run through.
The reason I am quoting it here is because with new (and not so new) writers
I think there can be a real risk of ‘Polonius syndrome’ setting in. It can be
much more profitable, primarily, to concentrate on satisfying the require-
ments of simple story telling, than to be worrying over the stylistic demands
of one televisual or cinem atic genre or sub-genre. In the longer run, it w ill be
very valuable to make a conscious study of the elements used in forming dif­
ferent varieties of stories: at the start of your writing adventures, however, I
think it’s a good idea not to suffer what can be the fatal distraction of so con­
centrating on emulating the form of a particular story mould or genre, that
you miss your own essential creativity or lose sight of the need to acquire fun­
damental craft skills. That said, for those who are keen to learn more in
advance of setting off, there is a comprehensive list of the essential range of
archetypal stories to be told in lots of screenwriting books. The Art and
Science of Screenwriting (P h ilip Parker) covers this ground in some detail, and
there is an even more exhaustive list of cinem atic genre and sub-genre in
Robert M cKee’s Story.

However, as a newish writer you can easily be too concerned w ith trying to
find and fit into accepted programme or project ‘shapes’ and attempting to
 Scripting stories 11

im itate successful models. T h is potential fascination w ith the outer and,

indeed, the concentrated effort required to knock the corners off w hat you
may have come up w ith so it w ill fit into a popularly recognisable ‘story
room’, can be a damaging distraction: it may also prove quite stifling to the
beginner trying to listen to the inner and discover his ow n voice. W h e n we
dream, we don’t consciously decide w hat form the dream is going to take:
story telling, in essence, is the process o f day-dreaming w ith conscious intent.
It is a m ixture of the two, and I think it can be a great loss to let the dream
elem ent be damagingly subordinated to the business of conscious shaping. So,
w hilst rem aining intent on telling a straightforward story and getting on w ith
doing that, also give yourself totally free space to operate in at the beginning.
A long the way, as much as seems valuable and not too inhibiting, do also pay
some attention to forms and conventions. It can be valuable to see w hich
sorts of story and w hich modes o f story telling you have a leaning towards.

I recommend reading the section in Robert M cK e e ’s book Story (M cK ee

1999: 55—7) in w hich he advances his model, the story triangle. It is an in ter­
esting and useful overview of the arena in w hich we choose to form our
screen dramas, and illustrates some helpful observations on the variety of
story forms we em ploy, ranging from the most conventional classic narrative,
via m ulti-plotted films, through to avant-garde and anti-plot. W h a t he sug­
gests is that, as story tellers, we a ll have a ‘natural address’ somewhere on that
map. I think th at’s true, and that to a large degree it’s im portant to let your
story te ll you, as it were; especially w hen you’re first starting out to w rite and
w ant to discover a voice. Som e writers, when they set out, can be so preoccu­
pied w ith trying to im itate the saleable and the popular, perhaps trying to ape
a blockbusting form ula, that they choke off their ow n voice. Even more dam­
agingly, in pursuit o f ‘trying to be them selves’ (m eaning, not like anyone else)
others may so cu ltivate the obscure and the arcane in their w riting that they
get in their ow n way, and miss being their true story telling selves. D on’t try
and dress your w riting up in clothes it would not choose to wear. W h a t form
and style your story wants to take w ill emerge along the way if you let your
w riting come from your im m ediate and true story telling self. M cK ee p in­
points the danger o f ignoring this:

The danger is that for reasons ideological rather than personal you may feel
compelled to leave home and work in a distant corner, trapping yourself
into designing stories you don't in your heart believe.
(1999: 58-9)

I agree. A w riter who w rites from his head but not from his heart is only
h a lf a w riter. If you w ant to give your w riting presence and im pact, then
w rite it w ith energy, sim plicity and truth; that way you’ll give your w riting
12 Scripting stories

inextinguishable life. A n d if you think this is w him sical nonsense, that

w riting is no more than words on a page and its ‘life’ just a figure of speech,
then think again: we w rite those words on a page, and we are alive.

THE D R IVE TO BE O R I G IN A L

If they are not consciously forging or smashing moulds, copying voices, or dis­
guising their own, then another way that out-of-touch writers can ham-string
themselves is by being intent on producing material w hich is com pletely ori­
ginal. T o such individuals, their disappointment can feel boundless; this idea
seems a bit cliched, that idea a bit too low-key. N othing seems to h it the
mark, and they set about the writing of those ideas, if they get round to
setting about them at all, w ith little active enthusiasm or commitment. This
dispassionate, judgemental stance, an arm’s length approach to the creative
process, simply messes around w ith ideas without ever getting fired-up and,
above all, involved. It is necessary to clim b inside your story and start being
in its moments, rather than subjecting the whole to a cold appraisal. O f
course you’re bound to look at what you’re w riting from the outside as w ell,
but not before you’ve started living it and finding out the way it wants to take
you. O nce you have done that, you’re unlikely to feel so detached and, if
there is still disappointment, that may be par for the course; what if your story
does seem a bit like an old one? If its essential life is intact, it can be nothing
else. W h at can be new w ill be the blend of story elements you have chosen
and the proportions in w hich you chose to mix them, the characters you pop­
ulated the story w ith, the particular setting you give it, and the voice you tell
it w ith. Pay proper attention to tangling w ith these aspects and you cannot
help but give it the fresh stamp of your individual, creative expression. A n
interesting example of what I mean is the film Shallow Grave (Jo h n Hodge):
compare the modern day story of three young friends falling out, fighting, and
in the end two of them k illing each other w hilst betraying the third, all over
money w hich drops into their laps through the death of a dodgy lodger, w ith
the essentially identical core story in Chaucer’s ‘Pardoner’s T a le ’ from The
Canterbury Tales w ritten way back in the fourteenth century. Both stories are
based on the scriptural pretext cited in Chaucer: ‘radix malorum est cupiditas’
(desire for money is the root of all e vil). T w o stories, 600 years apart, powered
by an identical premise, and enshrining the same core story. The Fisher King
(R ichard LaGravenese) consciously plays w ith the myth of the H oly G ra il,
both making explicit reference to it through Perry’s retelling of it to Jack in
the park, and also constructing a modern day counterpart adventure w hich
echoes the essential elements of the legend. N oticing such comparisons and
sim ilarities can be very helpful as you go on to develop your story-making
 Scripting stories 13

skills: to begin with, as I’ve already suggested, don’t be distracted by con­

sciously trying to study outer story form too closely. A t the same time, don’t
fret about achieving originality.

W H A T MAKES A STORY?
W hat I ’d like to suggest is that, no matter what the type of story and the
particular constraints of its style or form, essentially writing drama for the
screen rests on some universal and clearly recognisable principles which do
need mastering. And it’s in this context that the broad and simple definition
of story offered above w ill hopefully form a useful starting point for you to
refer back to and use as a basic reference and reminder of the vital ingredients
you w ill need to include and manage.

After you read Two Sharp, I urged you to make a list. I’m sure it w ill have
covered a range of reactions, and observations; amongst these you are bound
to have touched on aspects of story telling common to much if not all screen
dramatisation in general, as well as some aspects and features quite specific to
this story in particular. W hat follows is a glossary and brief discussion of the
essential ingredients needed for the spinning of any tale, and some discussion
on how these anti one or two other frequently-used devices relate to Two
Sharp and story telling in general.

The plot
The plot is the essential series of events which immediately involves the pro­
tagonist and which unfolds around him to advance the story. In classic
narrative, these events are going to involve setting the scene and offering us
the extraordinary or disordering event in that central character’s life which
w ill force him into activity. This phase of the plot is all about exposition. The
next phase deals with the obstacles that have to be faced in pursuit of the
goal and is all about complication. Finally, there w ill come a clim actic point of
crisis which w ill lead on to the hero getting or not getting what he or she
wants, and offering us resolution. This resolution may be total, all the ends
being tied up and the audience’s emotional journey complete; or it may be
partial, leaving the audience to speculate on aspects of the plot or sub-plots.
A vivid example of a plot left dangling in a literal cliff-hanger is the end of
the film The Italian Job (1969, Troy Kennedy M artin). A massive heist suc­
cessfully completed, the get-away coach carrying the gang and the gold
bullion swerves off the road, coming to rest balancing on the edge of a
precipice, the gold slipping slowly closer to the back of the bus, dangling in
mid-air. Charlie Croker and his accomplices hardly dare breathe; the film
ends on Croker’s memorably famous line - ‘Hang on a minute lads. I’ve got a
14 Scripting stories

great idea’ - leaving us to wonder whether the protagonists get away or even
survive.

Interestingly, the original screenplay ended with a different kind of open

ending. The gold is safely deposited in a Swiss bank account, but the only two
people who know the account number are killed by the Mafia, leaving another
character to stick a pin into a list of account numbers in the hope of finding the
right one. There have also been several proposals for sequels to the original
film, all of which have had to find ways of getting the gang safely off that coach.

Sub-plots
In a longer drama the main plot w ill be surrounded and supported by sub­
plots. The fortunes of those involved in sub-plots may contrast with, parallel,
or help to point up the progress made by the central character in the main
story. Domino-like, they may spring directly from the major plot line, or they
may have come about through no consequence of the main plot whatsoever.
W hichever, they should still relate to the main plot in some interesting way.
Sub-plots are there to provide additional interest and enhance the effect of
the main plot, often illuminating meaning by offering us an interesting com­
parison. They may intensify the narrative tension or offer some welcome
relief from the roller-coaster the writer has chosen for his protagonist to ride.

Suspense or narrative tension

Suspense is a vital ingredient in the telling of a classic narrative. It is the
elastic in its underpants, as it were. First we upset a character’s life and,
having invited the audience to identify with them, we place a question mark
over whether the protagonist w ill attain his goal or not. The business of alter­
nately stimulating the audience’s hopes and their fears provides the vital
narrative tension which keeps us emotionally invested. In continuing drama,
the use of key points in a story’s narrative tension is particularly important:
the audience tunes in next time on the strength of a good cliff-hanger.

Intensifying and relaxing narrative tension is an essential part of the writer’s

craft. Overall, the tension should be screwed up to an ever-greater pitch, and
along the way there should be opportunities for respite. Lulling the audience
into a false sense of relaxed resolution before hitting them with a shock is, of
course, a staple of many thrillers. The ending of Fatal Attraction (James
Dearden) springs to mind, with its echoes of Psycho (Joseph Stefano); obvi­
ously vulnerable, still smarting from her physical and emotional wounds, and
her relationship with errant husband Dan only just on the mend, nevertheless
Beth Gallagher finally believes herself to be safe. She goes to take a bath:
much to her surprise (and ours), who should be hiding behind that bathroom
 Scripting stories 15

door' None other than the terribly disturbed A lex Forrest, object of her
husband’s recent attentions. There is a tremendous struggle, Dan intervenes
and finally drowns A lex in the bath. W e heave a sigh of relief. A t last it’s all
over — except, of course, just as they and therefore we are feeling really safe,
suddenly the dead are undead, as it were, and A lex resurfaces lunging towards
us w ith the knife. A great example of keeping the audience on edge until the
very last moment, having lulled them into a sense of false security.

The protagonist
Though your story may involve a range of characters, in a conventional,
classical narrative, the main interest centres on the hero, or protagonist.
Though it may have become totally clear to you by now, for the record the
protagonist is that chosen character whose life is upset by the extraordinary
event (inciting incident, or disordering event as it is sometimes called) and,
as a consequence of that event, pursues a goal to restore a new order. Put
simply, he wants something and w ill keep going until he does or does not get
it; we w ill keep him company throughout, seeing events from his point of
view. I mention this since new writers of drama can often get confused about
whose story they’re actually writing. Keep the story definition offered above
in mind - particularly the fact that the protagonist always wants something -
as you get iiivolved in formulating your stories.

Shared protagonism
Sometimes stories centre on groups of people, say for example expeditions,
crim inal gangs, survivors, m ilitia, sports teams, whose members all share the
role of protagonist. As long as their goal is a common one, and they face the
obstacles together, this is a perfectly valid device, and we w ill still identify
with what the group is striving for.

Transferred protagonism
Like a baton in a relay race, protagonism can be handed on in a drama. It can
happen that what starts out as character A ’s goal gets handed on to
another character who then becomes the protagonist. For example, a man
is being forced to collude in a robbery. He starts out by playing along, but
as the day o f the planned crim e approaches he meets a friend w ith the aim
of confiding in her. As they meet our hero is shot dead. Unseen by the
killer, the dying hero slips a cassette into his friend’s pocket. She finds this
later, listens to it, and decides she w ill get involved in trapping the
thieves. W h a t was his story now gets handed over to become hers.

W hether or not we find the central character(s) of a story likeable, it’s

important that we can identify enough with their plight to empathise, and
thus, go along w ith them. If we don’t care about them, we won’t care what
16 Scripting stories

happens to them, and an indifferent, emotionally detached audience is the

last thing you want.

In fact, the reason classical narrative in its purest form centres on a single
protagonist is to ensure an intensely focussed level of emotional identification
by the audience.

The wounded hero

A common device in making the hero more accessible to the audience and
binding the two together is to render the protagonist vulnerable in some way,
even to the extent of giving them a wound. Handicapped individuals drawn
from reality, like writer and artist Christy Brown, who suffered from cerebral
palsy and whose life was dramatised in \ h ' Left Foot {Jim Sheridan), can lend
themselves to the makings of a particularly engaging story because their
struggle has been made all the greater by the handicaps, physical, mental,
emotional or spiritual, which they suffer. The Miracle Worker, another bio­
graphical film, written by William Gibson, tells the story of Helen Keller.
Struck down by severe illness in early infancy, she triumphed over her loss of
speech, hearing and sight to become a celebrated teacher and campaigner on
behalf of the visually handicapped. Purely fictional pieces such as The Man
Without A Face (Malcolm MacRury), Forrest Gump (Winston Groom ), Rain
Man (Ronald Bass, Barry Morrow) are all examples of ‘the wound’ at work.
The story of the wounded hero who triumphs against the odds, often making
the journey from exclusion or stigmatisation, to acknowledged and beloved
insider, in one sense or another is a popular one with screenwriters, and can
indeed prove to be very affecting and inspirational.

Antagonism
H aving settled on a protagonist for your story, there needs to be someone
for him to strive against; remember - no conflict, no drama. The arch-
villain is that antagonist. In many stories a face-to-face confrontation
between protagonist and antagonist is an essential part of the telling.

All of those people and forces ranged directly against the hero are antagonis­
tic: this includes those inner obstacles a character may have to face - cow­
ardice, despair, cynical indifference, and so on; they form no less of a barrier
in their own way, and can be fascinating for writers to exploit.

Irony
An ironic moment, such as that which befalls Clayton - his boss embraces
him in gratitude and kills him - can be very satisfying for an audience, who
 Scripting stories 17

can empathise with the idea of goals attained at enormous personal cost.
They recognise their own lives in such a moment and identify all the more.
Irony of this sort acknowledges the fact that life as lived is a far from ideal
business, combining pain and pleasure in equal measure. W illia m Blake’s
poem Auguries of Innocence contains the following fragment which expresses
it beautifully:

Joy and woe are woven fine,

A Clothing for the Soul divine;
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.

Dramatic ironies
Clayton realises what has happened to him - that he has both won and lost -
and we (hopefully) didn’t see it coming. However, those moments when we
are given the important advantage of knowing more than the characters in a
drama, and can ‘see it coming’ when they can’t, not only excite our fears for
the character, but also intensify how sorry we can feel for them when the
inevitable actually does happen.

As you w ill see from some of the examples of film and television writing quoted
in this book, irony is a major weapon in the dramatist’s armoury, and there can
be great value in learning how to recognise the potential irony of a moment or
a situation and to exploit its power to bind an audience to your story.

Turning points and reversals: the need for surprise

In telling a story, there is a need to stimulate the hopes and fears of the
viewer. W e identify with what the hero wants and hopes for: we hope for it
too, and we fear he may not get it. The more skilfully one can play with these
feelings, the more satisfying the story experience may become. So, in Patriot
Games, just when Ryan thinks the whole nightmare’s clone and dusted and
it’s safe to go back to his life, he suffers the most surprising and intense
onslaught to date. Likewise, the very moment Clayton meets his deadline,
satisfies his masters and can rest, he dies. M an has deadline, man meets dead-
line, man dies - thereby proving, ironically, that he who laughs last, laughs
longest. Both examples have been designed to sneak up on the viewer and (in
different ways) to intensify both our emotional engagement with the protago­
nist and our curiosity about his fate.

Surprise and predictability

Keeping your audience interested is perhaps the most important part of the
dramatist’s work; surprising the audience by making them expect one thing
18 Scripting stories

and then delivering another is an effective way of intensifying your audi­

ence’s engagement w ith the piece. A n excellent example of this occurs at
the end of American Beauty (A la n B a ll) when we are led to believe that
Lester Burnham ’s wife Carolyn is going to shoot him now he’s discovered
her affair w ith Buddy Kane. W e see her psyching herself up w ith her gun in
her car and we are clearly encouraged to believe she’s about to k ill him. In
fact Frank Fitts, the ex-Marine officer next door, is the one who w ill k ill
him, unbearably shamed by having revealed his repressed homosexuality to
Lester. In itself this comes as no surprise, ringing true to Fitts’ character, but
the writer sells us a wonderful dummy by concentrating our attention so
powerfully on Lester’s wife, who is also in the throes of disappointment and
deep hum iliation. W h ile the fact that Fitts did it is totally credible, it is not
at all predictable, and it is the knack of keeping an audience on its toes,
leading them to expect one thing and then subverting that expectation,
which can be a real asset in building an interesting plot.

One of the worst things people can say about your plot is that they could see
it all coming. That said, when you’re starting out and simply gaining confi­
dence in screenwriting, it’s most important not to be too hard on yourself.
T ell the story you think of for the sake of getting it down, even if it does seem
to lack quite the inventiveness or originality you hoped to achieve. As you
progress you’ll naturally be able to place greater demands on your powers to
invent, surprise and intrigue. Striving too hard for originality or complexity
of plot can be very counter-productive when you’re first starting out. Also, it’s
worth remembering that often sim plicity w ill produce perfectly satisfactory
results.

Maintaining probability. Safe-guarding story-logic

Although it can be powerful to install surprises in your plot, you do need to
stay w ithin the realms of the probable and not offend against the logic pecu­
liar to the story you’ve devised. Conventionally-told stories concern them­
selves with cause and effect and they need to unfold in line with this
principle.

Characters need to act consistently in character, and in line with the rules of
whatever level of reality you set up in your story. In a strictly naturalistic
piece, this means following the realities of the everyday world - even though
the reality of any story is carefully selected, compressed and highlighted so as
to offer itself as a metaphor for real life. In other types of story telling - such
as surrealism for example - it becomes appropriate to follow other levels of
reality. So in the short film Two Men and a Wardrobe (Rom an Polanski), it is
quite consistent with the overall tone and reality of the piece for the epony­
 Scripting stories 19

mous heroes of the piece to make their entrance walking out of the sea fully
clothed carrying said wardrobe onto the beach!

Sim ilarly in the surrealistic satire The Discreet Charm of The Bourgeoisie (Luis
Bunuel and Jean-Claude Carriere), we see a naturalistic setting in which the
normal rules of cause and effect are put totally to one side. The slimmest of
narrative threads - that a group of upper-crust friends are trying to have
dinner together but cannot seem to do so without things going drastically
wrong - is used to support an outlandish and ever more dream-like procession
of surrealistic and satirical set-pieces, in which what is the characters’ reality
and what is their fantasy becomes, at points, inextricably bound up.

The film’s ‘story’ follows the surface illogicality of a dream, and juxtaposes the
unlikeliest of characters and events to poke fun at the establishment’s so-
called respectability. W ith in the logic of the film itself the unpredictable and
the random become the film’s own predictable norm rather than extraneous
aberrations: we can expect the unexpected and must unravel the film’s
meaning in a more approximate and subjective manner than we could with a
straightforw ard classic narrative.

W hen screenwriting combines predominantly naturalistic reality with

elements of fantasy, different rules are going to apply to the different
coxuponents of your drama: but it is still necessary to be consistent to the
internal realities governing those separate worlds; you can’t suddenly change
the mles within either of those different levels without throwing the audi­
ence’s understanding of how those different worlds operate within the overall
story.

So, in Ally McBeal (David E. Kelley), the sudden replacement of a sober-

looking judge sitting in a court-room by an all-singing, all-dancing A l
Green as A lly slips into a daydream, allows for a vivid illustration of her
fantasy. Each level of story reality is clearly marked off, one from the other,
and is logically consistent w ithin itself: so when A lly snaps out of her
reverie, there’s no more music outside of her head. Likewise, in the same
series, John Cage’s alter ego, Barry W h ite, makes his presence felt as a song
in John’s head until that comforting fantasy mentor he is carrying round
with him for support leaks out and takes the place of N ell just as they are
about to make love. It’s a brilliant moment, externalising and ridiculing
John’s self-absorption. Almost as quickly as the moment is presented, it has
gone back inside John’s head where it belongs. The logic of the piece
remains perfectly intact: these fantasies can assume overwhelming propor­
tions at times for the characters in question. These intrusions of fantasy on
reality are also prompted by the moments in reality immediately preceding
them: there is a reason for A lly and John to float off, just as in The Fall and
20 Scripting stories

Rise of Reginald Perrin (D avid Nobbs), the reason Reginald (and we) would
see a lumbering hippopotamus at the mere mention of his mother-in-law’s
name is, by im plication, clear enough. So, once again, a causal logic is
being respected.

I advocate trying your hand at predominantly straightforward naturalism

(recognisably ‘real’ characters operating in a ‘real’ world to begin w ith). It can
be a temptation to get lost in the realms of the whim sically fantastic or the
absurd, and in so doing lose sight of the simple but exacting challenge of
delivering a conventional story. As I suggested earlier, I think that practice
with the conventional w ill allow you to know when deviation from it is going
to be more honestly rooted in where the story may be telling you to go, than
where you just think you might want to take it. It w ill also most probably
equip you to take those leaps into the unconventional w ith greater success
than if you plunged straight in.

Time
I mentioned the Classic Unities before, one of those being the U n ity of Tim e
which dictated a drama should unfold w ithin the course of one day. N aturally
dramas have always highlighted significant events and compressed the time in
which those events are related to the audience. Judging how much to move
on and when to join the action again and play the next significant event so
that it feels like enough real time (as well as screen time has elapsed) is all
part of the challenge for a screenwriter. Several factors are going to influence
decisions around this. The general pace of the entire piece and the pace of a
particular sequence w ill determine what fits appropriately. In longer-form
drama, it’s often possible to postpone picking up a storyline again for much
longer than in a busy short piece. A multi-plotted drama can also allow more
scope for spreading stories.

There is often a need to avoid melodrama by smashing from one major point of
development to another in any given story, missing out essential intermediate
scenes, which are appropriately spaced to simulate the feeling of characters
taking their time to work things out. Then again, there may be a real need to
go out of your way to install melodrama in a piece, say for comic effect. O r take
the leap forward in time at the end of 2001 (Stanley Kubrick and Arthur C.
Clarke), in which the sole surviving astronaut Dave Bowman, seen minutes
earlier as a young man, is now at the end of his days and discovered in surreal
Empire grandeur, perfectly fits with the fact that his space pod has just time-
travelled in real time taking us as the audience along for the ride.

The placement of scenes in the overall time structure is also a matter of feel
and instinct, and it is definitely an aspect of screenwriting which gets better
 Scripting stories 21

the more you have seen how m aterial sits in the overall feel of the actual
playing. It ’s sometimes harder to judge w hen a scene has been rushed or
delayed for too long just by looking at it on the page; how ever that, too, gets
easier w ith the experience of reading more and more scripts.

A conventionally-told drama unfolds sequentially in chronological order, or

linear tim e as it’s often referred to. Screen drama being a highly mobile
medium, it can be very tem pting and effective to disrupt that linear progres­
sion. Perhaps the most com m only used disruptive device in film and te le vi­
sion drama is the flash-back.

Flash-backs
T h is can be used to depict general relevant back-story or background, as w ell
as particular characters’ memories w hich we may see them summoning up, or
w hich may seem to intrude on them. So, for example, in M y Life As A Dog
(Lasse H allstrom ), young Ingem ar summons up memories o f happy holidays
spent w ith his m other, as com fort to him now they are separated and she is
dying. In sharp contrast S o l Nazerman in The Pawnbroker (D a vid Friedkin,
M orton Fine from the novel by Edward W a lla n t) finds him self plagued by the
intrusion of unwanted memories from his tim e held in the Nazi death camps.
In the latter film , the fact that the memories are suppressed and unwelcom e is
signalled by the fact that we see just a glimpse leaking into S o l’s present day
thoughts, followed by another and another u n til finally he cannot suppress
the memory any more and it intrudes as a steady stream of thought.

W h e n m oving into a flash-back, it is more often than not the case that it w ill
need rooting in the present. Som ething in the character’s here and now
should cue the memory. It may be an image, an event, som ething someone
says; in that sequence from The Pawnbroker referred to above, it’s the com bi­
nation o f a gang picking on a young man in a fenced-off derelict site, and an
A lsa tian dog barking nearby w hich cues sim ilar images from the camp for S o l
as he passes the beating on his way to his parked car.

O n a grander scale, tim e-shifts into and out of the past are sometimes used as
a narrative fram ing device. Titanic (Jam es C am eron) is a good example of
this. T h e now-old Rose De W itt is invited to help the present day salvage
team in th eir quest for a valuable pendant. T h e pretext of her being there to
help them is a ll the excuse the film needs for her to summon up her mem or­
ies o f the journey, her ill-fated, w hirlw ind rom ance w ith Jack , and so take us
into her story, w hich forms the m ain body o f the narrative. A t the end of
the film we see her real agenda in being there - to exorcise her past - as,
unseen by the salvage team , she takes the pendant w hich had been given to
her by the rich fiance she did not love, and slips it back into the seas above
the wreck.
22 Scripting stories

Narrative framing encloses the main narrative: sometimes it is referretI to

only at the beginning and ending of the story; sometimes it w ill be referred to
at key points throughout the drama.

Flash-forward
It’s also possible to flash-forward in time, foreshadowing events yet to come.
Sometimes there may be narratively logical pretext for this, as in Don’t Look
Now (A lle n Scott, Chris Bryant from the story by Daphne du Maurier). Here
we are offered a character, John Baxter, who is unwittingly psychic, and as a
consequence is ‘gifted’ with a moment of precognition in which he thinks he
sees his wife Laura actually pass directly by on the other side of a Venice
canal: in fact what he is seeing is a flash-forward glimpse of his own funeral
procession. Sometimes there may be no particular, individualised pretext for a
flash-forward in time, and flashes forward may just be a choice made by the
author to disrupt conventional narrative time, underlining the artifice of
screen drama and making a virtue of that potential to be totally mobile.

Popular screen dramas which markedly disrupt linear time are relatively few
and far between. The danger of stalling narrative drive can more often than
not outweigh any advantages to be gained by flitting to and fro in time.
However, it can be worthwhile to have a look at examples of where this is
done well if only to caution yourself against too readily trying the same thing.
If not rooted appropriately and crafted with care, then disrupted time can just
come over as a distancing stylistic affectation - being clever for its own sake.

A fascinating and most effective example of disrupted time is to be found in

Toto The Hero (Jaco van Dormael, Laurette Vankeerberghen, Pascal Lonhey,
Didier DeNeck) in which the central character, Thomas, nears the end of his
days in an old folk’s home. The movement between Thomas’ present-day
story, his plan to kill lifelong rival Alfred Kant, and the flashes backwards and
forwards between three eras of Thomas’ life, are all handled with tremendous
sleight, of hand. Internal cues are used for this criss-crossing of time-frames in
which effects of actions end up being placed before their causes, with extra­
ordinary results. The overall feel of these forward somersaults and backward
flips in time fits the film well and, in part, this is because the drama depicts
the drifting consciousness of an old man’s seemingly haphazard memories,
mixed in with his here and now fantasies.

However well such time-travelling is executed, and though the unconven­

tional narrative may end up spellbinding an audience, it w ill not promote the
same level of audience identification with the protagonist. It will most often
feel like the contraflow contrivance it actually is, and w ill end up holding the
audience emotionally at arm’s length. To repeat my cautionary note, avoid
trying to disrupt linear time for the sake of being clever or interesting. A t the
 Scripting stories 23

outset of your w riting, it’s w ell w orth getting com fortable w ith pacing and
managing conventional, linear time-frames, perhaps w ith the occasional
appropriately m otivated departure, before experim enting too w ild ly. B y all
means w atch and read w idely, and appreciate w hat is going on in pieces
w hich do play w ith tim e.

Flashes out of time

A n example o f this is the sequence o f psychotic episodes Perry is prone to in
The Fisher King, in w hich the Red K night appears on horseback to hunt him
down. T h ey are happening now and yet do not exist. Fantasies or delusions
are frequent interpolations in screen dramas, and their timelessness can prove
a powerful counterpoint to the onward drive o f the m ain narrative. T h ey may
still benefit from us seeing their logical prom pting in the here and now, for us
better to understand w hat their inclusion in the drama is all about. In The
Fisher King, it is Perry’s present day fears w hich trigger his suppressed horror
about the death of his wife, in the form o f the stalking apocalyptic horseman.

Speeding up, slowing down

Fin ally, the device o f speeding action up to encapsulate long periods o f tim e
in a much shorter period of screen tim e can produce striking com ic effect. It
can caricature superhuman powers, or then again the magic o f time-lapsed
sequences can capture the growth of a flower or the transition of w hole
seasons in a few seconds. Step-editing (jum ping between key-points in a
sequence o f actio n ) can also install com ic effect or sim ply transform the
otherwise mundane into an engaging few moments.

Conversely, slow-m otion can form a lyrica lly em phatic counterpoint to the
action depicted. If we see soldiers charging into battle, for example, suddenly
slowed down, perhaps w ith the loss o f the actual sound, the action is lent that
timelessness we can experience in heightened moments, and made a ll the
more extraordinary - the violence suddenly appearing graceful and, thus, at
odds w ith the event. M om ents o f great realisation, o f the penny fin ally drop­
ping as it were, can also benefit from this effect: the dropped cup near the end
o f The U sual Suspects (C hristop her M cQ u arrie) is a good example. A n d , yes,
such moments are to be w ritten, not just directed, as long as they dem on­
strably serve the content o f your story w ell.

Coincidences

Love them or loathe them , coincidences are a thorny issue and, in my

experience, the w orld does divide into those who object to them and those
who seem to revel in them, claim ing, ‘W e ll that’s like life. T h a t kind o f thing
does happen’. M aybe so, but it is w orth rem em bering that well-worn maxim,
24 Scripting stories

‘Fact is much stranger than fiction’, and this certainly tends to be the case in
relation to naturalistic drama. As story tellers, we’re in the business of gener­
ating engagement in our hero’s adventure through creating what the poet
and critic Coleridge matchlessly called, ‘a w illing suspension of disbelief’.
Traditionally, a story is told so that our audience may go along w ith it
without so questioning the probability of a moment that they fall out of this
crucial level of identified engagement. In story telling terms, coincidences
can become really problematic when they are used as a way of contriving the
plot. Again, that certainly applies to their inclusion in straightforward, natu­
ralistic drama. Obviously, where certain types of story are concerned, it may
be a very different matter. Farce or slapstick-comedy, for example, often
depend heavily and most effectively on coincidental contrivances. The
romantic comedy Return To Me (Bonnie Hunt and Don Lake) hinges on a
whopping coincidence. A rchitect Bob Rueland is devastated when his wife
Elizabeth is killed in a car accident. As he finally starts to pull out of his
grief, he is fixed up with a blind dinner date. A t the restaurant he meets and
instantly falls for waitress Grace Biggs who (o f course!) turns out to be the
recipient of poor, dead Elizabeth’s transplanted heart. Such resoundingly
massive coincidences are more acceptable to an audience in a film like this
because of the level of wish-fulfilment being addressed. The whole narrative
drive is to get the lovers fixed up and happy —so whatever it takes is okay.

The Fisher King is another case in point. Jack Lucas, a radio D J, incites a des­
perate caller to go out and rid society of yuppies. In doing so he is indirectly
responsible for the death of innocent diners. His career in pieces and wracked
with guilt, he is himself saved from death at the hands of well-heeled young
New Yorkers who are on a mission to purge the streets of down and outs.
Perry, the man who intervenes to save him, was married to a woman wiped
out in Jack’s caller’s killing spree. The Fisher King is deliberately fantastical in
its construction, aiming to parallel the legendary and the mythic. In the
realms of fable, we accept the totally extraordinary and highly coincidental,
and in The Fisher King the story has a deliberately symbolic, magical posture
which makes such devices self-justifying.

In such cases, because the absurdity of an outrageous coincidence fits the tone
of the piece, the wholly different kind of ‘suspension of disbelief’ at work is
not interrupted. If, however, you’re writing a serious, naturalistic piece and its
plot is reliant on a coincidence, do check whether its being introduced to the
story so as to help you ‘cheat’ your way to a plot point further down the track
you really want to write but can see no other way of reaching. This is a ter­
rible temptation for some writers when they’re first setting out. A ll of that
said, if you’re going to go for a coincidence and it seems to fit with the levels
 Scripting stories 25

of belief at work in your drama, then it can be a very good idea to make the
coincidence massive.

Repetition
Another mistake new writers can make is needlessly to repeat elements of
their script. The essential aim of writing a conventional drama is to get on
with telling the story, to m aintain the narrative drive of the piece, by assem-
bling a large number of moments which, taken all together, w ill add up to
the whole piece. Unless you can think of a very good reason for it, don’t
repeat any of the moments. Repetition can be most effective in building
comic effect. A case in point is Groundhog Day (D anny Robin, Harold
Ram is) in which weather man Phil Connors is stranded in a small Pennsyl­
vanian town, by a snow storm he failed to predict, and is destined to repeat
the present until he becomes a better person. Repetition can also be very
effective in building suspenseful intrigue through the gradual revelation of
an important moment: a good example of this occurs in Catch 22 (Buck
Henry from the novel by Joseph H eller) where we are offered tantalising and
cryptic glimpses of what, it becomes clear, as those flash-backs lengthen and
we hear him gasping and mumbling how cold he turns out to be, is a dread­
fully wounded crew member on a shot-up bomber. The sequence culminates
shockingly w ith a brief scene in which, while trying to help him, Yossarian
turns Snowden and sends his guts spilling out onto the floor of the plane. It’s
a moment whose impact is tremendously enhanced by the previous repeti­
tive build up. Repetition can also help in building emphasis. Repetition can
also help in building emphasis. But if a repetition is not serving a specific
purpose, and since a repeated moment is not progressing the plot, you could
be writing something else. So why not do it?

Clarity
This is of paramount importance. Firstly it’s most important to make sure that
the details of every scene are clear; a script is a blueprint from which pro­
gramme or film makers are going to work. So there is nothing to be gained by
shrouding a moment as written in your script in ambiguity or mystery. There
is a vital distinction to be drawn between gradually and subtly revealing
something to the audience - for example that a scene they thought real is in
fact a fantasy - and not letting the production team in on the secret either.
Sometimes beginners think if they make it clear on the page for those who
are going to realise the script, then they’ve also blown the surprise for the
viewer; this is not so.
26 Scripting stories

Ambiguity

A not infrequent aim o f the budding dram atist is to be deliberately ambigu­

ous. T h ey w ant to leave it up to the viewers to make w hat they w ill o f one or
many moments, and often, in particular, th eir stories’ endings. T here is one
inescapable fact about setting out to be ambiguous and that is you w ill be.
W h e n challenged on this m atter, newish writers w ill often adm it that actu­
ally their am biguity is not so much about w anting to allow their audience
freedom to react, but far more to do w ith their ow n reluctance or in ab ility to
make a clear choice for th eir drama. T h e y fudge a m om ent and pretend it’s
cleverness, or o rig in ality - or even worse that anything the audience comes
up w ith as interpretation is right; they m eant a ll o f them . I ’m not for one
m om ent decrying all am biguities or choices made not to resolve every story
strand. T h e power of moments left open to query by the audience can be
great and feel quite appropriate. W h a t I ’m talking about here is a lack of
rigour in the endless process of self-interrogation - the endless ‘w hat-if’-ness
- w h ich is the process of necessary decision m aking in good story telling. It
really is im portant early on to recognise w hen you’re copping out on that
hard but vita l work. A n acid test of w hether you have conveyed the
m eaning you intended is to give it to someone else to read and see w hat they
make of it. A t the end o f the day, an audience may indeed not know w hat to
make o f som ething you have w ritten. You, how ever, must know w hat it was
you intended. A s a w riter, that is a sacred responsibility. It also makes sense
that, once you’re clear, you would w ant your audience to be equally clear
about the m atter.

Theme and meaning

There is a school o f thought that believes a w riter should know w hat a story
is about right from the word go, and that it should, in any case, enshrine some
proverbial or m ythic truth. Such wisdom holds that, w ithout a premise there
can be no story. W ith an ind ivid ually authored, to tally original piece,
knowing w hat a story is about before you start w riting it can actually get in
your way. M editating on broad themes - environm ental consciousness, world
peace, the power o f self-awareness - are o f very little help in the fram ing o f a
specific story. N o t only may you try to model too consciously on existing pro­
grammes or films, in a bid to get in line w ith the sort o f thing you think you
w ant your story to say, but you may also stifle the very life out of w hat could
have emerged from your im agination organically, by being intent on check­
ing that every bit of w hat you put down conforms to the line of argument in
your premise.
 Scripting stories 27

Having said that, it is inevitable that a well-told story w ill deal w ith themes
and w ill have a meaning (several layers of meaning, perhaps), and may well
rest on a proverbial or mythic truth. By the time you have unfolded how your
story w ill flow, you w ill almost certainly have discovered more than you knew
about it at the outset. But to start off with, it’s far more important to find out
the way a story is going to go rather than worry too much about what it
means. In other words, concentrate on working out how it actually goes rather
than trying to write the idea of how it goes.

T o say a little more about this, let’s just return to the question of how many
stories there are. It has been argued these number as few as eight, these being:

• Cinderella - unrecognised virtue recognised at last; the dream come true.

• Achilles - the fatal flaw' which leads to the destruction of a character pre­
viously thought flawless.

• Faust - selling your soul to the devil in return for instant power and
riches has a price which must inevitably be paid.

• Circe - the spider and the fly; the chase and final ensnarement of the
hapless hero.

• Candide - the hero who cannot be kept down; the triumph of naive opti­
mism.

• Tristan —love triangles. The trouble which follows falling in love w ith an
unavailable other.

• Orpheus - the gift taken away and the consequences of that loss.

• Romeo and Juliet - boy meets girl. Boy loses girl. They do or do not end up
together again.

Now what you could do is take the germ of your story and then write it in
accordance w ith how stories of this type have to go. In other words, you could
take the germ of your story, mould it to fit the conventional demands of this
sort of tale, imposing those characteristics onto your tale to make it a recog­
nisable kind of story.

You could consciously model your storymaking on that shortlist above, or

really go to town and immerse yourself in Christopher Booker’s admittedly
fascinating encyclopaedic survey of what he calls ‘the seven basic plots’
(rebirth, tragedy, comedy, voyage and return, the quest, rags to riches, over­
coming the monster), or move on to elaborated and modified definitions (for
example, Philip Parker’s list of ten story types, or Robert M cKee’s list of 25
28 Scripting stories

genres and sub-genres). T h e danger is that, w h ilst enjoying the security of

‘recognising’ w here your story fits in to one or more o f these categories, you
miss the opportunity o f lettin g your story te ll you. W h a t I mean is that we all
know about stories and we a ll know more about th e ir nature than we perhaps
consciously recognise, and it is this unconscious le vel o f n arrative sk ill w hich
1 believe can power the process. C e rta in ly w hen you’re starting out to w rite, 1
believe it is better to learn to trust this unconscious story te lle r in you, rather
than put w hat could w ell be the dead-hand o f story classification on your
shoulder w h ilst you are trying to bring your story to life. B y a ll means recog­
nise w h ich sh elf it’s going to belong on after the event, but don’t let that
determ ine how you w an t your story to unfold at the beginning.

S o w hat I did not do w ith Tw o Sharp is sit and th in k 1 was going to w rite a
p articular kind o f tale. A t the start I did not have m uch o f a clue w hat I was
going to w rite; but 1 did have an im aginative impulse . . .

Exercises
1 For a few days keep a diary, writing in present tense, and in the third person, as if
you were being observed by someone else. Leave out all thought and feelings, but
do describe your actions vividly and accurately. You are simply using your own activ­
ities as the raw material for some practice screenwriting.
2 Collect about a dozen photographs, postcards or a mixture of both, with a range of
images: people, places and objects. If you use personal photos try to go for those
which conjure no particularly strong pre-existing associations or feelings. Spreading
these out before you, arrange them into an order which suggests and supports a
narrative. Now try writing some brief working notes for a short screenplay with
a single protagonist and a single narrative strand designed to unfold with no
dialogue - action only.
Do make sure you think about imagining what can be seen. If you do this in a
group, mix all the images up and make sure you use some images that other people
have brought. After the writing, read out and discuss your work, with reference to
those images. Get other people's reactions, both to your work in progress and to the
images on which you based your work.
 2
Ideas into action

FO RM IN G IDEAS INTO STORY

Ideas are by their nature nuclear. One of the dictionary definitions of a
nucleus says it is ‘an initial part meant to receive additions’. W hat is also true
about ideas is that, at the beginning, they rarely if ever come fully formed;
they are not only nuclear they are unclear. Part of the story inventor’s job is to
learn to sit peacefully with that lack of clarity and let those ‘additions’ come
up for proper consideration.

So how does one clarify the components and direction of an unfolding story?
Here are a couple of techniques which may be helpful.

Mind-mapping
The impetus for Two Sharp was no more than a blunt pencil and the very tough
time I then had tracking down a sharpener. So the image of a blunt pencil
began the process and went down as a boxed note in the middle of an empty
page. This rapidly changed to the idea of a broken pencil. The next idea was,
naturally enough, a sharpener and so I noted that down. The next was a car­
toonist and so that went down, swiftly followed by an alarm clock and an
editor. As each successive thought came, 1 mapped it out, constellating those
which belonged together and drawing in connections where I could see them. I
was left with a kit from which the story could take shape, and in the shaping of
this story, other parts suggested themselves and were happily incorporated.
Looking at a page drawn out like this can help you decide which thoughts
really do or do not belong to the story you have to tell. It can also give you a
strong sense of where the core action is going to be, what is incidental to the
core and what lies at the margins but strongly informs the core. Whatever you
can do to get thoughts out of your head and into some useful visible form will
help you make decisions, and feed-back into your story development process.
30 Ideas into action

Figure 2.1 A 'mind-map'

Image banking
In thinking up stories, you may well conjure up images. They may be
objects, landscapes, settings, characters, moments of action. It is important
to make a habit of noting these; put them in the bank. It may not be at all
clear where or indeed whether they will figure in your story, but it’s most
important not to lose track of them. When you dream, unless you make a
note of what occurred in the dream soon after waking up, most often the
 Ideas into action 31

memory of it w ill fade away, first to major moments and events and finally
to key images and words, before even they disappear into total obscurity. It
can be useful to think of the process of getting hold of your story as recover­
ing an all-but-lost dream, starting with one or two fragments, which are
gradually filled out into pieces and brought into sharper focus until there is
a solid procession of sound and pictures. W e even use the phrase ‘to dream
up a story’ and I think that is far from accidental: however insignificant or
arbitrary those first images which surface might seem, in retrospect they w ill
often be seen to have formed the cornerstones of your drama.

So with Two Sharp the coffee-maker was there from early on, as was the pile
of saw-dust, as was the opening picture of a happily snoozing cartoonist and
an irascible alarm clock. In noting these images they can help provide
beacons which help you steer your story’s course. They w ill form a part of the
vital business of visualising you’ll need to do to tell any story well for the
screen. Some people are strongly visual and get their inspiration mainly in
the form of pictures, others may get snatches of dialogue or music; whatever
form those story fragments come in, make a habit of noting them down and
storing them away. Any film or video editor w ill tell you, when faced with a
shortage of material to choose from, you can’t include what you didn’t bother
to record. So collect your imaginings: you can always choose to leave material
out. You may well decide material has no place in the story you are forming,
but that it w ill and does have a place in another story on another day.

THE P O W E R OF 'W H A T IF . . . ? '

Alongside the unfolding characters and settings some plot possibilities were
unfolding in my head. I noted these and thought about which appealed and
which held the maximum potential for conflict:

What if . . . a cartoonist is up against his deadline, has an entire comic strip to draw,
is blocked and at the very moment he gets inspired, has the misfortune to break his
favourite lucky pencil . . . ? Misfortune, because he has no sharpener and relies
totally on this pencil for the completion of his work? What then?

A t this stage it is also most important to play with alternatives. For

example:

What if . . . a cartoonist needs to sharpen his pencil, finds he has no sharpener,

decides on using a new pencil and cavalierly snaps the old one in two and then
throws it away . . . only to find he is then totally blocked and is finally driven to
track down his broken old pencil by now on its way to the dump?
32 Ideas into action

What if ... a traffic warden needs to sharpen his pencil arid finds no one will help
him. He is driven to disguise, gets help, is then unmasked and suddenly faces
numerous obstacles to doing his job . . . and then . . . ?

What if . . . a woodwork teacher who is obsessive about keeping the sharpest point
on his pencil finds it broken arid his sharpener missing? . . . Control of the class, if
not his very life is thrown into the balance.

How do you know which of these ideas is right to go w ith? W e ll the process
of mind-mapping w ill already have thrown up some immediate choices for
you. A t that stage I wrote down a cartoonist, for instance, and not a traffic
warden or a woodwork teacher. Clearly it’s entirely a matter of choice
whether to go with these choices or to revise them, bearing in mind the need
to provide an appropriate sort of hero, generate lots of complication and max­
imise conflict.

Heretical though this may seem to some, I suggest you do not agonise over
this process, or even if you do, then settle on the choices which simply feel
right for you. In just the same way that a blunt pencil woke up the story
telling instinct in me, and gave me the feeling that there was potential in
playing w ith this image, so the ideas which followed also felt right.

You w ill notice that none of the alternatives outlined above are complete. In
fact, all you need to write a story is a promising start. You need a situation in
which something extraordinary can happen to your protagonist which w ill
throw his life into turmoil and present him w ith an extreme challenge. After
that, you’re off and in the writing of the story.

THE IM P O R T A N C E OF LISTS
The business of accumulating lists is a constant in the formulation of a script
for the screen. From the very first jotted notes to the final draft, what you are
dealing w ith is an ever-more elaborate process of listing character traits, set­
tings, large story events, smaller story events and small parts of those smaller
story events. A simple thought or an unexplored moment of recognition w ill
inevitably lead on to a process of teasing out the content and its dynamic,
pace, rhythm and structure. It is a process in which you are setting these
details down on paper to be reflected on and revised, with the constant aim
of clarifying them to yourself, before communicating them to others. It is also
an ongoing opportunity to see the structural relationship of each of the parts
to the whole drama, and of the whole to each of its parts. This essential
process gets harder to mobilise once you’re embroiled in the cut and thrust of
getting your characters on their feet and giving them lives. W h a t’s more,
once you have committed to specific ways of writing scenes in detail, it’s all
 Ideas into action 33

the more difficult to detach, give them up, and try something completely dif­
ferent.

In his highly entertaining account of scriptwriting for Hollywood, Adventures

In The Screen Trade, W illia m Goldm an declares as one of his guiding tenets
the resounding conviction that ‘S C R E E N P L A Y S A R E S T R U C T U R E ’:

Yes, nifty dialog helps a lot; sure, it's nice if you can bring your characters to
life. But you can have terrific characters spouting just swell talk to each
other, and if the structure is unsound, forget it.
As someone who was a relatively late convert to the idea of detailed planning
- choosing instead to believe that writing was such a magical process that
detailed planning was a gross, mechanical interference - I have to say I am
now a staunch advocate. Getting material out of my head and on to paper or
a screen has proved enormously beneficial in organising and clarifying my
thoughts and feelings as well as stimulating further imaginative flow. I have
also seen how much it has helped others - especially complete newcomers to
scripting. As I ’ve already suggested, there are writers who resist this process or
who do not seem to need it. Here is Richard LaGravenese, talking about
writing The Fisher King:

I just followed the natural progression - I let each scene tell me where to go
next. I tried writing outlines and index cards. But nothing worked as well as
getting in there and getting my hands dirty.
The Search For The Holy Reel
(Screenplay of The Fisher King)
W h ilst I think there is much to be said for following instinct and not being
over-formulaic, it is worth noting that in LaGravenese’s we have a practised
writer who has already internalised strategies for shaping screenwriting struc­
ture. (W h a t’s more, it’s worth noting, he was also trying to shape and list
material —a process which w ill have informed the work.) W h en you start out,
you have still to learn and internalise the organisational process. W hether
you feel drawn to this approach or not, it is most important to recognise that
if you have aspirations to write professionally, the industry depends on and
believes in various stages of listing ever more detailed versions of your work
on paper whilst in development. These are: synopsis, treatment, step-outline,
scene-by-scene breakdown.

Synopsis
The least list-like of the lot, a synopsis is a short summary, usually no more
than a page aimed at summing up and selling your drama. It w ill have the
main plot points, mention the principal characters, cover the story and may
34 Ideas into action

indicate the main themes dealt with. In the spirit of a promotional campaign,
it may also tease the reader by om itting the resolution of the plot, and so
inciting the reader to open that script and find out for themselves. Though
Lajos Egri may pronounce w ith such ringing certainty:

If you have a clear-cut premise, almost automatically a synopsis unrolls

itself.
The Art of Dramatic Writing

I’m a believer in writing what it’s all about once you really know - and that
may be when you’ve finished writing the script. In my view, a synopsis is a
good accompaniment to a script, a brief taster which covers the ground and
whets the reader’s appetite.

Treatment
If you are developing an idea from scratch, and writing to commission, you
w ill undoubtedly have to produce a treatment. Depending on the length
of the finished piece this w ill be up to, but no more than, four or five
pages, which offers a detailed summary of the plot, mentions all the major
characters, giving a feel for what they are like, and also touches on other
significant players. M ajor scenes and moments w ill be described in some
detail, but otherwise the treatment w ill accurately cover the broad sweep
of the story. The structure and dramatic integrity of the piece need to be
clearly visible; in other words the reader/potential buyer needs to be able to
see that the idea is workable. A good treatment should also form a sound
working basis from which to develop the script. W h at I mean is that it may
be a temptation to blithely busk a story from the top of your head, believing
you w ill be able to go back to move things around and fill in the gaps later.
T o an extent this will always be the case, but only to a lim ited extent. The
basics - the planks on which a script can be constructed — do need to be
firmly in place.

Step-outline or scene-by-scene breakdown

These are very often, but not always, the same thing. Sometimes the step-
outline is a half-way house towards a scene-by-scene breakdown. In such
cases, more scenes are detailed than in a treatment, but there are still sec­
tions of the story dealt w ith in generalised terms. The final stage script
development can progress to before it actually reaches a draft is the scene-
by-scene breakdown; every scene is reduced to a maximum of a three or four
sentence description which covers characters, their em otional attitude, and
also details the plot development. W h en writers submit an idea for a series
of dramas, it is not uncommon to put together a package w hich comprises a
 Ideas into action 35

synopsis, a full episode, a scene-by-scene breakdown for, say, three further

episodes, and a treatment projecting further development.

In the quote above from LaGravenese, he makes reference to index cards. If

you haven’t come across the idea yet, it can be very useful to put brief indi­
vidual scene descriptions on index cards. This means you can play with
setting scenes out in different orders, and assess the overall structural feel
and effect. Somehow doing this in the flesh, as it were, rather than just
cutting and pasting on the screen, can be a more involving and satisfactory
process, helping you to absorb the emergent and shifting bigger picture.
Using a wall-mounted board and felt-tip markers can also be a great asset.

In the preface to this book, I said its intent was not to offer tips on pitching
or selling. This process of graduated listing and refining of lists is one which is
of benefit to you before it is useful to anyone else or an invitation for them to
interfere with the content and structure of your idea. Learning and practising
with these planning and summarising processes will help you clarify intent
and w ill also sharpen your own critical faculty. Part of developing as a writer
is stretching your ability to read with insight and sensitivity: the more you
learn to plan, to reflect on and analyse that planning, the better your writing
w ill be.

This book details strategies for informally listing opening ideas, and also takes
a close look at some scene-by-scene listing in the later chapter, Making a
Scene, Building a Sequence. M y recommendation is that you do give both of
these processes a lot of thought and practice, using both as a support, and for
the moment put to one side the aspects of summing up and selling which are
useful later adjuncts once you have written something worth selling, and
which in any case there is no shortage of advice on elsewhere.

ENDINGS
Some people find forming endings a difficult matter, perhaps even being
reluctant to set out on the story telling journey at all until they feel sure they
know how their tale w ill resolve. Often, if you follow the energy of a piece,
happily complicating your protagonist’s life and driving them ever onwards
against the odds in pursuit of their goal, then the natural conclusion to the
drama w ill probably suggest itself. If you do find yourself wrestling with how
the story should resolve, it is always important to play with different possi­
bilities:

What i f . . . Clayton delivers his cartoon, relaxes in the editor’s chair with a celebra-
tory cigar. Moments later a blank set of frames for the following week’s strip is
gently placed in front of him . . . ?
36 Ideas into action

What if . . . Clayton takes a walk. He goes into a favourite cafe and buys himself
an ice-cream. Sitting nearby is someone who is reading a paper. On its back page
is one of his cartoons. The stranger leafs impatiently through the paper, turns to
the back page and scans down its contents. C by ton studies the stranger’s face with
eager anticipation. However, she remains impassive. A second or two and then she
folds the paper, strides off, tossing it in an adjacent waste bin.

T ry out several different kinds of moment and try turning them on their
head. What if . . . it all happened exactly the opposite way round? W h at then?

As with other aspects of your narrative, which ending you settle on can be
largely a matter of intuition. As a broad generalisation, try to avoid artificially
tacked on flourishes which are there to announce ‘that’s all, folks’; ideally,
the ending of your drama should be seen to have grown out of everything
which has come before. Narratives often have a deliberate circularity, ending
up to all appearances with an identical moment to the one which started the
piece. Sometimes the character(s) in question are discovered back where they
were first introduced, but having undergone a major life'change. Sometimes,
as in that framing device in Titanic we discussed in Chapter 1, we are taken
back to the same character(s) in the same setting as at the start, but now
knowing much more about them. (In Titanic, one more significant action is
going to unfold which w ill resolve matters for Rose and for the audience.)
Sometimes this circularity comes in the form of an echo. W here we may have
seen one character in a particular setting, we now see another in the same
situation.

W hatever you choose, if the ending is a closed one, fully resolving the narra­
tive tension and completing the protagonist’s journey, then it should bring
what Andrew Horton (Writing The Character Centred Screenplay) neatly sums
up as ‘relief and release’.

In his excellent summary of endings, he also observes how endings can fall
broadly into one of two camps leaving the central character(s) isolated or
embraced (actually or metaphorically). He goes on to list several more kinds
of ending including:

• the fantasy triumph ending - it all turns out well, but only in the hero’s
mind;

• the blessing - of love, friendship, or the discovery of a common bond;

• solitude - characters walking off into the sunset;

• long shot - a retreat from the setting and the action allowing for us to put
everything into perspective.
 Ideas into action 37

‘Embrace versus solitude’ seem to me to be particularly useful ideas to bear in

mind, and I would recommend reading the whole section (Horton 1994:
172-5).

If you can, avoid falling back on simply copying others; though, of course, we
are all endlessly influenced by others. Try to follow your instinct and see what
you can create, partly to experience the empowering feeling that you told this
tale all on your own, and partly because in that very process you may plumb
greater depths and tell a better tale. T ell it from the inside first, and shape it
from the outside as a secondary process. W hen you’re balancing out the inner
and outer processes - reflecting on which choices you would be best advised
to make - a rule of thumb is that your story w ill gain most from those
alternatives which offer most complication and generate most conflict for
your central character to deal with. It can also be a very good idea to generate
contradictions iii your story and in your characters, with the aim of adding
ironic edge and so producing a universal recognisability to your piece.

A W O R D OR T W O M O R E ABOUT MEANING
The title of Two Sharp came last. Obviously it ties together the idea of the
deadline, the means to meeting that deadline and the protagonist’s nemesis.
The pointless pencil leads us to question the point of Clayton’s pursuit. It is
an ironic tale in which success and failure are closely entwined. In winning
he loses and so finally gets the point - both literally and metaphorically. That
first image which kicked off the telling of the story was indeed a potent little
metaphor. I didn’t know where it would lead but I did have the good sense to
follow. U n til I was done I did not sit back to scrutinise what it might mean,
and when I did I was pleased to see it had both meaning and irony - the
potential to be recognised as a transferable truth in others’ lives. Sitting with
that first idea threw up more and stimulated plotting possibilities. A story
picture started to clarify and, in following that, I arrived at a story which
goes:

Man has deadline,

Man meets deadline,
Man dies.

THE DEEPER MEANING

Beyond the literal level of the uiifolding story, there is very often a deeper
level of meaning. In this story, at the literal level Clayton fights to get his
cartoon finished and meet the deadline. W hy? So it w ill go in the paper.
W hy? So that his work w ill be included in the next edition. W hy? So lots of
38 Ideas into action

people w ill read it. W h y? So he w ill get recognition, even admiration for his
work. So, tracked to its source, the need for acknowledgement is what may
ultim ately he driving him.

It’s a story which is surrounded by proverbial resonances and everyday

sayings:

'He who laughs last laughs longest'. (So make sure it's you!)
'The pen(cil) is mightier than the sword'. (Make sure you don't fall on
yours.)
'This job is killing me'.
'He finally got the point'.
'Cartoon fun'. (Not.)
And yet — to emphasise the point - this little film script started w ith just a
feeling that a pencil which needed sharpening had the makings of a story. I
recognised something in the moment, and I do suggest that from now on each
and every time you have that kind of intuition you make a note of the image,
the sensation, the snatches of dialogue - any or all of these - to reflect on and
work w ith at your leisure.

F O R M A T AND W R IT IN G STYLE
Having attended to the inner, it’s now time to look at some of the outer
(though no less important) aspects of screenwriting. Some of the mechanics
and superficial characteristics of screenwriting often present needless problem
areas for new writers, so I’ll spend just a little while looking at some of the
areas where there are specialised demands and not infrequent pitfalls.

There are set industry formats for screenplay writing which constitute good
practice. Having said that, you w ill come across variations on these and dif­
ferent house-styles, as well as different schools of thought on their merits or
otherwise. That there is no one definitive way to set down a screenplay is
reflected in the differences you’ll find amongst the excerpts quoted in this
book: and for those who might be thinking some of these variations simply
reflect bad practice, well, firstly - all of the writers quoted here w ill have had
different models and influences acting on them; secondly, some of the films
and T V dramas quoted here have quite clearly gone into production in this
form and gone on to win awards at the highest level.

W h ilst I’d discourage too great a preoccupation with getting layout absolutely
‘right’, whatever that means, there is broad consensus on the difference
between laying out drama for film (w hich may actually mean video as w ell),
that’s to say single-camera shooting on location, and laying it out for multi-
camera studio recording. That said, drama written for television which is
 Ideas into action 39

destined to be shot single camera on location w ill very often be set out as if
for studio recording: the excerpt from Our Friends in the North (see p. 200) is a
good example of what I mean. Both this extract and the extract from Patrea
Smallacombe’s Coronation Street script (see p. I l l ) demonstrate the split-page
television drama format. That characters’ names are centred in one and not
in the other illustrates unimportant quirks of differing house-styles. Patrea’s
script is laid out in Granada’s house-style, though for the publishing purposes
of this book it has been compressed from the double spacing it would actually
have been given in the original. The other important point to note about T V
format is that each new scene is given a new page. Screenplays for film do not
follow this convention. The point of laying out a T V script with text on half
the page is to allow appropriate space alongside the action and dialogue for
the inclusion of camera shots and other technical requirements. If you want
to know more about this, Harris W atts’ book, On Camera, offers a clear and
full explanation. I would encourage you to learn at least the basics of the
media you are learning to write for since this w ill enable you to exploit their
potential more fully.

Two Sharp, The Green House Effect, The Odd Couple, and the extracts from
Some Mother’s Son, My Left Foot, The English Patient, The Fisher King, Network
and Shallow Grave are all in feature film format, which by convention is
spread right across the page. In addition to these formats there is also an
alternative convention used for scripting documentary, as w ell as some
corporate training productions. Examples of these can be found in Richard A .
Blum ’s Television and Screen Writing and Dwight V . Swain and Joye R.
Sw ain’s Scripting for the New A V Technologies. W h ilst your business is script-
ing drama, you need not concern yourself with these at all.

Scenes
Common to both T V and film scripting is the need to clearly define each
scene. Newcomers to drama writing are often confused as to what a new
scene is. Very simply:

a new scene is a change of time or place or both.

W h ilst some might take issue with this definition, (claim ing that where there
is continuous action it is basically all the same scene), it is a recognised con­
vention to mark every change of time or place with a new heading. This does
not mean that every new angle your mind’s eye conjures constitutes a new
scene.

Each and every scene has a scene heading. This is not merely some stylistic
affectation. Important information is included in this line. ‘In t.’ and ‘Ext.’ are
40 Ideas into action

short for ‘Interior’ and ‘Exterior’. These are followed by the exact location of
the scene. This is followed by the time the scene happens. In some scripts this
is expressed simply as ‘Day’ or ‘N ight’. In some, you may find the exact time
of day or night specified. A ll of this information is directly relevant to the
lighting of any scene. The fact that we include all of this information in a
script is also a reminder that it is, in one sense, never a finished piece of work,
but only a blueprint yet to be realised in production.

Typographical conventions
In T V drama scripts, all the action, as well as the characters’ names, are written
in upper case. They may or may not be centred and may or may not be followed
by a colon - take your pick. If a character’s speech is happening out of shot, the
character’s name w ill be followed by (O O V ) or (O O S ) - short for ‘out of
vision’ or ‘out of shot’: I’ve also seen (O S ) used for this. Sim ilarly, you may see
(V .O .) by a character, indicating that the lines are voice-over as opposed to
synchronised dialogue. Any directions relating to a character’s line are in upper
case and may be found directly under the centred name, or at the start of the
actual line, depending on which convention you choose to follow; either way
the directions should be enclosed in brackets. A character’s dialogue itself is
written in lower case. If a character has two (or more) speeches interrupted by a
chunk of action, where the character resumes speaking it can be very useful to
insert the character’s name again to make it clear who is speaking. The major
point to remember about scripts is that they are working documents: the clearer
you make any division between character and character, speech and action,
scene and any other scene, the easier you are making life for everyone who is
going to be part of any revision, rehearsal or production process.

As I said above, scripts for T V dedicate a fresh page to each fresh scene.
Some T V writers are used to putting a generic C U T T O in the bottom right-
hand corner on the last page of a scene to underline the scene change.

W hen writing action for T V drama, some scripts follow the convention of
allowing a fresh paragraph for each shot; others I have seen simply lump all
the action together, making no distinction between what the writer has con­
ceived as separate shots.

Montage, a rapid accumulation of images, is expressed (as with film scripting)

by single lines of action or image, one following another.

W hen there is rapid inter-cutting between scenes, some layouts choose not to
go to the bother of inserting the separate scene headings for the separate
scenes simply combining both in one scene heading, and perhaps assisting the
transitions from one scene to another with the word ‘R E S U M E ’ or ‘CON-
 Ideas into action 41

T IN U E ’. This is more frequently found in film scripting: in any case, I recom-

mend you use a fresh scene heading for every scene, however brief that scene.

W here a scene is happening both interior and exterior, say two characters
chatting at a front door, one in the house and one outside, the scene needs to
be headed ‘IN T / E X T ’.

N ow that I have set out some conventions, you may w ell come across devia­
tions from, and variations upon these. T h is is particularly true of the film
screenplay format, though what differences there are tend to be relatively
unimportant. A major difference, however, between T V and film formats is
that, on the whole, use of upper case lettering is reserved for characters’
names, w hich again may be centred or ranged left before a character speaks.
Every time a character’s name appears, it should be w ritten in upper case.
According to which convention you follow, other key words may also be
found in upper case; these usually refer directly to anything w hich is going to
find its way onto the sound track. How ever, I have also seen characters’
actions, certain props and specified camera shots and shot transitions marked
out in capital letters. Personally I favour sticking to just using upper case for
characters’ names and for scene headings as w ell as the obligatory F A D E IN
and F A D E O U T , also found as F A D E U P FR O M B L A C K , and F A D E T O
B L A C K . O r even F IB , FT B . Take your pick!

W hether sections of dialogue or sections of action are centred, how far either
are indented, and whether or not italics are used to distinguish one from
another can and do all vary slightly in screenplay format. T he basic layout of
screenplay excerpts included here adhere, for the most part, closely to studio
norms. Screenw riting software and internet downloads also offer industry
standard templates.

You may have guessed I don’t have too reverential an attitude to the minu­
tiae of all these conventions, but I do have one or two pieces of advice.
Firstly, read plenty of scripts for film and T V and, as you do, observe the dif­
fering styles and conventions. If you end up w riting for a specific producer or
company who you know favours or requires certain conventions, then it
makes sense to comply. Attend to the content of your scenes first and fore­
most. M ake sure scenes are explicit and clearly headed; make sure action and
dialogue are distinguishable one from another; make sure it’s easy to see who
is speaking. A fter that, as w ith T V scripting, individual foibles and leanings
are relatively unim portant. No-one is going to want to make your script just
because it’s perfectly laid out in accord w ith one convention or another: they
may, however, never get as far as picking it up to give it consideration if it’s
not clearly laid out and easy to read.
42 Ideas into action

Numbering scenes
Between first draft and shooting script most scripts go through several if not
many changes. For this reason alone, whilst it is essential to number pages
(try having a phone conversation about your script without page numbers to
refer to) it can be quite counter-productive to number scenes before you
reach a final draft.

Logistics
I ’ve mentioned that scene headings have vital information with reference to
lighting. It can also be useful to scan scene headings in a storyline to check
for logistical viability; are all the sets available to shoot in, and are all the
exteriors feasible? These are considerations a writer is not immune from being
party to. Checking through scene headings can also be a good way of noticing
whether you’ve achieved an appropriate variety of settings, or indeed been
too lavish or needlessly exotic. One of the joys of drawn animation is that it
costs no more to take your action to Honolulu than it does to keep it in the
frontroom at Acacia Avenue. In live action, sadly, such is not the case.
However, that should not constrain you unduly. W ith in reason write your
piece to be played where it seems truly appropriate. Let your imagination
roam free and worry about changing locations later should you get to that
stage with a script. N aturally the advice I ’ve just given does not apply if you
find yourself writing for an established project or programme, when paying
attention to logistical possibilities is an all-important part of the job.

Staying present
Another crucial characteristic of screenwriting is that it is always in the
present tense. Although you are, of course, recording on paper what you have
already imagined, a screenplay describes no more nor less than what we can see
(and hear) happening in the moment. I emphasise this point since it’s not uncom­
mon for new writers to lapse into past tense, either seduced by the sensation of
what they’ve imagined having already happened, or because what they want
to write is happening in the past relative to another time-frame. Nevertheless,
past, present or future, it’s all unfolding before your eyes and ears now, and so
must all be written in the present tense.

Watch out for the limits

Since a screenplay is only what you can see and hear happening, it’s import­
ant to realise that screenwriting also has some severe limitations. You may
find yourself so wrapped up in your character that you write:
 Ideas into action 43

INT. CLAYTON'S BATHROOM. 6.05 A.M.

Looking in the mirror CLAYTON sees his ravaged face and senses the deep dried-out well
which is his imagination. He remembers the tortured nightmare which was yesterday and
can almost taste the dread he had been so close to drowning in.

G o od stuff, huh? B u t before I put the kettle on and we crack open the bis­
cuits, can you te ll me just how you are going to see this scene I ’ve lavished
such care on?

Basically, in terio r process - th at is, thought described as if it’s action- is a no-no

in screenw riting. A character’s in terio r process is either going to have to find
its place ( if it really needs to have o n e) dram atised as part o f a dialogue scene
or w ill have to be incorporated as voice-over narration. (T h e films o f W o o d y
A lle n , as w ell as Stand By M e (R ayn o ld G id e o n , Bruce A . Evans from a story
by Step hen K in g ), D ays o f H eaven (T eren ce M a lic k ), The G reat G atsby
(Fran cis Ford C opp ola from the n o vel by F. S c o tt Fitzgerald) or the T V adap­
tatio n o f Brideshead Revisited (Jo h n M ortim er from the n o vel by Ev e lyn
W a u g h ), have all offered interesting and very engaging ways o f using vo ice ­
over to express in terio r process.)

S o th at scene now becomes:

INT. CLAYTON'S BATHROOM. 6.05 A.M.

CLAYTON looks anxiously at his ravaged face in the mirror.

A V O ID N O V E L IS A T IO N

W h e n setting out w ith screenw riting some people can have a tendency to let
th eir w ritin g d rift away into a n o velistic form . H e re ’s an exam ple o f w hat I
mean:

Int. Bar. Night.

Paul is standing in front of the cafe. He opens the door and enters. Now the real
nightmare begins. From every corner the sound of people talking presses in on him. He
wonders how he will be able to spot Judith. He stands where he is, looking around. He
'looks' for her: she saw him coming in and now moves towards him. She reaches him and
stands opposite. She realises he is blind. Paul asks: 'Are you Judith?' Judith is surprised
and replies with a Yes. She is just about to ask him how he could have known that she
was standing there. Paul interrupts her, knowing what she wants to ask: 'I could smell
you ... in a nice way of course.'

T h e passage looks like a chunk out o f a prose work, and is actually uncom fort­
ably poised between prose and drama. It has interior process (thoughts and
44 Ideas into action

realisations) which we cannot see, reported action and speech where there
should be just action or speech, and also novelistic preamble to character’s
speech. It is cumbersome, redundantly reflective, slips tense, and is, in any case,
partially unrealisable as a screenplay. Those last three lines could become:

JUDITH
(surprised)
Yes! How did you - ?

PAUL
I smelled you.

JUDITH
Oh...

PAUL
(charmingly)
You smell very nice.

This trap of writing half prose, half drama is easy for some to fall into at first.
W atch out for writing material you don’t need to include (for example, ‘he
said’ or ‘she interrupted him ’) between lines of dialogue, or expressing mater­
ial which could easily be dramatised as description or characters’ reported
thoughts and feelings, which in any case cannot be seen.

DETAIL AND D ESC RIPTIO N:

GETTING THE BALAN CE RIGHT
I have come across scripts full of the most intricate details of setting and
design. One such not only specified the colour of a lizard, but actually speci­
fied the colour inside its mouth. Unless details such as these are vitally rele­
vant to plot or character, you can forget them. This is a lucky break for prose
fiction writers used to toiling away and generating every bit of costume and
scenery in their stories, and terrible news for control freaks. Joking apart,
debate often rages about how much or how little description to put in the
action. The fact is, a lot of the time you do only need the bare bones. But
then again part of your job as a writer is to evoke mood and atmosphere, and
w ith that in mind you may want to offer more than a totally uninflected,
functional description. A script should be a good read. It has to fight its way
out from under a pile of others, grab the reader’s attention and keep them
happily absorbed. Choose your adjectives w ith care so that they work hard for
you and suggest a great deal, whilst spelling out very little. W h at you don’t
want to do is to get so specific that you tie everyone’s hands and feet. It’s
 Ideas into action 45

important to remember that a script is and is not a finished product. It should

be as finished as you can make it - a tightly constructed, engagingly w ritten
piece of work. It should be as pacey, vivid and energised as you can make it,
so that it comes to life off the page. It should not be over descriptive but then
again, it needs to evoke enough atmosphere to keep the reader hooked.
Scripts are intended for interpretation: what you are after is establishing and
conveying the right kind of territory for those interpretations to inhabit. If
your script goes into production, it w ill be serviced and interpreted by a
whole team of people, including the director and designers. You may w ell feel
you know exactly how it should look and sound and, w hilst that may have
been invaluable in the process of imagining the action, unless you are going
to be the producer and/or director of the piece, learn to let go.

T E C H N IC A L S P E C IF IC S : W H O CALLS THE S H O T S ?
W e now come to the highly charged and undeniably political question of how
much or little the writer should specify camera angles and shots; or even how
much he or she should try to manipulate the director into a way of shooting.
Even the convention of writing each shot as a separate paragraph of action
might not find favour w ith some unbridled egos, who may object to the writer
expressing any of the action in a way which suggests im plicitly where shot
changes should happen, let alone how or what those shots should be.

Opinions on this tricky question do change, and there are a number of differ­
ent schools of thought on the subject. I recommend you stay your side of the
fence and simply write the action and dialogue without trying to specify shots
or the nature of transitions between them. W h ilst no-one’s going to object
w ildly to an odd suggestion here and there, on the whole it’s far better to
work by stealth. If, for example, it seems crucial to you to specify a close-up of
a character, think hard why this is so and if still convinced write the action or
dialogue in such a way that a close-up is going to be irresistible.

T ry to avoid
INT. CLAYTON'S BEDROOM. 9.15 A.M.

A big close-up on Clayton as, heartbroken, he examines the broken pencil point.

Instead try something like:

INT. CLAYTON'S BEDROOM. 9.15 A.M.

CLAYTON lifts the broken lead; he rolls it between thumb and forefinger, fighting hard
to hold back his tears.

O f course, there’s nothing to stop a director shooting that as a very wide shot.
But at least you’ve done your best, and often there w ill be an opportunity to
46 Ideas into action

comment and negotiate if you stay alert, know what you want and are sure of
your ground. The danger w ith specifying shots is that you may very well not
he able to do it as well as the director. It’s not your job anyway; it’s theirs.
The crucial question is whether or not you have radically different visions,
and even more crucially, whether the director’s vision negates or markedly
distorts yours.

A compromise some writers make towards getting out of the director’s chair
(w hilst leaving their jacket draped over the seat-back) is to specify ‘another
angle’, as a way of nudging the director into seeing it their way. Don’t do it.
W h ich other angle did you have in mind? Same as the director? This kind of
back-seat directing can really end up alienating the person you most need on
your side.

PREC ISIO N AND V IG O U R

In On Directing Film (a book I thoroughly recommend you read), leaning on
theory of montage, David Mamet argues that, just as an assembly of unin­
flected shots - (that is a procession of plainly-related images) w ill excite an
inevitable sense of understanding in an audience’s mind, so actions too
should be as uninflected as possible. T h at’s to say an actor w ill very often be
able to simply give a look, rather than give a particular kind of look, and the
unelaborated action w ill more than suffice. He takes actors to task for being
over-preoccupied w ith the ‘arc of the performance’:

This commitment to the arc of the film - it's ignorance on the part of the
actor, ignorance of the essential nature of acting in film, which is that
performance will be created by the juxtaposition of simple, for the most part
uninflected shots, and simple uninflected physical actions.
O n D ire ctin g F ilm 1992

W h ile I think On Directing Film is, in so many respects, essential reading for
those interested in the process of putting screen story telling together, I also
think that too dogmatic an adherence to stripping away all expression can be
counter-productive. There is a danger that if you write a completely unin-
fleeted script, in which characters simply ‘enter’, ‘sit’, ‘look’, and so on, it w ill,
at the very least, be far less arresting on the page than it might be. If you
know the moment you’re depicting and are certain that a character ‘cau­
tiously slides into a room’, or that ‘she slumps w earily’ onto a chair, by all
means write this in. Be open to having your mind changed by anyone who
might interpret your script, and then again be prepared to stand your ground
and argue for the moments you have written. O n the other hand, as Mamet
argues, there is also great strength in not defining every moment too descrip­
tively, or investing every action w ith emotional background. As you w ill see,
 Ideas into action 47

later in the book, the whole business of sharply and precisely defining emo­
tional attitude and specifying action can be immensely helpful to the process
of writing your script. W ith o u t becoming too novelistic, it can be a good
thing that a certain amount of this colour and precision finds its way into
your finished script. It both enlivens your piece and makes it more vivid to
the reader: anything w hich helps the drama live for them a bit more while
they read is, to my mind, no bad thing.

I ’ve detailed a lot of things here. Don’t worry about taking them all in at
once. W ritin g is an ongoing practice and every script you work on gives you
an opportunity to reflect on what you’ve achieved, and think about what you
might like to have improved on or done differently. From the beginning, do
tryr to ensure your screenwriting always happens in the present tense, that it
avoids unnecessary repetition, and above all, that it has energy and impact.
Be yourself, get involved and enjoy the telling, without resorting to any bogus
razzmatazz. A llo w your voice to come through, and try to set your story down
w ith enthusiasm and presence. T o w rite a drama is, in one form or another,
to write a play; and as the name suggests that process offers space to explore
your im agination, to abandon yourself and, despite the demands making plays
places on you, and the discipline you w ill need to develop, it also offers a real
chance to learn through having fun. Don’t forget to keep playing.

Exercises
1 Perhaps taking one of the images you used in the picture exercise at the end of the
last chapter, or perhaps using an image you left to one side, start dreaming up a
new story. Make a list of 'What ifs' and mind-map the key images.
2 Write a short screenplay based on this material with no dialogue. (Don't feel this has
to be an animation, and try to avoid doing too similar a story; feel free to do your
own thing.)
3 If you have done this as a group, do copies for the other group members and take
turns at reading them out and discussing them. Try letting other people read your
script: it can be very useful to hear someone else speaking your words.
 3
Just picture it:
visualising the action

T elevision and film are prim arily visual media. That is to say, wherever
possible, the pictures and the action should always come first. It is what we
are watching which truly engages our interest, over and above what we are
hearing, however im portant that may also be. C learly, different forms offer
different opportunities and emphases, placing different demands on the
writer. Nevertheless, the ab ility always to visualise action, to ‘see’ your
drama through, is a vital one to develop. It ’s worth remembering that early
cinem a managed to tell very effective and engaging stories w ith little or no
supporting explanation or captioned dialogue.
Parallels have often been drawn between watching screen dramas (particu­
larly in the cinem a) and the experience of dreaming. Certainly the business
of writing screen dramas calls for sustained acts of imagination: we need to
see the events in our mind’s eye, to day-dream but to do so with conscious
intent if we’re going to shape those imaginings into a drama.
T wo Sharp (p. 3) is offered as the first example in this book because I want to
encourage you to develop your abilities to visualise your drama from the start.
M any writers starting out to write plays or screenplays make the mistake of
thinking it’s all about making characters talk to each other. Yet, others think
screenwriting is about composing beautiful visuals and arranging arresting
shots to best effect. W h ilst both the verbal and the visual have their vital
places in writing effective screenplays, the essential capacity is to be able to
imagine how the action of your story unfolds first visually, and then verbally.
That, is to say, it’s about getting to know what every moment in your drama
looks like as well as knowing what it sounds like.
A helpful step in building up the visual picture of your story’s unfolding
action is to understand a little of how separate shots, when put together, carry
both their own separate meanings as well as a cumulative meaning which is
more than simply the sum of those separate meanings.
 Just picture it 49

INT. OFFICE RECEPTION AREA. START OF OFFICE HOURS.

The lights flash madly on BERNICE's telephone desk-switch. Many calls are there for the
taking, none are being taken.

We see the desk-surface in all its glory. Des, a soft toy and BERNICE's mascot sits in pride
of place astride a small radio. A magazine lies open. A jacket is draped over the back of
the chair, it is a bright and definitely more-fun-than-work type garment.

INT. ERIC'S OFFICE. CONTINUOUS.

ERIC's fingers drum impatiently on his desk-top. In front of him is a stack of letters with his
written answers noted on or attached to them.

Long suffering, he hangs on the phone trying to get through.

INT. WOMEN'S TOILETS. CONTINUOUS.

Humming happily away to herself, BERNICE applies blusher, sucks in her cheeks and
blows herself a kiss.

INT. ERIC'S OFFICE. CONTINUOUS.

ERIC hangs up and resigns himself to attending to some more writing.

INT. GROUND FLOOR LIFT ENTRANCE. CONTINUOUS.

Bearing briefcase and mobile phone ADRIAN arrives at the lift, presses the button and
stands waiting.

INT. BERNICE'S RECEPTION AREA. CONTINUOUS.

The phone lines still flash away as if for Britain. In front of where BERNICE should sit is a
magazine, its pages flagrantly spread wide open. To one side is a pile of documents
begging for attention. In pride of place, at the front of the desk is a small, fluffy bear.
BERNICE appears from round a corner clad distinctively, humming happily. She sits. With
blatant disregard she flicks all the lines on her telephone switchboard off, then re-opens
one line, rapidly dials a number and leafs through her mag.

A s viewers we are always trying to make sense out o f what we are shown.
Sin ce the one follows the other, we assume a connection between Bernice’s
deserted desk and Eric’s im patient efforts to make a call. T h e flashing desk-
switch is w hat helps us make that initial link. W e connect Bernice to the
desk via the jacket and also via her blithe indifference, which in itself con ­
nects her back to Eric’s long-suffering expression and the pile o f correspon­
dence in front o f him.
50 Just picture it

Broken down to essentials we see:

1 A n em pty desk and unattended desk-switch.

2 A man trying to make a call.

3 A wom an happily m aking her face up in the toilets.

4 Fed up, the same man gives up trying to make his phone call.

T h e nature of assembling shots in this way gives us a cum ulative m eaning

w hich none o f the shots on their own could carry, and also an overall
meaning w hich would not be available if any of the shots were missing.

T h e sim plest assembly o f action can engage our curiosity as viewers, and
allow us to engage w ith the process o f m aking meaning and follow ing the
story. T h is happens quite sim ply by our being presented w ith a stream of
questions. ‘W h o is this man trying to ring?’ ‘W h o ’s not at this desk?’ ‘Is this
wom an the secretary who works at the unattended desk?’ ‘Is this w ho he’s
trying to ring and is that w hy he can’t get through?’ ‘W h a t w ill he do next
and w ill he make contact w ith her?’ ‘W ill he get w hat he wants?’

By reading the stream o f images we can follow both characters’ individual

stories in parallel: in E ric ’s story he is hard at work and w anting some kind of
assistance w ith that process. Bernice is on a toilet break, and from the evi-
dence we are given from the state o f her desk, we can safely assume she is not
employee of the m onth. T h e inter-cutting of both sets o f images bring two
characters who are not in contact into m eaningful contact in the view er’s
m ind, so that the relationship their individual stories have to each other can
be understood. H e is busy and diligent w hilst she, his secretary, is not; there­
fore they are likely to be at odds w ith one another, and we eagerly anticipate
the moment when they actually do come into contact.

W e can see how sm all but relevant details can enhance this basic dynam ic
between the two characters. T h e first bit of action we see in E ric ’s office is a
shot o f his fingers drum m ing im patiently on the desk-top. Bernice’s happy
hum m ing and carefree kiss to herself in the m irror contrast strongly w ith this,
and are topped off by the cavalier way she ditches all the incom ing calls when
she returns to her desk.

C uttin g between different story strands creates the opportunity to skip forward
in tim e and to leave one dram atic question hanging w hilst another is picked
up and developed. T h is leap-frogging of one story by another is the mainspring
o f m any serial dramas, and is common to the progression of all conventionally
told narratives containing more than a single plot. W h ere two (or more)
 Just picture it 51

characters’ stories are intercut rapidly, the effect can be to intensify the audi­
ence’s engagement with the unfolding drama by sharpening our curiosity
about the consequences o f each scene and the connection between them. One
o f the great advantages o f employing this device can be the enhanced level o f
audience interest the writer can generate by juxtaposing complementary yet
contrasting action and imagery-. Here is another example, taken from Some
Mother’s Son (Terry1George and Jim Sheridan) where cutting between parallel
progressions is used most effectively:

EXT. GLENARM. MAIN ROAD. DAY.

A small village dominated by the local police station, which is hidden behind wire and
sandbags. Today there's a roadblock outside. British soldiers direct traffic through a
roadblock. GERARD pulls up in the car.
KATHLEEN
(anxious)
God, I don't believe this. And I've got
concert practice this morning.

EXT. SCHOOL. YARD. DAY.

KATHLEEN and LIAM rush from the car. GERARD drives off.
KATHLEEN
Run, Liam, don't be late.

INT. SCHOOL CLASSROOM. DAY.

A choir sings Panis Angelicus as KATHLEEN rushes into the classroom, arms full.

KATHLEEN
Sorry I’m late, Brenda.

MUSIC TEACHER
No problem.

KATHLEEN
Is it going alright?

MUSIC TEACHER
Fine.

KATHLEEN
Good God, the roadblocks this
morning. Okay. I’ve got the order here.

EXT. SAFE HOUSE. DAY.

GERARD approaches the side entrance. FRANKIE and IRA MAN #2 leave with a heavy bag.

INT. SCHOOL CLASSROOM. DAY.

KATHLEEN watches the girls practise their dance steps.
52 Just picture it

EXT. COUNTRY ROAD. DAY.

KATHLEEN'S car pulls up in a country lane. FRANK, GERARD and IRA MAN #2 get out.
They go to the back, take out the rocket launcher. FRANK climbs over a gate by a field,
followed by IRA MAN #2. GERARD keeps watch.

INT. SCHOOL CLASSROOM. DAY.

The beat of the dance tune intensifies, the dancers' feet pound the floor as...

CUT TO:
EXT. GLENARM BRIDGE. DAY.
FRANK and IRA MAN #2 run toward a hedge.
Frank's P.O.V. through the rocket launcher sight: a bridge, soldiers lay explosives.

INT. SCHOOL CLASSROOM. DAY.

The girls dance now in slow motion as:

EXT. HEDGE. DAY.

FRANK fires the launcher.
A loud bang and a trail of smoke from the hedge.

INT. CLASSROOM. DAY.

KATHLEEN hears the roar of the rocket.

EXT. GLENARM BRIDGE. DAY.

The missile smashes into the jeep, an explosion, followed by a larger explosion which
consumes the jeep.

INT. SCHOOL CLASSROOM. DAY.

Windows shatter, girls cry, duck to the floor. Smoke rises from across the field.

EXT. COUNTRY LANE/EXT. CAR. DAY.

FRANK and IRA MAN #2 run back through the field.
GERARD waits nervously.
FRANK and IRA MAN #2 tumble into the car.

INT. SCHOOL CLASSROOM. DAY.

The girls flee the classroom/a young girl is hysterical. KATHLEEN shelters the girl and
leads her out.

EXT. SCHOOL. DAY.

The girls flee the school as bells sound and in the distance sirens wail.

EXT. COUNTRY LANE. DAY.

The car speeds away.

Both K athleen’s and G erard’s story are intertwined here. Her son drops
her off at school and then goes on, supposedly to buy shoes, but in fact, to
take part in the rocket attack on the British army. W hilst her own child
G erard fights for the m other country, his m other takes part in imparting Irish
 Just picture it 53

traditions to others’ children. Them atically there is an interesting tension

being explored. The heart of the sequence contrasts close-up shots of dancing
children’s legs and feet, with the running of the IR A men. The beat of the
music and the pounding of the dancers’ feet drive and accelerate the narra­
tive tension to a pitch which reaches its height when the rocket is launched
and streaks its way towards the target (preceded by a moment in which the
dancing is seen in lyrical slow-motion) and is released by the double explo­
sion and the smashing of glass.

Images of innocence and peaceable tradition are intercut with, and used to
build suspensefully towards, an act of violence. As I suggested before, the two
strands are held together thematically by the idea of national tradition and
identity; we are offered a poignant view of alternative strategies for preserving
these - direct military action and the teaching of traditional Irish culture.
Finally, the two story strands are united by sheer physical proximity. The explo­
sion which we might have thought was happening some way away, turns out to
be near enough to blow-in the school’s windows and terrify the children.

The sequence continues, incidentally, with one of the children deliberately

obstructing the soldiers’ attempts to take a grip on the area - a nice reversal
of the road-blocks at the beginning.

Visually the quoted passage is a stimulating, exciting sequence which offers the
viewer a startling counter-point; children dancing whilst grown men launch a
potentially deadly attack. Notice the two shots of Kathleen and Gerard cut into
the stream of the action. She hears the rocket, he waits nervously. As well as
their separate involvements in the school and the attack, we are also invited to
tie the two together through the inclusion of those shots.

The percussive beat of the music and the dancing feet match up with the m ili­
taristic mood of the rocket attack, and yet is, in its own right, entirely inno­
cent. Ironically, the viewer gets to know more about her son than Kathleen
who is also innocent of all knowledge of his Republican activities at this stage.
And whilst the sequence accelerates, builds tension and resolves in an intense,
short period of time, it also manages to encapsulate a longer period of real time
both credibly and effectively.

BUILDING M O O D AND SETTING

Central to the idea of day-dreaming with conscious intent in order to weave
narrative is the process of conjuring up the essential images of your story. I’ve
already mentioned this briefly in Chapter 1. As you start to build up a picture
of your drama, try to establish a sense of setting or place, and a sense of mood,
within which character and story can unfold. The following excerpt from
54 Just picture it

My Left Foot (Jim Sheridan again, this time with Shane Connaughton 1989)
powerfully illustrates what I mean.

Earlier in the day, the terribly handicapped Christy Brown, just turned 17, has
been very reluctantly press-ganged by younger lads into taking a turn at ogling
a local girl’s breasts. Immediately afterwards, Rachel sitting nearby, preferring
Christy to the others, tells him he has nice eyes and gives him an innocent
kiss.

INT. CHILDREN'S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

CHRISTY is p a in tin g . It is in the fo rm o f a love le tte r th a t he is d o in g fo r RACHEL. In it
RACHEL is id e a liz e d a n d CHRISTY h im s e lf is p a rt o f a flo a tin g couple, perhaps like
C hagall o r som ething. M agic. A m o o n a n d a heart w ith th e letters RB a n d CB w ith an
a rro w th ro u g h them . Kisses a n d a litt le poem . CHRISTY is p a in tin g w ith th e a id o f a
b icycle lam p. O u tsid e is a fu ll m oon. He is concentrating. It is d iffic u lt to p a in t th e b lu e
in th e eyes. CHRISTY takes th e brush in his m o u th a n d w ith a huge e ffo rt p a in ts a d o t o f
blue. O f f screen w e hear th e voice o f SHEILA.

SHEILA
Ah, don't.
(Giggle)
Brendan, stop. Not here. If
me da hears us there will
be murder.

EXT. STREET. NIGHT.

They m ove in to the sh a d ow as CHRISTY goes back to his p a in tin g.

INT. CHILDREN'S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

He p a in ts the ro m a n tic scene in contrast to the occasional noise from below .

SHEILA
Not here, Brendan. Later.
CHRISTY c a n 't concentrate. O n e o f his brothers snores in his sleep. CHRISTY shines the
la m p ro u n d the room . There seem to be a b o u t ten children, boys a n d girls, a ll asleep in
the room . CHRISTY knocks o f f the la m p a n d lies dow n.

INT. CHILDREN'S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

CHRISTY is awake. O u tsid e th e m oon. D ow nstairs there is a ro w betw e en MRS BROWN
a n d SHEILA. We can hear MRS BROWN shout, ‘A re you a g o o d g ir l? ’ SHEILA replies ‘I
am, I a m .’
Close o n : CHRISTY w id e awake, listening. W e hear the sound o f th e d o o r open. SHEILA
comes in to th e room . She stands in th e w in d o w lo o k in g out. She starts to take o ff her
clothes. W hen she gets to her slip a n d her undergarm ents she starts to ru b her hands a ll
o v e r h e r body. CHRISTY w atches her. S lo w ly w e hear his b re a th in g g e ttin g heavier.
SHEILA stops a n d looks a t him .
 Just picture it 55

Figure 3.1 Daniel Day-Lewis in M y Left Foot © Granada/Miramax/RGA

SHEILA
Are you O K ? God, you're sweating, Christy.
Are you sick? Look at the moon, Christy,
isn't it gorgeous? Go to sleep, Christy.

T h e essential images in this sequence evoke both mood and setting and
also uiiderpin the m eaning of the scene. Love and lust, romance and reality,
innocence and experience are juxtaposed, just as the moon shining down on
the lovers (also depicted in C h risty’s picture) is off-set by a very down-to-
earth bicycle lamp w hich later casts a different light on love and romance
when it reveals a room fu ll o f sleeping children. A lthough there is an obvious
lin k between the two, the latter is an image a long way removed from two
lovers floating through space and tim e, oblivious to reality.

A key question about both characters’ attitudes is expressed visually in this

sequence. W h a t light do these characters see themselves and each other in - the
soft romantic silvery moonlight or the far less attractive, functional lamplight?
As the sequence concludes we see that Sheila - who is clearly not quite the good
56 Just picture it

girl she claims to be when pressed by her mother - cannot conceive of Christy as
sexual, thinking instead he must be sick. For his part, Christy watching Sheila
relive her most recent memories standing in the moonlight, can’t avoid experi­
encing his sexuality, and another side of himself, quite at odds with the artistic
romancer so caught up in the painting. Moreover we see Christy unable to sleep,
and in several ways this sequence is about the idea of awakening: romantic and
artistic passion awakened in Christy, sexual passion in Sheila, as well as the
sexual stirrings later awakened in Christy by Sheila’s sensual delight.

Starting w ith an idealised picture of how Christy thinks love should be, his
Chagall-like painting, and moonlight shining down on the lovers, we move
into a sexualised version of the same, in which Christy can no longer
immerse himself in innocent fantasy: ironically, where he’s concerned, Sheila
cannot believe in anything other than her brother’s innocence.

There is a conscious selectivity at work here, w ith the writer pulling together
images which bounce off each other to produce absorbing and ironic con­
trasts. The whole sequence pictures a complex, contradictory set of feelings
and perceptions, which contrast strongly with the idealised sim plicity of
Christy’s painting, w ith its very own moon and heart. It is this process of
getting just the imagery and action you need to express both mood and
meaning, whilst clearly advancing the story, which can be so valuable to
pursue. In the quoted sequence nothing has been included accidentally.

W hen broken down to its essentials, this sequence relies on a simple set of
images (a ll of which naturally belong to the real-life setting being depicted)
played off one against the other. In just the same way I’d encourage you to let
your idea unfold from its nucleus, so take those images which occur to you
automatically and work w ith them. Rather than artificially ‘posing’ characters
in artificially contrived settings to demonstrate an idea you’ve had of how the
meaning might go, let your day-dreaming take you into likely and natural
scenarios. In just the same way dreams present themselves to us, so the essen­
tial images of what you want to write w ill also, given space, do exactly the
same. The knack, the craft worth developing, lies in how to spot which of
those images can be turned to a story teller’s advantage, and in then combin­
ing both instinct and intellect to work out how best to achieve your goal.

Description and detail

It’s essentials you’re after and not needless detail. It’s the job of a director or a
design team to give a script interpretation and particular visual expression: so
there’s no need to specify aspects of wardrobe or set design unless they have a
directly relevant bearing on the story. So, at first glance, the set-up below
might seem too detailed.
 Just picture it 57

INT. MAGGIE HAMBLIN'S OFFICE. 9.15 A.M.

The ambience is cool. Pot plants and personal touches abound. Mellow music issues from
her CD drive as MAGGIE, typically casually attired, reclines, feet up on edge of desk, jots
on a pad. A perfunctory rap on the door and without waiting ADRIAN appears, like
Mr Punch, in the doorway. A split-second in which the curl of his lip betrays the distaste
he harbours for MAGGIE'S holiday-like style. Unruffled she slowly looks up as he puts his
snarl back in its kennel.

However, this scene is the start of a training video all about personal
presentation, and both dress and demeanour are directly relevant to the plot.
If this were not the case there certainly would not be a need to go to town on
specifics. A briefer, more general description would have been fine. As I’ve
already said there is some merit in conjuring the mood of a scene or a setting.
Done well this can enhance the readability of a script, convey essential ole-
ments in the drama of your scene and help intensify engagement with the
story. However, try to do this economically, and keep your mind on assem­
bling a series of images which, by their simple progression, tell the story in
such a way that it holds the interest.

Shots

It. is ironic that to write well the action must unfold vividly in the mind’s eye of
the writer, and yet at the same time, there is no need to convey the specifics of
that vision unless they are of direct and relevant bearing to the story. That said,
the screenwriter does need to write setting and action expressing them as shots.
As far as the writer is concerned, shots are simply separate episodes on camera.
These can be static and momentary in duration, or can develop and cover an
expanse of time and action. As I’ve already suggested, I don’t recommend too
close an interest in specifying types of shot or transitions between them; that is
the business of a director. However, there may be moments when you are con­
vinced of the proximity (or distance) of the action and may want to indicate
that in the way you write the shot. Then again, you may want to underline
where you want the centre of attention to be, and that is perfectly appropriate.
Generally speaking, the convention is that each shot is written as a separate
paragraph. In a montage - a rapid accumulation of shots to build a particular
mood or meaning - each shot is given a separate line, often without the need
for accompanying scene headings.

Visualising dialogue-heavy drama

Aristotle identified the importance of visualising drama as you write it in The

Poetics:
58 Just picture it

When constructing plots and working them out complete with their
linguistic expression, one should so far as possible visualize what is
happening. By envisaging things very vividly in this way, as if one were
actually present at the events themselves, one can find out what is
appropriate, and inconsistencies are least likely to be overlooked.
The merits of this process are obvious enough when you’re imagining and then
writing down action. But what about when you’re writing dialogue-intensive
drama? This is often the case with television drama, T V being predominantly
most effective as a close-up medium, that fact, by and large, still holding true
even as domestic screens become grander in scale. Surely all that matters is that
you hear what the characters have to say to each other and just leave it at that?
Certainly it is vital to be able to hear the characters say what they would say,
but in fact visualising the scene can also help with the business of hearing it.

Every interaction is a ‘dance’, and a valuable way of getting the dynamics in a

scene right is to see that ‘dance’ in your mind’s eye; indeed, a useful exercise
can be to take a scene and imagine how it would unfold without words. How
would the characters dance or mime their intent in a scene? Once you've
seen this, you may get some very illum inating clues as to how to write the
dialogue, and exactly what significant actions to incorporate.

There is an oi'eraU ‘dance’, in other words the business of the significant gestures
one character makes to another in a scene, and then there is also the moment-
to-moment handling of contact between characters which will also find its phys­
ical expression and which can also be usefully visualised by the writer as he builds
the scene. I’ll look at the second of these ‘dances’ in more detail in Chapter 6,
and offer some close analysis on the way this springs from following the dramatic
sense. For now, though, have a look at the following scene and start to see it in
terms of a dance of pushing hands. There is an exercise actors do which derives
from T ai C hi, in which they hold the tips of two bamboo sticks with their finger­
tips, one stick for each hand, whilst the other ends are held in just the same way
by the character(s) with whom they are interacting. The sticks represent both
the contact made between the characters and also the dynamic flow of energy' in
the scene. That is to say, who is driving or pushing the scene at any given
moment, and who is maintaining or breaking that contact. So even within this
seemingly static, sedentary scene, there is a physical flow of energy at work, an
observable ebb and flow which can help dictate how it should go.

INT. THE TREMBLING TROUT. LUNCH-TIME.

ADRIAN brings a round of drinks back from the bar and puts them on the table.
 Just picture it

ADRIAN
I tell you she's a waste of space.
ERIC says nothing, preferring to chew on a peanut. ADRIAN settles himself.

ADRIAN
Well, isn't she?
ERIC
(after a pause)
She's still new. She'll settle down.

ADRIAN
She's been with us six months.
That's not new any more. She's
had more than long enough to
learn the ropes.

ERIC
She has got the two of us to
look after.

ADRIAN
And falls woefully short of the
mark. Admit it, she's a downright
liability.
ERIC
I think that's putting it a bit
strongly.

ADRIAN
Is it? Has she done any of
those letters you gave her
two days ago? Or was that
a mirage I saw towering
over her comic?

ERIC
She is still a bit slow getting
things done.

ADRIAN
Slow. I've seen glaciers faster
than that girl.

ERIC
Look, at the end of the day
she is a secretary, isn't she?
She does know what she's
there for.

ADRIAN
Does she? I'm beginning to doubt
60 Just picture it

it. Look at that fiasco this morning.

Poor old Paul didn't know whether
he was coming or going, and
neither did I come to that.

ERIC
Yes - pity I had to dash off, or
I could most likely have sorted
things out.
ADRIAN
But that's my point, Eric. You
shouldn't have to. Neither of
us should. It's not our job to
sort her out. Supposedly quite
the reverse. No, she'll have to go.

ERIC
Let's talk to her, eh? A
friendly word.
ADRIAN
W hy bother? It's a waste of breath.

ERIC
No, no. Let me try. I'm rather
good at this sort of thing.
Trust me.

Adrian’s first line is clearly a continuation of an offensive he’s already

mounted. He is driving the scene at this point and is pushing Eric to agree to
Bernice’s dismissal. Eric yields, buying time, chewing on a nut. Visualised, you
can see the bamboos pushing Eric back and then gently returning to neutral.
Adrian pushes again. Eric holds his ground. Adrian continues to push. Eric
pushes back a little, indicating Bernice’s workload and so advancing an argu­
ment on Bernice’s behalf. Adrian shoves back, dismissing the argument as
useless. Eric holds his ground and Adrian brings in more evidence to back his
case, pushing Eric back. Eric is pushed, admitting Bernice is a bit slow.
Adrian presses home the advantage. Eric musters his energy and tries to hold
his ground, appealing to Adrian’s sense of reason. Adrian counters with yet
more damning evidence drawn from that very morning. Eric is really pushed
now and, in trying to push back, is blatant in his defence. Adrian pushes Eric
again and is blatant in his offence - as far as he can see, Bernice w ill have to
go. Ever so gently, Eric pushes back. Adrian withdraws energy, almost ready
to break contact and let those invisible bamboos drop. Eric pushes gently
forward to maintain the contact. That ‘Trust me’ suggests he has slowed
Adrian’s pull-out to a stand-still, and they are left at a point where Eric is
gently pushing to maintain his newly-won edge. W e assume Bernice is going
to get a chance.
 Just picture it 61

SEEIN G THE B IG G E R D ANCE: S E N S IN G THE O V E R A L L

D Y N A M IC
If I have a picture of the dynam ic of this scene played out, on a caricatured
level, as a dance of melodramatic gesture, then A drian advances on Eric
almost threateningly, almost accusing Eric in place of Bernice. H e points to a
sheet o f indictm ents perhaps even poking Eric in the chest w ith these. Eric
backs off steadily, doing what he can to halt A drian’s progress. Finally, nearly
backed into a comer, Eric tries to slip out to one side of Adrian, but Adrian
immediately blocks his way, holds him in the comer, thrusts the indictment into
his hand and produces a pen for Eric to sign the charge-sheet with. Eric won’t
take it, gently folds the charge-sheet. Adrian turns away, folding his arms in
exasperation. Eric places a reassuring arm on A drian’s shoulder, and when he
has his attention offers him back the charge-sheet. Finally Adrian meets his
gaze, then reluctantly takes the paper back. Eric smiles and pats him on the
shoulder. Adrian shakes his head. He can’t believe he’s agreed to this.

These physical pictures of the dance emerge as the scene gets w ritten and
match up to the objectives each of the characters has and to the em otional
journeys they make. A drian starts angry and w ith the objective of pressuring
Eric to collude in dismissing Bernice. Eric starts the scene impassive, and
beneath that anxious on Bernice’s behalf. H is objective, as it emerges, is to
win a reprieve and make peace. H e ends the scene openly happier as he has
won the reprieve. A drian has failed to fulfil his objective, to get Eric on his
side, and in his defeat he turns first sulky and then sceptical.

So this ‘ballet’ takes the envisaged scene to an extreme, a procession of mag­

nified, expressive gesture, as a means to track the true dynam ic between the
characters.

It’s important to remember these exercises in imaginative choreography are

only a means to an end. They help you form an internalized movie which you
can then set down in words, but (and it is an important but) they are not the
movie you are going to write. They are simply a means to an end. Compare the
operatic/balletic quality of the bigger dance above, to the action which actually
found its way into the finished scene. There was no thrusting of charge sheets,
no backings into comers, no hands on shoulders. Adrian bought the round of
drinks, Eric chewed a nut and shortly afterwards paused. T h at’s all the writer
ended up specifying. T hat moment of nut-chewing can be seen as a very scaled-
down version of Eric backing into the corner (as described above), and indeed
it’s the appropriate scaling down (or up) of physical moments which w ill occur
in the final piece you write. The ‘dances’ are no more than a complementary
method to help in conjuring up the flow, and identify key, pivotal moments in
62 Just picture it

the dynam ic between your characters. A s such, these are im aginative exercises
undertaken for the w riter’s benefit alone. A fter that, it’s going to be down to a
director, crew and actors to do what they want to build visual interest in this
scene in the acting, shooting and editing, w hilst rem aining faithful to the
dynam ic the w riter has discovered and embedded in the lines he’s written.
Keeping eye-contact, and breaking eye-contact, may well take the place of
larger gestures and could still be all the action that’s needed.

I ’m at pains to spell this last point out, since trouble can often flow from one
o f two directions w hen new writers set down a scene. T h e first common error
is that there is no sense of a dance at all. T here may be very little ‘ping’ and
‘pong’, as it were, and one character may get the lio n ’s share of the words and
action, w hilst the o ther(s) are relegated to the role of stooge. Bu t when there
is to and fro, if the dance hasn’t previously been summoned up, the scene w ill
often sound like the characters are sim ply taking turns at speechifying the
thread or the argument of the scene. A lte rn a tive ly, where the dance -
particularly the sm aller dance of moment-by-moment contact - has been
imagined and then mistaken for the m ovie proper, w hat can happen is that
the w riter w ill then try and transcribe every single mom ent of this imagined
action, treating the characters (and by default, the actors and director) as
m arionettes. T h is can be a deadly inheritance for those charged w ith playing
your lines, reducing them to the status of puppets. In a bid to make the
process live for them , the actors and director may understandably abandon
most if not all o f w hat you’ve w ritten.

S O M E O T H E R P O IN T S

You don’t need to have characters storming around for there to be plenty of
interest in w hat’s going on between them . Indeed, too much action, too great
a preoccupation w ith props, can be an irritating distraction from the real
business o f a scene. A lso, as I pointed out in an earlier chapter, screenwriting
has a hard tim e depicting detailed thought. T h a t doesn’t mean the audience
isn’t interested in working out w hat’s going on inside characters’ heads. O n
the contrary, in a we 11-written scene, an audience w ill be w atching every
m om ent to track w hat’s unsaid and undone as w ell as w hat is made obvious.

In pieces w ritten for studio recording, w ith the lim itations of multi-camera
recording, and the necessary compromises w hich are imposed by tim e, setting,
lighting and coverage available for sound recording, scenes may often get a relat­
ively static, talking-head sort of treatment. It is all the more important, then,
that the inner life of the scene has been well and tm ly ‘danced’ in the writer’s
head so it can function well in a relatively constrained physical environm ent.
 Just picture it 63

AVOIDING WRITING THE LOOK OF A SCENE

There are ways in which writers can busy themselves trying to write a scene
from the outside in, as it were, at the expense o f other vital considerations.
This may simply show itself up as an irrelevant and ill-founded preoccupation
with the visual style a piece is to be rendered in. I’ve certainly come across
new writers with only the vaguest idea o f what their piece is to be about, let
alone how it actually goes, who confidently announce it should all be shot as
wide-screen in black and white. A part from a fatal confusion over what is the
writer’s and what is the director’s domain, this kind of assertion is very much
about the tail wagging the dog. How a piece unfolds is really far more to do
with its inner life than any stylistic devices which you may find appealing.
Moreover, believing you can usefully predicate the development of how a
piece is to be written on what you conceive to be its ‘look’, is a fundamentally
mistaken notion.

T hen again, there are writers who have such a strong pull for a moment or an
image that they put their story through all kinds of contortions to realise
these coups de cinema. Below is a brief outline example of the kind o f thing I
mean.

A man sits impatiently in a long queue of traffic on the motorway. As

time unfolds it becomes clear there has been an accident way up
ahead of him and the emergency services are working hard to attend
the scene of the crash. We keep cutting back to see more and more of
the man's mounting impatience. (Note we do not see anything else in
his car, and he does nothing other than get ever more fretful.) At the
crash site, struggle as they might, fire crews cannot release an injured
woman. They start to consider options and produce cutting gear. Back
with the man in his car, we now realise his pregnant wife is in the
backseat, and she chooses this moment to go into labour. The man
starts to pay attention to her. Back at the crash site, the fire crews
have cut a line down the length of the crushed car's roof. In the other
car, its rear near-side door open, the woman is about to give birth,
assisted by her husband. Back at the crashed car, the fire crew use a
jack to prise open the roof of the car and reveal the trapped woman.
In the other car, the woman gives birth. At the crash site, the fire crew
pulls an unconscious woman out through the roof. Back at the other
car, mother, father and child are full of joy. Back at the crash site, the
dead woman's head is covered over with a sheet, the urgency giving
way to despondency.

T h is is a good exam ple o f one envisaged big m om ent so entrancing the

author that he forgets to attend to some vital questions such as whose story
it is and how the plot m ight more probably unfold. T he writer is so intent
on getting the cut between the roof being prised open to release the
64 Just picture it

woman, and the other woman giving birth to her baby, that he loses sight
of how best to tell the story. If the man is intent on getting his wife to hos­
pital because she is imminently about to give birth why does he make no
attempt to summon emergency help or to let others know what’s going on?
Even more strikingly, why does he not even so much as look at his wife or
ask her how she’s doing? Why does no-one else around react when it
becomes obvious what’s going on for the man and his wife?
I’m not saying that there wouldn’t have been a way to tell this story quite
credibly, making it clearly the father-to-be’s story and building all kinds of
mounting urgency. W hat I’m pointing out is that the writer is so busy con­
triving matters so as to get to the central ironic contrast that he neglects to
name his central characters, motivate them properly, follow their credible
actions and reactions moment-by-moment, relate one emergency directly to
the other emergency, nor usefully involve any bystanders. In other words the
writer’s eye is so fixed on the ironic (admittedly eye-catching) visual parallel
at its heart, that he doesn’t care much about how he gets there. He pays his
story as little attention as the man in it pays his pregnant wife.
I suppose this is all by way of saying do care about the whole piece you’re
writing, the inner and the outer, and attend to its telling in an integrous
manner. How much more effective that big moment would have been if our
hero had clearly been concerned with his partner’s welfare right from the
outset, had borrowed a mobile phone, rung for help, and set off a secondary
action by some of those same emergency services, battling to reach his car in
time to help. It’s when big visual moments are delivered at the expense of cred­
ible cause and effect story telling (entirely appropriate to this piece), and are
also spun around characters we are given no reason to care about, that the
writer, beguiled by a moment of visual wit and impact, has neglected his real
work and sold us well short.
Keeping the balance between form and content is always important in
writing, and never more so than in writing for the screen. There are all kinds
of writers: those who are thwarted or wannabe directors, intent on achieving
visual impact, never mind how inappropriate that might truly be to the
drama; there are writers who have no aspirations to direct but who feel duty
bound to make their drama more eye-catching, and busily set about devising
the exotic, extraordinary or extraneous just to give the director opportunity;
then there are those who are so tied up with what the characters are doing
that they lose sight of what we can see them doing. My key pieces of advice
would be: write appropriate visuals for the medium you are aiming a script
at. Cinem a thrives on the large-scale, and the landscape; television favours
the close-up and the domestic. Having said that, of course, there is always
room for cross-over. Also, hold the balance between form and content -
 Just picture it 65

don’t let setting, action or visual incident outstrip or overwhelm the dra­
matic heart o f the moments its there to enhance and support. Finally, and
most importantly, with your mind’s eye watch every moment of every scene you
are writing, and keep watching cbsely throughout.

Exercises
1 Using the techniques you've practised so far, devise two stories which will unfold in
parallel, for the most part independent of one another, and yet have one or possibly
two scenes in common. For example, the extract from Some Mother's Son starts for
both main characters on the drive into work. Make sure that your stories cross at
some point. Again, try and do this with no (or very little) dialogue.
2 Pick a scene involving two characters from one of the pieces you've already planned.
Now write this as a scene with action and dialogue. Before you write the scene, try
visualising its 'bigger dance' and writing a description of that.
3 If you have a group, copy and share all the work. With the dialogue scenes, cast the
parts and choose someone other than one of your characters to read out the action.
Be careful to just give the parts a straightforward read. Funny accents and over­
acting can be quite needless and very distracting, and sometimes cover people's ner­
vousness. Don’t be led astray! On the other hand do get into your parts. Take time
to discuss all of your scripts.
 Character: the 'Who?' and the
'How?' of characters in action

Screen stories, just like other dramas, flow from both plot and character.

The question of whether character or plot is the more important element to

attend to in writing a drama is one which gets a frequent airing. Aristotle was
in no doubt that the answer lay with the unfolding action, whilst others have
argued the case that, without developed character, you cannot know how
your story is going to unfold:

Every great literary work grew from character, even if the author planned
the action first. As soon as his characters were created they took
precedence, and the action had to be reshaped to suit them.
(Egri 1960)

S o which should you deal with first? I think neither plot nor character devel­
ops in complete isolation from the other. They have a symbiotic relationship
and one way or another we actually start with both; the one inextricably acts
on the other, and both have to be understood to find the best way forward for
your drama.
W hat happens to a character is one matter; circumstances throw up
significant events which impact on your protagonist. Your protagonist’s
reaction will depend, in large part, on what makes him tick. How do you
know that? How do you avoid the pitfall of deciding how your story goes
and then manipulating your characters like marionettes whichever way you
have to in order to deliver your pre-determined plot? Put simply, events
don’t just happen to people, they also unfold along certain lines because of
who those people are, and more crucially when writing drama, because of
how they are in the world; this, in turn, springs from all the characteristics
and experiences which make them who they are. Moreover dramas don’t
occupy themselves with everyday events; they are about characters facing
the extraordinary and characters acting and reacting under pressure -
 Character 67

characters who in a sense are not themselves, and by the same token also
really are.

So where best to begin - plot, character or both? A s I ’ve already suggested, it

is inevitable that you w ill have to tangle w ith both aspects, and my feeling is
that both plot and character are subject to a necessary process of clarification.
There are those who favour getting a highly-developed picture of their char­
acters before pitching them into a plot. T h e work of deviser-directors such as
M ike Leigh is of particular interest in this regard. T he developm ent of char­
acters is at the centre of the process he guides, and only when his actors have
a solid grasp on the characters they have individually developed in consider­
able depth are these characters brought into relationship w ith each other.
The narrative unfolds from a mixture o f the consequent improvisations and
Leigh’s interventions.

Then there are others who like to have a developed idea of where their story
might be going before considering character in greater depth. In fact,
whichever seems to be centre stage in your mind as you develop a narrative,
there is no avoiding the need to clarify both; consciously or not, your characters
and the story events which they are involved in are subject to an ongoing
process of clarification as each moment of your drama unfolds. In the end there
are no short cuts; if you shirk either job, leaving your characters thin and unde­
veloped, your story events unsurprising and improbable, or fail to weave the
drama from the interaction of both character and plot, then your piece is bound
not to engage an audience as w ell as it might.

C H A R T IN G C H A R A C T E R S ' J O U R N E Y S
O nce you have the outline of your story. It can be very useful to begin to chart
the em otional progress of your central character(s), breaking shifts of feeling
into distinct, successive phases. Later in the book I look in some detail at how
scenes build into sequences and how those sequences can usefully be seen as
the major building blocks of your drama. In fact this sequence approach was
once the traditional approach to constmcting feature films, each script being
seen as an assembly o f eight distinct sequences. Defining and describing
between eight and twelve broad-stroke em otional steps for your character
(interestingly, perhaps, the universal monomyth or hero’s journey mentioned
a little later traditionally has twelve stages of action) can provide a spine to
your evolving story and ensure that you keep your character’s/characters’ emo­
tional journey(s) in motion and alive throughout your story.

It so happens that there are some observable, common cycles of emotion and
patterns of behaviour psychologists have picked up on w hich can be a useful
reference point when mapping the emotional journeys of characters in
68 Character

naturalistic dramas told in the classical manner. So if, say, we were to con­
sider a story based on a character who has suffered loss or bereavement then
there are distinct shifts of emotion and behaviour identifiably attached to the
process of anyone going through the normal cycle of grief and mourning.
These are stability, immobility, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, testing
and acceptance. In real life these phases, when neither suppressed nor abnor­
mally amplified, unfold over a period between eighteen months and two
years. In a feature-length drama the journey (or parts of it) will of course be
compressed into between one and a half to two hours. None the less those
eight phases (elaborated from the five stage grief cycle identified by Elizabeth
Kiibler-Ross in On Death and Dying) can provide very helpful, navigable land­
marks, and a progressive broad framework to fill out with finer detail.

So, for example, if we consider Truly, Madly, Deeply (Anthony Minghella), a

story centring on love, loss and grieving, very early on in the proceedings
there is an interchange between N ina and Sandy, her widower boss at the
translation agency, in which he voices his, and others’ concern that she isn’t
going out at all socially, isn’t inviting people round, looks terrible, and checks
whether it’s her feelings for her dead partner Jamie which are holding her in
this paralysed place. She acknowledges his encouragement to stop isolating
herself but when he asks her out for a drink says ‘Sandy I can’t, I can’t. I just
can’t’. A little later we see her with her therapist, very distressed, sobbing and
describing how most of all she is simply angry with Jamie for not being
around any more. Also, early in the drama she is having the infestation of rats
in her terrible flat dealt with, and the place is full of the actual smell of dead
rats, a fact remarked on by her sister Claire when she comes to visit with
N ina’s nephew Harry. During that visit Claire asks if there’s any chance of
Harry borrowing Jam ie’s cello for the lessons he is just starting with. N ina
freaks out incredulous at her sister’s insensitivity. ‘It’s practically all I’ve got
of him. It is him, it is him. It’s like asking me to give you his body’. We can
see the grip this phase of the grieving, denial, still has on her, and it’s almost
immediately following the shock of this request and N ina’s violent reaction
to it that Jam ie’s ghost appears for the first time; a graphic depiction of the
level of denial still at work. Faithful to the emotions which would naturally
attend the loss of a deeply loved partner nevertheless Minghella poetically
shuffles and dramatically compresses those feelings round a little, partly to
avoid becalming the protagonist’s journey in the deadly passivity of depres­
sion, and partly as a response to the need in any story to accelerate the
narrative process. So towards the end of the film when we see N ina’s row
with Jamie before she tells him and his ghostly friends to go, it does equate to
a phase of testing out letting go of the grief, which Nina is almost ready to do,
poised as she is to reinvest in life and start a relationship with her new love
 Character 69

Mark. The final moment of Jam ie, overcome w ith his own grief and supported
by his ghostly friends, watching N ina go off with Mark underlines both his
and her acceptance of both her ability and need to come to terms w ith his
death and move on.

In naturalistic story-telling there w ill often lie a close relationship between a

character’s actions and their unfolding emotions. So, for example, after that
row w ith sister Claire over the cello and left on her own, N ina sits holding
(embracing) the cello, before moving over to the piano to play her part of a
much loved Bach duet, shortly after which the ghost of Jam ie appears to her.
W hat is noticeable is the organic flow of one action to another, clearly m otiv­
ated as they are by N ina’s haunting love and vivid longing for dead Jamie.

Truly, Madly, Deeply happens to provide a particularly apt example to put

alongside the grief cycle mentioned above. But ‘the change curve’, extrapo­
lated from the same model and applied to a much wider spectrum of events,
provides a comparable possible template. The movements in question are
shock, depression, anger, resignation, acceptance and understanding.
W hether either of these models provides a recognisable resonance with your
story or not, it’s really important to acknowledge that any dramatic story w ill
involve change and the process of change w ill have its distinct, particular
phases. Those phases of emotional movement w ill relate to the activity or
inactivity of a character as they pursue what they want. W here a story is
being told in a strongly naturalistic vein then it’s quite appropriate to observe
those phases of emotional movement very closely just as they would relate to
a unique living individual, arid not least because the organic emotional
unfolding of your central character(s) w ill help dictate their actions. O n the
other hand, where a story inhabits the realms of the mythic and the arche­
typal, or the comedic and the caricatured, the question of closely observed
em otionality becomes more blurred, and may seem to disappear altogether at
times or figure as of considerably less importance certainly for some of the
characters; that said, it is nearly always possible to chart a character’s progress
against generalised feelings of hope, fear or their opposites. In any case it can
still be really helpful to construct a skeletal core to your story and your
central character’s journey, perhaps building that progression more upon the
unfolding stages of action than on the developing emotional process. W ith
some such stories the observable steps of the hero’s journey may provide you
with a useful structure. (These are described very clearly in The Writer’s
Journey by Chris Vogler.)

And though there may be a huge gulf between a strongly naturalistic story
and one that is firmly in the realms of the archetypal, it is also true that there
can be very strong resonance between the naturalistic and the archetypal and
70 Character

hence it can be really interesting at some point in the process to take your
‘real’ story and measure its development against the stages of the hero’s
journey.

It can also be really helpful in seeing both the bigger picture of how you are
building your central character’s journey w ithin a drama — as w ell as in
understanding how the smaller parts of that story relate to the whole - to
look at three separate elements side by side - emotion, action and pursuit
of objective. W h en charted in three parallel columns one or two facts
become clear at once; you w ill see very quickly where your character is
standing still in any of those departments and know whether that aspect is
playing effectively or is quite simply stagnant and in need of further atten-
tion. So, w hilst it’s okay for a two dimensional, tragic-comic cartoon char­
acter to obsess continuously over a pencil-point, that level of monomania
w ill not fit w ith other kinds of character or story, and w ill simply fail to
convince an audience or enlist them in an empathic journey. Use of that
chart w ill also help you see whether you are missing necessary shifts of
emotion or have emotional non-sequiturs at play, and raise questions about
whether you are building your character’s journey inorganically, from the
outside in; then you should also be able to tell from this chart whether you
are needlessly repeating an emotional step or a building block of action;
and finally you should be able to see the relative importance and promi­
nence of those different elements of both storytelling and character devel­
opment (em otion, action, pursuit of objective), both overall and at
different points in your developing script. W orking this way, whatever the
story you’re building, you should be able to identify something going on in
all of those three departments. I want to stress that I ’m not offering the idea
of working this way (nor either of the particular models m entioned) as a
prescriptive formula, rather as a potentially helpful strategy to assist in
paying detailed attention to the business of installing dynamism in your
character(s) and their story whilst also allowing you a continuous overview
of your unfolding process. C ertainly for many writers it is far easier and less
time-consuming to attend to gaps and problems when a principal character
and their story is still in outline form than it is after they are well into the
detailed writing of the script and are much more closely engaged with and
attached to what they’ve already set down.

Incidentally, the chart for character development included in this chapter is

based on my analysis of About Schmidt (Alexander Payne and Jim Taylor). I
do want to stress that it is my take on how 1 see Schm idt journeying and I can
of course have no idea whether these writers, or indeed Anthony M inghella,
used any such device in their writing process.
Figure 4.1 Chart of character development
72 Character

In the definition of what makes up a story, offered earlier in the book, 1 men­
tioned the fact that something extraordinary must happen to unsettle thor­
oughly the equilibrium of a chosen character’s life. There can be a strong
temptation to deal in huge, unusual events or gestures when thinking about
how to unsettle a character’s life or indeed resolve their conflict or period of
trial and tribulation. So it’s worth remembering that apparently small,
mundane events can have momentous effects. Just as it is proposed in chaos
theory that a butterfly fluttering its wings can cause extreme weather on the
other side of the globe, so a seemingly insignificant or trivial moment of
change can later have huge repercussions. Conversely, sometimes it can be
completely appropriate and effective, metaphorically speaking, to subject a
character to an instant landslide.
About Schmidt is, just like Truly, Madly, Deeply, also a story of coming to
terms with loss. The film begins with insurance actuary Warren Schmidt
sitting in his empty office, belongings packed away, literally watching the
clock on the wall as the last moments of his last working day tick away. A t
exactly five he gets up and leaves. As the story unfolds we see Schmidt shown
as a not untypical man of his generation. He is a thoroughly time-served indi­
vidual, heavily identified with the company he has spent all his working life
with, institutionally married, both to employer and wife, and emotionally
unavailable. O n top of the way he has narrowly defined his life, and perhaps
because of that fact, he is in any case socially awkward.
G iven Schmidt’s history then, the every day fact of retirement is quite a
powerful moment of change to throw into his life, and it certainly provides
him with a deep if recognisably common challenge as he struggles to unhitch
from his first love and long-term source of status and belonging - the
company. But then he is given a landslide-like shock when, not long after
retiring, he returns home one day to discover that other beacon of pre­
dictability - his wife - has dropped dead whilst doing the cleaning. Left to
himself and his own limitations Schmidt is at once both liberated and lost,
and we follow his ill-fated, sometimes poignant, sometimes embarrassing or
ridiculous attempts to connect, belong and find purpose.
Shortly after losing his wife, comfortably installed in his armchair watching
T V , he watches an advert inviting sponsorship of children in Africa. W e see
Schmidt take stock and then pick up the phone. The child he fosters is a very
young Tanzanian boy, Ndugu, and the letters he writes to Ndugu, on the
advice of the charitable organisation, provide him with a vital source of
expression and also act as a catalyst for important journeying. He sets off
across Nebraska bound for Colorado with a half-baked idea of stopping his
daughter Jeannie’s forthcoming wedding to waterbed salesman Randall,
whom Schmidt dislikes and privately rates as ‘a nimcompoop’. The trip
 Character 73

becomes in part a pilgrimage to his own childhood and youth as Schmidt goes
in search of the house he grew up in and visits his college fraternity. A s he
relates all of this to Ndugu in the letters he writes him, we also see Schmidt
start to reconnect with his own younger self.

The stay in Colorado is ill-fated. Jeannie’s mother-in-law to be, Roberta,

offers Schmidt a fulsome welcome (and more!) as do the wider family. Judge­
mental and disparaging towards them all, it becomes clear Schmidt cannot
begin to cope with intimate warmth and closeness.
Jeannie is unswerving in her resolve to marry Randall, angered by her father’s
machinations and attempts at manipulation and hurt by the painful, difficult
relationship she has with him, which on this occasion culminates in his lack­
lustre, polite and perfunctory wedding speech. This ends by damning with
faint praise both his son-in-law and the match, before Schmidt instantly
scoots off to seek refuge in the toilets.
He hightails it back to Omaha, the voiced-over letter to Ndugu relating the
fact that he feels a failure as a father and believes he has no purpose left in
life. Opening his mail he finds a letter from Ndugu written by one of the nuns
who cares for him. Ndugu thanks him and hopes ‘you are happy in your life’.
As he reads the words and looks at the simple stick-man drawing of himself
holding Ndugu’s hand, the tears trickle down Schm idt’s cheeks, and for the
first time in the film (in one of those butterfly rather than landslide moments)
we see him really feel his loss and at the same time make a genuine connec­
tion both with himself and this little boy in a far off country. It is a muted
moment that heralds the possibility of profound change and so its power is
huge and undeniable. It is an ending that illustrates very well how misguided
it can be, as many new (and not so new!) writers do, to give into the tempta­
tion to end a story with a grand, melodramatic gesture, or an obviously extra­
ordinary event. Such a move can be quite extraneous and counter­
productive, springing as it often does from a fundamental lack of conviction
that seemingly small shifts within a recognisable normality can provide every­
thing a story needs to achieve powerful dramatic impact.
Sometimes, if not always, in a naturalistic story, it is a combination of factors
which are going to make for an emotionally powerful story, but always it is to
do with the impact of the journey travelled on your chosen character and
hence, by proxy, on your audience; and though there can be nothing more
commonplace than bereavement, especially for older characters, dealing with
loss can, dramatically speaking, be the making of them. Conversely, the
arrival of a sudden gift or o f a lost or hitherto unknown and significant person
into a character’s life, can also provide great dramatic potential. Secrets and
Lies (Mike Leigh) being one such story, where a mother’s shock at being
74 Character

discovered by and reunited with the mixed-race daughter she gave up at birth
has major repercussions for both that mother and her family. So no need,
necessarily, to reach for the unlikely, or the unusual, let alone the esoteric or
scarcely credible either by way of presenting a character’s circumstances or as
means of disrupting them. It is how the character deals with the disruption
that we are going to travel with and be moved by. But before we can know
what that will mean for any given character we do also need to know quite a
lot about who that character is.

KNOWING THE 'W H O ? ' AND THE 'H O W ? ' OF YOUR

CHARACTERS
I’ve already suggested the great value of working with others in developing your
writing skills. This can be particularly helpful when you are learning to develop
characters. Below is a three-part group exercise aimed at developing and getting
to know your characters. Do this exercise in a group of at least three or four.

The 'Who?': building a biography

Over the period of a few days or a week start to spend time individually think­
ing of a specific character. A t this stage you may or may not have the roughest
outline of story they belong to rattling around in your head. You certainly don’t
need one; for now, simply concentrate on the character. When you feel com­
fortable with the facts you’ve decided on, write them down in note-form as part
of an accumulating profile. These facts should cover anything and everything. 1
can’t emphasise enough the importance of feeling comfortable with your
choices. For example, newish writers often find it very difficult to settle on a
name which seems to fit their character. Cast around until you’ve found the
name which really does seem to fit naturally, and at the same time don’t feel
you have to go to extraordinary imaginative lengths to find some special handle
for your character. As you work, concentrate on those characteristics or experi­
ences which suggest themselves easily to you, and don’t force the process. You
may find yourself thinking about people you know or whom you’ve met and
this can be a useful source of inspiration, though I’d suggest you steer clear of
lifting a character from life wholesale; this is not only a potential matter of legal
sensitivity (should the character ever be published or broadcast) but it can
quite simply blinker your creative options. What you want to establish at this
stage is everything which could be observable about a character: ethnic back­
ground, age, gender, height, how they dress, where they live, where they work,
where they shop, where they holiday, hobbies, family, relationships, children,
friends; then you’re after the character’s significant life experiences: back­
ground, family history, education, friends, relationships, past illnesses, acci­
dents, beliefs, hopes and ambitions, triumphs and disasters, likes and dislikes.
 Character 75

Don’t worry about covering everything under the sun in minute detail, but do
get to the stage of feeling you’ve covered the ground fairly well. Between times,
sit and refer to your notes and make sure that you do feel what you’ve put down
is right for your character. Don’t be afraid of rethinking and making changes.

Just a cautionary note here. W hen some new writers set out they feel a need
to install a dark secret into their character’s life to make it more dramatic: it
is as though they don’t trust their character to be interesting enough uiiless
they have done (or had done to them) something really bad, massively heroic
or eye-catching. It’s really worth avoiding this temptation and trusting in the
fact your character w ill have lots of dramatic potential without any such
‘special’ history attached to them.

In the process of building your character profile, you may well start to get an
idea of other characters who are close to the one you’ve chosen to explore.
Simply note what you want about these significant others, but don’t so over­
whelm yourself with information that you start to lose the feel of what your
chosen character is like.

Other strategies for envisaging your character

You may find it valuable to think about whether your character is more of an
introvert than an extrovert. It may also help you to think about whether your
character is, typically, high energy or low energy, and whether they are men­
tally active or physically active, emotionally expressive or emotionally inhib­
ited, optimistic or pessimistic. Are they open hearted and generous of spirit or
mean minded and cynical? Are they sitting on a lot of anger? Do they need to
be in control? Do they have a need to win? Do they find it hard to say ‘no’ in
life? Are they highly imaginative? Are they literal? Are they practical and
organised or are they happily chaotic? Are they fearful ? Are they very gregari­
ous? Are they easily overwhelmed? Do they finish what they start, or not? Do
they get dogmatic and stick to their guns rigidly in an argument? Can they
stand their ground in a conflict or are they a push-over?

Characters' physicality
It can really help to get a mental picture of your character’s physical type and
presence. Are they able-bodied? If not, what is their disability and how does
that affect them?

Are they long and thin, short and fat, inflated round the shoulder and chest
or collapsed? Do they have a piercing gaze, a soft, warm look to their eyes?
Are they strong in the jaw, or quite weak chinned? If you think this kind of
detail is unimportant I suggest you start observing people’s physical types and
see how it relates to their energy and typical patterns of behaviour. You may
be surprised to notice some definite correlations.
76 Character

How does your character move? If you watch people carefully you’ll see that
it’s often quite possible to detect a predominant manner of moving anti
speaking. Exaggerate these a little in your mind and you may find it fits in one
of these categories: dabhers, flickers, pushers, pullers, gliders, punchers and
slashers. Translated back into questions, is your character tentative, impul­
sive, insistent, demanding, composed or aggressive?

Again, don’t feel you have to nail every single aspect of your character’s phys-
icality down, hut do as much as feels useful to you at this stage, and in any
case do start to watch other people more closely.

If you’re wondering how much value there is in getting such a clear picture of
your character when all you’re going to do is end up expressing them as words
on a page which w ill then, perhaps, he embodied by an actor chosen by a
director, I ’d suggest the process is a very worthwhile one: what it w ill help
you to do is to give each character you write individual definition. A frequent
failing in new writers’ work is that their characters don’t seem to live and
breathe as individuals distinct from the other characters alongside them. A ll
too often it’s possible to cover the names of the characters over and then find
it impossible to know for sure who is saying the lines in question. The process
of envisaging so many different aspects and specifics about your character w ill
help you to avoid this trap.

Once you’ve compiled a character profile in note-form and have had time to
get to know your character, it’s time to meet up again w ith the rest of the
group doing this exercise with you.

Hot-seating your characters

A very fam iliar exercise to many actors, this entails putting a chair in front of
hut at a little distance from the group. Each of you takes a turn at sitting in
this ‘hot-seat’ and being questioned as your character by the rest of the group.
This may sound a little dauiiting to anyone who has not experienced drama
or theatre exercises, but in my experience of using this exercise w ith many
would-be writers, any initial nervousness tends to be very rapidly and easily
overcome, and people do find the whole experience really valuable in their
writing process. It’s worth observing a few guidelines.

Keep to a fixed period of, say, 15 minutes for each character.

If you are the one being hot-seated then don’t have your notes w ith you to
refer to, although you might want to refresh your memory before you start.

W h ilst you are sitting in the hot-seat, you can only be the character and not
yourself.
 Character 77

Be the character rather than play at being the character. There can be a great
temptation to play-act, to ham up your character rather than doing your very
best to portray the character you’ve built up on paper. It’s not important to
convey all the external facets of a character (to make your voice exactly like
that of an old person, or little boy). It is far more important to get to the
essence of how your character is and tell the others all about him or her from
that place. It’s the knack of being yourself whilst being someone else that you
want to acquire, and which can help you so much in getting to know the
characters you want to write.

Immerse yourself in the experience, and act and react as the character would.
If you feel your character would not volunteer information on a certain
subject then be tme to that impulse.

Stay in character. Don’t let anyone’s embarrassment or resistance (including

your own) pull you away from being the character at all times once you’re in
the hot-seat. The more continuously and convincingly you can do this, the
more you w ill be met with a convinced and engaged response. Obviously this
hot-seating exercise is an artificial situation: if you are male but playing a
female character or vice versa, or if you are asked to describe your character’s
appearance and it’s a long way from being like your own, there’s going to be a
temptation for the others to react to the apparent absurdity of the situation
and laugh it all off. If this happens, don’t worry, but do get back into the
exercise properly as soon as you can. Once you are used to the exercise you’ll
find such lapses tend not to happen at all. Do remember this is an exercise
calling for the sustained use of your imagination —just like writing.

For those asking questions of the hot-seated character, try asking about more
than just the factual. Ask how the character feels about this or that; by doing this
you give them a chance to flesh out the mental and emotional realms of their cre­
ation. (If by some chance you do not have a group of people you can try' this with,
maybe a friend or member of the family would help you out with the hot-seating.)

Feedback
W hen each person has finished their stint in the hot-seat, take a few minutes
to gather some two-way feedback. Those questioning w ill have gathered a lot
of information, and they should also have gathered some ideas about what
this character is like. This w ill have been deduced from the factual data and
also the way in which the character has reacted and responded. Are they
funny, or deadly serious; open, or quite secretive; courageous, or rather timid;
clever or stupid? How do they come across on the face of it all? W hat do you
think might be going on underneath and why do you think that? Share these
first impressions with each other and compare notes with the person whose
78 Character

character you’ve just hot-seated. Do your impressions line up with what s/he
had intended? In any case, how did the person in question feel while they
were being the character? Above and beyond the pure facts of a character’s
life, the questions of how a character comes across in the world and what is
going on for them beneath the surface, are cmcial ones.
Although we need to know at least a little (and more usefully a lot) about
who a character is in order to start writing them, dramatically it is how they
act, react and interact in the world which w ill really tell us what to write.
How w ill my character be in the world at any given moment? That’s the ques­
tion you need to be able to answer to write the character convincingly.
Continue with the exercise until everyone has been hot-seated. You w ill now
have several budding characters and there are two very worthwhile writing
exercises which you can try to take what you have developed further.
W rite a monologue in which your character muses on and tells an imaginary
audience all about something which happened to them. Concentrate on
getting us to understand what your character is like from the incidents they
choose to relate, and the way they relate them. Avoid letting your character
make open statements describing the simple truth about themselves. So if they
are genuinely a happy-go-lucky sort of character, don’t have them appear and
say, i ’ve always been a happy-go-lucky sort of person’. Illustrate the fact in
their attitude to events and the actions and reactions they choose to make.
You may find it very useful to have a look at one or two of A lan Bennett’s
Talking Heads monologues.
W hen you’re happy with the finished version of your writing get together
with your group again and read it for them: better still, get someone else in
the group to read (it’s always illuminating to get some distance between you
and your work), and then let the others tell you what they got from the piece,
what they thought about how your character came across. Avoid saying any­
thing about your intention until you’ve heard what they’ve got to say. It
could well be that they don’t get everything you’ve intended to get across to
them, but the truth is they w ill have got just as much as they got - no more,
and no less. T hat’s an indisputable fact, and one which can usefully send you
back to the drawing board.

PUTTING YOU R CHARACTERS TOGETHER

Another valuable exercise after hot-seating individual characters is to invent
credible scenarios in which two or more of the characters you’ve started to
invent meet and interact. Again, don’t feel the need to choose an extreme
situation or to make something terribly significant happen in some crunch
 Character 79

moment between your characters. It can be interesting to find out how a char­
acter carries on in a simple situation, with someone they don’t, as yet, know
well. For example a young woman, Jean, who really wants a boyfriend but who
seems to have bad luck in relationships might have a job as a sales assistant in
a department store. Another character, Sally, who has just found out she is
pregnant by the partner she loves very much comes in to look for clothes.
How much do they find out about each other? How does one respond to the
other? It could be that the incident would pass off on the surface as completely
unremarkable: then again, Jean might really draw her out so as to try for a
share of the shopper’s happiness by proxy. It depends on what you’ve found
out about your characters, and what they would credibly do and say given how
they are in the world in general, and then this situation in particular.
Just a couple of further notes on this. Remember the power of action and
reaction: your characters do not have to speak all the time. A silence can be
quite eloquent. Stillness can have great power.
Don’t try and handle too many characters in a scene all at once. When you’re
starting out, a two- or three-handed scene can be quite enough to manage. Try
a two-handed scene with a third character perhaps coming in for just a bit of
the time. Only write for as many characters as you feel comfortable with.
You may prefer to put one of the hot-seated characters into play with a
character (or characters) they already know very well. As long as you do
enough preliminary work on the other character(s) to know how they are in
the world that’s fine and will, of course, allow for a different level of potential
contact.
When you’ve finished writing your scripts, then meet up again with the
others, and take turns at casting your scripts and reading them out. Try
casting men as women, sometimes, and vice versa. Afterwards take time to
gather feedback and, as ever, do this in a supportive, constructive manner.
Always try to offer detailed criticism. ‘I think that’s really good’ is of limited
value. Try to say what exactly it is that you like about a script and why you
like it. Open up a truly constructive, creative dialogue with each other.
Whilst sharing your work with others committed to supporting each other’s
development as writers can be invaluable, another benefit of working like this
is that, in time, it refines your abilities to internalise these exercises and
enables you to become your very own workshop: as well as working at the
level o f the imaginal - fostering the ability to ‘see’ your drama through -
there is also great advantage to be gained by stimulating your ability to ‘hear’
each character in your head and sense whether they are speaking or reacting
in a way which rings true for them. And if by now you’re thinking these exer­
cises are fine for actors but a bit silly or unnecessary for someone simply
80 Character

setting words down on the page, there could be much to gain by giving the
matter second thoughts. W ritin g drama is no more nor less than an intro-
jected version of acting. Like it or not, the writer of convincing drama must
inwardly enact every moment of his work, and consider it from each charac­
ter’s point of view as he does so, to get the most convincing action and reac­
tion with which to write the story.

There are screenwriting books which detail all the principles of genre, style,
story anti theme, and which seem to treat actors, if not as Hitchcock once
famously suggested they should be treated - ‘like cattle’ - then certainly
almost as an afterthought. And yet the actor’s process and the building of
character seem to be completely central to the business of constructing con­
vincing drama. Most fiction scripts are intended prim arily for actors to work
from, so it seems only common sense to examine what actors look for as they
take the words their characters are going to speak off the page and bring them
to life as a character. It is no coincidence that many writers of drama for stage
or screen have had experience of acting. W hether you act, or write for actors,
the process of enactment at the level of the vividly imagined is cm cial to pro­
ducing convincing drama.

IM P R O V IS IN G : THE KEY TO U N D ERSTA N D IN G C H O ICE

Every moment you write in a drama is one chosen from many alternatives.
W h a t writers strive for are those choices which seem to flow effortlessly and
naturally from previous choices made for that character, and which also give
the maximum potential for further dramatic development.

Improvisation can be a truly worthwhile way to explore possible ways forward

for your dramas, to try alternative versions of moments and scenes, and a
group setting provides an excellent opportunity to experiment with and get
used to improvising. There are some very useful books on this subject, and for
those interested in developing their skills I ’d recommend Keith Johnstone’s
books Impro (M ethuen) or Impro for Storytellers (Faber and Faber), Chris
Johnston’s House of Games (N ick Hern Books), as well as Augusto Boal’s
Games For Actors and Non-Actors (Routledge). Don’t be put off by the fact
that these books relate to theatre. If you have formed or can form a support
group for your screenwriting, then as well as reading some or all of these
books consider regularly turning over some of the group’s time to playing with
improvisatory technique. However off-putting you find that idea, given an
atmosphere of mutual encouragement, I guarantee your sense of narrative and
drama, and as a consequence your scriptwriting, can benefit enormously.

Getting used to the idea of improvising scenes w ill help you internalise what
can be a vital asset in understanding how to make a scene go using its own
 Character 81

momentum and its own inner dynamic, rather than driving it all from an
externally sourced, cut and dried idea of what you want to achieve. W hen
your writing doesn’t quite ring true, doesn’t seem to have enlivened voice,
and when it fails to surprise you at all, it’s time to open up different
approaches using your inner (or outer) improvisatory skills. To an extent, this
is a process all writers of drama draw on naturally; the more experienced you
become with it, the better your scripting w ill be.

THREE VITAL Q U ES T IO N S
In improvisation one is constantly inventing action, reaction and dialogue for
the character you have chosen to play. As writers, we make the ambitious
choice of playing all the characters, jumping from one pair of shoes to
another, in order to animate them all as accurately as possible. In order to do
this, consciously or not, we ask ourselves, ‘W h at would I do (or say) now?’
Along w ith that question are two others which inform it and expand it to
keep us on the right track. These are: ‘W h at would anyone do (or say) now?
(in other words, what strikes me - and therefore others - as most probable?);
and, ‘W h at would my character do (or say) now?’ This can be the trickiest bit
of the equation to hold in the balance, and the work and exercises outlined
above are designed to help you create a foundation from which to keep
answering that part of the combined question.

The inventiveness of your plot, the interesting situations and dilemmas you
pose your characters with, w ill partially dictate the choices you make for your
characters. Who those characters are, and more crucially how they are, w ill
help dictate the rest. W h at can also help a great deal with the element of
character is to know the realms your characters are drawn from.

DEPTH, C O M P L E X IT Y AND A 'C H A RA C T ER C O M P A S S '

Earlier in this book 1 suggested that all ideas are nuclear in origin and also
unclear. So it is with character. In their earliest incarnations we may have the
haziest idea of character; maybe we’ve got their gender and their approximate
age. Maybe we’ve got their name. Maybe we know what they do. W e are
going to build on all this, but the depth, complexity and detail we are going
to need to arrive at is determined by what we are writing. 1have devised what
1 call a character compass which you might find useful as a reference guide to
the terrain we’re trying to populate, and therefore the kind of characteris­
ation we need to achieve.

Needless to say, we are rarely if ever operating on just one bearing with this
compass. There is a dynamic interaction between all its different aspects.
82 Character

Nevertheless there may be a predominant ‘direction’ your character is coming

from.

A t one ‘pole’ we have the gods or archetypes. If you’re unfamiliar with the
concept of archetypes, The Hero With a Thousand Faces by Joseph Campbell
offers a fascinating study across cultures and through time to show how legends
and folk-tales throughout the ages all feature intrinsically identical adventurers,
heroes and gods embodying the archetypal quest to arrive at meaning and
understanding of the human condition. More recently, Christopher Vogler has
written a very accessible book, The Writer’s Journey, which distils Campbell’s
findings and links archetypes directly to the art of screenwriting.

A fundamental feature of the archetypes is that they are larger than life yet
exist very much in outline, as it were, allowing us to invest them with a lot of
generalised meaning. A t the other pole, this is also true of caricatured figures.
Here, a characteristic or mannerism is again made larger than life, but this
time with the aim of diminishing the character. Their tendency to grandios­
ity is parodied, pointing out their all-too-human failings. A t the extremes,
characters in these realms (archetype and caricature) scarcely seem to belong
to the recognisable, workaday world; and yet, they are immediately easy to
identify with, embodying as they do the height our hopes and dreams can soar
to as well as the ludicrous depths to which we can descend. They may be
Luke Skywalker from Star Wars, or the clown who drives into the circus ring
in a car with wacky wheels, flaunting his magnificent machine, moments
before it drops to bits around him; such characters capture the essence of our
questing spirituality or that of our undoubted mortality and relative insignifi­
cance. A s I said before, we do not need to invest characters drawn at these
extremes with so much depth or detail; they will still function powerfully in
the right story setting.

Likewise, stereotypes are exaggerated simplifications, conforming to gener­

alised expectations. The brutalised police officer, the middle-aged, male
politician - the stereotype is our kiiee-jerk response to a generalised percep­
tion which captures some surface truths.

A t another pole of the character compass we have role and persona. Again
these are surface images. Role is an externalised definition imposed on a
character by the world - teacher, student, writer, lover, manager, brother.
There is an immediate common experience embodied in the definition, and a
universal expectation of what it means to have this role.

Alternatively one may construct a persona, an internalised image, an aspect

of the personality with which to define oneself - ruthless, irrepressible, tyran­
nical, compassionate. This becomes like a badge by which we easily identify a
 Character 83

The Gods,
Archetypes

The
Role, Ancestral,
-► Unique
Persona Inherited
Individual

Caricatures,
Stereotypes
Figure 4.2 A character compass

character — a simplification of who they are, highlighting the one aspect of

themselves they overwhelmingly choose to show to the world. Both role and
persona offer an easily-read surface identity.

A t the opposite pole we have the ancestral or familiar. These are inherited
traits of appearance and mannerism attributable to our genetic inheritance or
imitated by us during our upbringing. Again these can be observed as surface
image. Look in the mirror and the reflection is simply who we may see our­
selves (or be seen) as, before we (or others) look inside. The seeds of drama
can spring from this alone. Take, for example, the idea of a boy who looks
just like his father sadly now estranged from and despised by his mother. An
immediate tension might also now exist between mother and son because of
that superficial truth.

As we craft dramas and populate them with characters, so it can be useful to

understand which surface images belong with these characters and how they
may be operating.
84 Character

For example, Del Boy Trotter in the television comedy Only Fools and Horses
(John Sullivan) is drawn primarily as a caricature: a pretentious entrepreneur, a
‘dodgy wideboy’, a ludicrous parody of the big-time operator. A t the same
time, his characterisation rests (as with many comedic creations) firmly on the
archetype of the trickster; ultimately always one step ahead, daring the gods,
living off his wits, always managing to seize victory from the jaws of defeat. A t
the same time, the role of elder brother is important to Del. Yet more often
than not, he is brother in name only, comically and drastically abusing
Rodney or letting him down. (Rodney, Del’s little brother is physically a lot
taller than Del, which at the surface level of the inherited provides another
comically ironic dynamic to their brotherly dealings.) And yet, at times, Del
can show true compassion and the audience is moved to heartfelt silence as he
recalls a tender moment from the past. This requires us to go beyond the
surface and attend to a specific and significant slice of Del’s history; of course,
no sooner is that moment of brotherly love and feeling humanity achieved,
then the moment is undercut with a one-liner pulling Del and us back to
those surface aspects which powerfully and appropriately drive and define the
character.

So what the viewer experiences is a dynamic flow, a movement around

aspects of the surface of the ‘character world’ and an occasional sortie towards
the centre, the core of who Del is, which both authenticates him, suggests
who else Del might be (given a different context) and also serves to underline
his comedic impact.

W ith an epic myth or action thriller, a training drama, or a drama offered in

the style of social realism (like Cathy Come Home or luind and Freedom (Tony
Garnett, Jim A lle n )) we may never see far below the surface of the character.
That’s not the fundamental point of such pieces: they are there to deliver
messages or stories of such generalised import that we do not need to become
engaged with the individuals concerned in any great individual depth. The
universal and typical truths of such stories w ill reach us despite and also
because of the comparatively slight depth of characterisation. A t the same
time, this allows us lots of room to imagine what they are like and to project
ourselves into these creations.

It follows from all this that the more detail, depth anti complexity we go into,
the more we bring a character into sharp relief. W e achieve greater focus and
offer them up as unique, living entities.

Specific details generate an air of authenticity, especially where dialogue is

concerned. They can underline the particularity we all establish in our lives
through the individual choices available to us.
 Character 85

Different types of drama call for different levels of detail and focus in charac­
terisation. Then again, w ithin any individual story, varying depth of focus
can be more or less appropriate to different characters. Sometimes a taxi
driver is just that in a story; a role, a driver of a taxi, taking significant charac­
ters from A to B. And then again, sometimes a taxi driver is Travis Bickle, a
highly significant, fully fleshed-out, unique individual, and the main focus of
our detailed attention.

N A M IN G CHARACTERS
1 strongly recommend that you get into the habit of naming characters when
you write them. The reason 1 suggest this is two-fold. Firstly, the act of
naming a character helps you consolidate the process of owning them. You
w ill identify more closely and invest more in their individuality. You are
more likely to write them with greater care. By the same token, a named part
is one an actor is much more likely to own and invest in. If you write ‘second-
policewoman’ for a character who has, if only fleetingly, some reasonably
important things to say or do, you could well get a lacklustre performance
from an actor who may, from the absence of a name, assume that you con­
sider the part to have no weight at all in the piece.

There can be a temptation to think of a character purely in terms of a role,

and write, for example, ‘M other’ rather than the character’s name. If you fall
into this trap, don’t carry on writing them this way, telling yourself you’ll give
them a name later. Rectify the process there and then and let the character
acquire the dimension and depth they need to have.

Obviously there are times when not naming a character over and above
giving them a label is quite appropriate. If a character has no particular
significance in your story, is a mere functionary, a by-stander, in truth is
simply an extra, then ‘waiter’, ‘man in crowd’ or whatever they happen to be
is going to suffice.

CHARACTER AND C O N T R A D IC T IO N
W e all have contradictory qualities. W e can be generous and also mean, kind
or nasty, industrious or lazy. Even if we can truly say we are one rather than
the other, we w ill still have our contrary moments. The same goes for charac­
ters we write. By and large, they should have contradictory qualities. By and
large, because there are indeed stories where a m onolithic characterisation
can be quite appropriate. N o point waiting around to see the good side of
Cruella D eV il, the Riddler, or Blofeldt, or indeed the bad side of Superman,
the Lone Ranger or Noddy. Though 1 should perhaps qualify these remarks
86 Character

and give a mention to the interesting approach to characterisation adopted

for the T V series Heroes (Tim Kring). Superman has his very human alter
ego, journalist Clark Kent, a shy humbler lacking confidence and presence. In
Heroes that age-old concept of human/super-human hybrid is given a fresh
outing and in the process an engaging makeover. In the tradition of super­
hero comic books, yet at the same time ironically self-referential and reflexive
in places, Heroes (traditionally enough) plants and plays with the idea of an
all too human hero-worshipper like Hiro Nakamura getting the surprise of his
life, discovering his own twin-track super-human and Samurai powers and
also realising he is destined to make the hero’s journey. This series offers a
humorous contemporary twist on an old device whilst inviting us to discover
in its central characters some depth and complexity. This comes in the guise
of frailties, and egotisms coexisting in the same bodies as unshakeable, mono­
lithic, super-human heroism or villainy - and without too many obvious
‘phone-booth’ moments to separate the personae. So for example when Hiro
has rescued his best friend Ando from the evil clutches of Sylar in Isaac
Mendez’s loft and re-materialised the pair of them at his work-station in
Yamagato Industries,Tokyo, he tells his friend he must go back alone to face
Sylar and defeat him. Ando then lists the contemporary film and comic-book
heroes Hiro has always worshipped and wanted to be like, concluding by
expressing a belief his friend w ill one day belong firmly in the midst of this
pantheon. Hiro then gives him his ancient Samurai sword as a keepsake to
vouchsafe his return - all of this, in traditional heroic style. Ando objects but

Figure 4.3 Masi Oka in Heroes © NBC/Universal TV

 Character 87

Hiro reassures him, i t ’s not the sword. It is the man. This man is ready’; defi­
nitely the stuff of myth, legend and comic book. And then the humorous,
modern-day, human touch (rendered all the funnier by its subtitled translation
from the Japanese) as a deeply impressed Ando tells Hiro ‘you look badass’ and
disarmingly taken aback Hiro faintly swaggers ‘Really?’ Laying claim to depth
and recognisable ‘reality’ whilst announcing itself as self-consciously fictional
(hence that all too real and contemporary looking Hiro being counted along­
side Superman by Ando), the story entertainingly flirts with boundaries of
genre and in the process, as mentioned, invites the viewer to perceive a com­
plexity to the characters. It’s the kind of device much cultivated by writers in
recent years and is of similar ilk to that hilarious, philosophically playful
moment in the animation Toy Story 2 (John Lasseter, Pete Docter et al.) when
toy astronaut Buzz Lightyear is in the giant toy store and berates the group of
Buzz Lightyear toys on display correcting their delusion that they are real and
pointing out he is the real thing, they mere toys. How obtrusive such witty
escapades can be when not successfully calculated is another matter.

Yet despite moments in Heroes such as the end of that interchange between
Hiro and Ando described above, or that other at the climax of the first season’s
shows when would-be President Nathan Petrelli zooms through the sky landing
in New York’s Kirby Plaza to tell his brother and (super)human-bomb, Peter,
that he loves him - and to hear the same back - before, Superman-like, whisk­
ing him high into space so they can explode together spectacularly thus, of
course, saving the world. Despite these moments of conscious stylistic complex­
ity, with Heroes, we are, for the most part, firmly in uncomplicated, archetypal,
comic-book - and therefore mythic - territory' with these characters. T o my
mind, there is definitely something embarrassingly disorientating about those
climactic moments when the writer to all appearances without tongue in cheek,
makes these characters try to straddle and belong in both story worlds. Gener­
ally speaking the moment we come away from writing at the extremes of the
character compass I described earlier, we need to look at multi-dimensionality
and in-built contradictions. They help to authenticate the characterisation.
They make characters more believably human.
Beyond the contradictions within individual characters, it can be worthwhile
checking whether or not the characters you are writing embody between
them a variety of human qualities, indeed a range of vices and virtues. If you
have an impetuous character, then it can also make sense to have a character
somewhere whose greater prudence will frustrate that first character’s rash­
ness. If you have a misanthropic recluse, it can make sense to have characters
around whose social ease or prying curiosity will challenge that world-weari-
ness. A character’s cowardice is all the more interesting in relation to others’
obvious bravery. In drama, remember, there is great value in introducing and
88 Character

exploring conflict. I’m not suggesting you go as far as mechanically and

obviously parading a range of virtues and testing these against vices, as you
would find in medieval morality plays; rather it’s a matter of recognising what
the strengths and weaknesses of your characters are as you develop them, and
seeing where these can be brought into interesting conflict with contrasting
qualities which seem to sit naturally with other characters in your drama.
One final note. All these exercises are designed to help you know your characters
well, and it’s a good idea to feel you have a confident hold on how your charac­
ters operate in their world. That said, do leave room for them to sneak up on you
in the writing sometimes and surprise you with what they do or say.

Exercises
This chapter has been quite full of exercises already but I'd just like to suggest a few more.
1 Following on from the hot-seating process, a useful exercise is to think about the
history, personality and circumstances you have so far outlined for a character and
consider the possible ways you can upset one or all of these aspects so as to impel
a story. In other words, where would it be best to throw your grenade to cause
unavoidable havoc and maximum complication and thus ultimately really put your
character to the test. This is a useful exercise to do on your own, and also very
valuable to do with others as you collectively consider each other's characters.
2 From a pack of playing cards sort out a variety running from low number to high
value and perhaps with one or two values duplicated here and there. In the group,
get everyone to choose a card without letting anyone else see what they've
picked. At no point until the very end of the exercise are you to reveal what is on
your card.
Now allow just two minutes to get round and make contact with every member of the
group, introducing yourself and trying to demonstrate where in the pecking order you
think you come. So if you have a low value number, think of ways to show this relative
to other members of the group. At the end of two minutes, line yourselves up trying to
place yourself in precisely the right order relative to the others. Reveal your cards and see
if you all got it right. If you want to, discuss the experience!
3 Pick a new card. Improvise a scene where you are all stuck on a train which has
ground to a halt in the middle of nowhere. No explanation has been offered, and
the strain is beginning to tell. Be more subtle about your character's status this
time: don't go out of your way to demonstrate it too explicitly. Work hard to find
out where other people are relative to you.
At the end of about 15 or 20 minutes, call a halt to the improvisation and line yourselves up.
Reveal your cards and see whether you got the pecking order right. Discuss the experience,
noticing the subtle and less subtle things characters do to make their position quite clear.
 5
Dialogue

For some new writers, one of the more daunting aspects of crafting drama is
handling dialogue. By now I ’ve already sneaked up on you in this book and
offered you a couple of exercises aimed at easing your way into the process.
T he ‘hot-seating’ exercise in the last chapter w ill have given you the
opportunity to let your character chat discursively, and then the more
focussed exercise of placing one or more of those characters in a scene w ill
inevitably have pushed you into actually w riting dialogue. So now your feet
are already wet, and you can relax: however effective and convincing that
dialogue turned out to be, in simply doing the exercise, some of you w ill have
overcome a major hurdle. There is really nothing mystical about writing dia­
logue; it’s simply the process of letting your characters speak to each other.
N aturalistic dialogue is a close cousin to ordinary speech, despite the fact it is
a studied, distilled, and sometimes heightened version of what we might actu­
ally say every day. A n d most of the occasions you are likely to meet writing
for the screen call for naturalistic dialogue.

It was probably also hard, if not impossible, for you to write the exercise
following Two Sharp without feeling seriously tempted to make one or more
of the characters say something. Doing the exercise, it may have seemed like
there were moments when characters absolutely needed to speak in pursuit of
their objectives. You may or may not have been right about that. O ften there
are ways of turning what you first think of as speech into dram atic action, and
that strategy of trying to do it all through action is a very useful one to hold
on to. Screenw riting impacts visually before anything else: actions do speak
louder than words.

Nevertheless 1 think it is true to say that ultim ately characters w ill feel
impelled to speak, if they can, when the conflict arising from a dram atic situ­
ation leads them to that point. So that dictum, characters speak when they have
to, is a useful rule of thumb to bear in mind. Im p licit in it is a more important
90 Dialogue

cautionary note - watch out for characters speaking when they don’t have to.
Particularly for those new to dramatic writing (and especially to screenwrit-
ing) it can be a big temptation to let characters speak when they don’t have
to. If you go along w ith the idea that characters are only going to speak when
they have to, then it only remains to crack that tough little nut - when do
they have to?

In his book, On Directing Film, David Mamet asserts:

The purpose of dialogue is not to carry information about the 'character'.

The only reason people speak is to get what they want.
(1992: 71)

W h at he’s talking about here is, in part, the difference between that hot-
seating exercise you did and any specific scene you may have written featur­
ing those same characters. W h ile being hot-seated, it’s perfectly appropriate
for the character to be revealing their biography and chatting about their
deeper selves in a discursive manner. Once you put the character into action
in a scene, they have a focussed purpose and the scene must be about them
pursuing that objective w ithin the scene or be about nothing. W hen starting
out, writers can sometimes be tempted into thinking that characters in plays
and screenplays can behave exactly as people do in life, or even as they might
do in a raw improvisation; in either case, focus and purpose inevitably slip
and slide. This is just not the case with polished and effective drama. Charac­
ters move from one mini-goal to the next, pursuing their objective w ithin the
scene and their overall objective w ithin the bigger story: so their dialogue
must reflect that fact.

C O N F U S IN G S C R E E N W R IT IN G W IT H W R IT IN G FOR THEATRE
Stage writing can afford to take its time more than screenwriting. One scene
for a stage play may encompass the amount of material which would fit into
considerably more scenes on the screen. There is not the same highly selected
focus of a camera shot to worry about, and the story is not the driving force it
has to be in many conventionally told screen dramas. As a result of this dif­
ference in pace, speeches w ithin individual scenes in theatre can be longer.
Characters going off at tangents to the main thrust of the scene are far more
acceptable. W here screenwriting looks to compress and condense - to take
the straightest line through the story - theatre allows for a more discursive,
relaxed approach in crafting dialogue. A theatre audience is taking in the
whole scene and selecting aspects of the action to focus on. Audiences
watching a screen drama have the focus of attention selected for them; the
narrative process drives along much faster, with the relationship of shot to
shot and scene to scene an essential part of the process. So lengthy digres­
 Dialogue 91

sions which disrupt that momentum are unwelcome, and it takes a very
important speech to hold attention on an individual character for, say, as
long as a minute.

Obviously there are T V and film adaptations of classic stage dramas: to

sustain audience interest these may depend on cutting the original text quite
heavily, introducing a busy and varied visual treatment to provide extra inter­
est, or they may simply rely on an audience indulging them for the separate
kind of animal they are. It’s quite instructive to look at older television adap­
tations of classic novels and compare them with more recent efforts. Older
adaptations of Shakespeare also make for interesting comparison, say with
the more recent productions such as Romeo and Juliet (Craig Pearce and
Baz Luhrman from the play by W illiam Shakespeare) or Richard III (Ian
M cKellen from the play by W illia m Shakespeare). The increasing influence
of cinem atic conventions is clear to see.

W riters who move from theatre work to film or T V really need to acknow­
ledge the differences and embrace them. The important trick is to devise
ways of combining well described, well chosen action with more concise dia­
logue to get over everything you need to tell the audience, rather than trying
to write theatre for the screen, and then perforce hacking it down to size and
bringing it up to speed.

S O M E C O M M O N PITFALLS

Relentless chatter
Perhaps one of the most common errors which new writers can make is to try
to fill up the scene with wall-to-wall dialogue. It’s as though they know only
one way of covering the bare boards of their scene, and that’s with fitted
carpet throughout. For what it’s worth, try considering rugs, or even polishing
up those boards. In other words, there are always options, and to fill your
scenes with non-stop dialogue is to miss out on the power of action, reaction
and significant silences, both long and short.

W ritin g a radio play is obviously much more dependent on dialogue than

writing for feature films (though it’s worth noting this is a generalisation
and there are exceptions to the rule to be found in both m edia). T h at said,
the skilful radio dramatist knows how to move into startling or evocative
effects, uses music well, and is not afraid to create some silences in their
drama. So, if you find yourself cramming every scene full of busy verbal
interchanges, stop and think again. G o back to the first exercise in this
book and consider how you made a lot happen before our very eyes without
the use of any dialogue.
92 Dialogue

Conversely, a fault some new writers make is consistently to write too little.
They have perhaps read a few scripts, observed the economy with which they
are written and in an attempt to get in line, produce very terse, mannered
dialogue which has no natural ease, and doesn’t seem to have the flexibility
to vary1from scene to scene and match the different situations and characters.

Talk for talk's sake

In the false belief that dramas are all about characters talking to each other,
characters are made to talk to each other about nothing in particular. But,
unlike people in real life, characters in a good script don’t just bump into
each other and chat idly; if they are going to do that in a script, then the idle
chatter must have an underlying motive which illuminates where the charac­
ters are up to in the story. For instance, if one character is in the midst of an
affair and shortly after having been w ith her lover then separately bumps into
her lover’s wife, an ensuing scene in which she and the betrayed woman chat
about nothing in particular w ill feel authentically motivated and hold a lot of
dramatic interest: the fact that the interaction is being held at such a superfi­
cial level tells us a lot about the level of contact the guilty woman does not
want to make right now. (See the section on subtext (p. 181) for more on
this.) So always make sure your characters’ talk has some point to it. Even the
most seemingly mundane of scenes must be about something.

Knowing when to shut them up

The knack of writing good dialogue can chiefly consist in knowing when a
character would not say anything. In a film like The Piano (Jane Cam pion)
the mute heroine chooses to scribble down notes which are obviously signifi­
cant, but her silences are frequently just as eloquent, because of what else we
see going on for her. Likewise in the film The Pawnbroker, tormented refugee
Sol Nazerman is so imprisoned by the tragedy of his past experiences that he
is unable and unwilling to reach out. In fact, Rod Steiger, who played Sol
revealed that he was instrumental in cutting up to one third of the lines his
character originally had, in order to amplify the hero’s brooding isolation
(Scene By Scene. Interview with Mark Cousins, BBC 2 , 16 July 2000). In more
extreme cases like these where characters can’t or won’t speak, the effect of
their silences on others is plain to see, and the drama w ill often derive some
of its most powerful moments from how they react to what others say to
them. W e are particularly focussed on how these characters are so cut off,
verbally, and so we scrutinise them to learn what they think and feel.
However, the same principle is at work whenever a character withholds
speech. Stillness can be as compelling as dynamic movement, and silence
every bit as compelling a way of making one’s voice heard. Don’t overlook
 Dialogue 93

the potential for making the setting, the mood or the weather express what is
going on in a character’s head.

Mistaking the situation for the subject matter

This occurs when writers feel under some compulsion to make reference to
the setting. Just because you set a scene in a supermarket you don’t have to
make the characters discuss the price of carrots. If talking about the price of
carrots happens to tie in naturally w ith the point of the scene, and actually
enhances the main subject matter, then fine; otherwise a setting can be just
that, and you do not have to make the characters respond to it.

Another common fault can be getting characters to talk about what they’re
actually doing, perhaps born of an insecurity that the audience just won’t
understand a situation. If it’s obvious, or very soon going to become obvious,
that two characters are on a date, why have them talk about the fact? Unless
it is relevant to plot or character in some way, let them get on with having
the date.

Unnecessary formalities
A very common fault in beginners’ scripts is writing in the business of how
someone arrived, or getting characters to perform unnecessary hellos and
goodbyes. Unless those moments carry some special significance you are
wasting ink. If, for example, two characters who already know each other
meet but the circumstances are such that they carry on as if they are
strangers, that could be interesting. If we know this is odd behaviour, we w ill
wonder why they are behaving in this way, and engage more keenly in the
drama. But other than as a way of enhancing intrigue, beware of falling into
the trap of making your characters go through unnecessary formalities.

Writing the fight

It’s not at all unusual for writers new to drama to fall into creating scenes
which are nothing less than verbal brawls. W h en first starting out, it can be
easier to create abusive mayhem than anything else. This may spring from the
insecurity I mentioned earlier that unless something obviously dramatic is
happening (and what is more dramatic than a fight?) then the scene just w ill
not happen for its audience. But, as many of the examples in this book show,
conflict is so much more interesting between characters when it informs their
words and actions but is not openly on display; when it actually comes to a
fight, which is usually going to resolve conflict and therefore dissipate the
interest, then far better that should happen as the climax to a story than that
story be told as an unrelenting series of bruising encounters.
94 Dialogue

So if you find yourself writing a lot of scenes in which characters snipe at

each other, shout at each other or worse - then think again.

Language!
There are those who take exception to the use of any expletives, obscene or
abusive language in a script. Arguments have always raged around the rights
and wrongs of reflecting what some experience as the unacceptable sides of
human behaviour, ‘bad’ language included. M y stance on the issue is that any
and all dialogue which you create should be right for the character and right
for the moment. If a reader or viewer doesn’t remark on anything as standing
out and interrupting their engagement and identification with your piece
then it’s probably doing a good job.

That said, there are those few who are so hardened to using or hearing a
stream of obscenities as everyday interpolations, that they may carry this over
into their writing without a thought for its impact on others. They might do
well to pay attention to the feedback they w ill inevitably get from others and
think about broadening their verbal horizons.

Over-liberal use of strong language has the inevitable effect of diluting it.
Rather as w ith dramas which are all fight and no build up, the question arises,
‘W h at have you got left to play?’ It really can be far more effective saving
extremes for the most intense moments of your drama.

There is also the factor of ‘language’-as-lubricator to be taken into account. It’s

allied to that phenomenon of writing the fight 1 mentioned above, and can be a
sign that a writer has included the strong language as a way of trying to invigo­
rate their process and their dialogue. Very often it’s possible to strip out much (if
not all) of the stronger stuff without any detriment to the finished piece.

Finally, when you write for performance, publication or public screening, you
w ill at times come up against institutionalised standards and strictures, and
you w ill have to take account of those. M y advice is that if you genuinely
believe specific words are truly appropriate and integral to your drama, it’s
most important to fight your corner. But those occasions may well be a lot
rarer than some might think.

Over-explaining
The point of characters talking to each other is to pursue what they want, not
to describe it, and not to explain why they want it. If the drama is well
written, we’ll understand why from the rest of the piece. As for characters in
a sensitive, personal situation describing what it is they’re after - how often
do you see people do that in real life? Besides, any situation where you could just
 Dialogue 95

come clean, say what it is you want and get it instantly with no obstacles, is
unlikely to have much mileage as the meat of a good drama, where conflict and
complication reign supreme. If you catch yourself writing passages in which
characters explain matters to each other and the audience, they are not getting
on with telling us the story, and you’d better have a good reason why that is so:
the audience is only tmly engaged by the story1, and are not interested in circum­
stantial explanations. Think hard whether the explanation is necessarily intrin­
sic to your drama. Whenever you find yourself using characters to offer what is,
in effect, narration, you are getting them to step outside themselves to support
an audience’s understanding of what should be made clear if necessary by cap­
tioned, or voiced-over narration, or more ideally be carried somewhere within
the drama as another scene or part of a scene. Always go back to basics and
think what you would do if you didn’t have dialogue available to you. Deny
yourself the option of other devices (voice-over or caption) as well, and see if
you can turn that explanation into credible and engaging action. This may help
to concentrate your mind on what exactly does need spelling out.

Unnecessary repetitions
These can just be phrases or sentences repeated w ithin a speech or a scene for
no particular purpose, or they can extend to re-running the content of whole
scenes to no good effect. Sometimes a character w ill go through an
experience and then, two or three scenes later, meet another character and
tell them all about what the audience has just actually seen happen to them.
Before you fall into the trap of writing a scene which is no more than a nar­
rated version of earlier action, ask yourself why this character is relating the
events. If there is some particular interest in watching for the reaction of the
character being told about the experience (for example, to watch for signs of
guilt), then perhaps there is some point to using the device: even when this is
the case, ask yourself if there is a real need to relate the whole scene again in
your dialogue; would it not be just as effective to join the scene right at the
end of that character telling their tale? Don’t try an audience’s patience any
more than is absolutely necessary. Progress the plot.

News-sheet scenes
Sometimes you come across what I call ‘news-sheet’ scenes. These are fre­
quently to be found in some soap-operas, and unlike the well-taken
opportunity to remind an audience of a particularly significant event in the
story and its impact, ‘news-sheet’ scenes have characters reporting to each
other on events under the thin disguise of giving them an opportunity to
comment on those events; in this way they update viewers on what has
been happening. There’s not a lot of excuse for bad scenes like this at any
96 Dialogue

time, and none at all w ithin the single drama. In soaps, they can come
about through a misguided notion that the audience needs and likes a re li­
able update service w ithin the drama — a sort of in-show teletext. In my
view they stick out like such sore thumbs that they completely disrupt the
flow of the plot and the characters involvem ent in events, as w ell as that of
the audience. A void even miniature versions of this if you can.

Stooging
A ll the characters in a drama have emotional attitudes, positive, negative or
neutral, and w ill move through these moment by moment. In different scenes
we watch characters make shifts (lesser or greater) which contribute to their
overall journeys in the story.

Sometimes, as in life, it’s a character’s function to react to others. W hen this

is the case it’s still important to make them authentic, rather than reduce
them to the status of mindless stooge - unless that does truly fit their place in
the drama. So avoid interchanges like the one below.

EXT. STREET. DAY.

JACK
Audrey!

AUDREY
Oh, hello, Jack. Sorry, can't stop,
I'm on my way to hospital.

JACK
Hospital!

AUDREY
Yes, Mike had a fall and managed
to break his leg.

JACK
No!

AUDREY
Yes. Last Thursday. Fell off a
ladder. Well you know he's been
painting the house.

JACK
Yes.

AUDREY
O ff he came. Just lost his balance.
 Dialogue 97

JACK
Dear me.

AUDREY
The doctor said he was lucky not
to have killed himself. They've had
to pin it in three places.

JACK
Pin it!

AUDREY
Mm. He's going to be in a while.
I wouldn't mind, but we were
going on holiday next Tuesday.

JACK
Oh no.

AUDREY
Yes. To Andalucia. Well that'll have
to go by the board, I suppose.
Still must dash or I'll miss visiting
hours.

JACK
No, you get off, then.

AUDREY
I will. I'll give him your best.
Nice chatting, Jack.

I’ve caricatured the malaise that can set in to illustrate the point. N o t that
Audrey does anything remarkable, but Jack is a cipher, a stooge allowed no
space to live, breathe and react. H e ’s there simply to fill in the spaces and to
act as an occasional prompt. It’s most important to allow all the characters to
take the space they would naturally inhabit, and to let them act and react as
fully as they would naturally want to. Concentrating on one character’s
thoughts and actions at the expense of properly w riting the others is a trap
the unwary newcomer can fall into. It’s im portant to check you are fully ani­
mating all of your characters and doing each one of them just ice.

Gestures

I’m using gesture in the sense of rhetorical device here, and want to caution
you against giving your characters big verbal flourishes so that they can make
their presence felt. It’s difficult to offer specific examples out of context, but if
98 Dialogue

you feel that you’re giving a character something to say to demonstrate some­
thing about them to the world at large, when the more natural action or reac­
tion would be more restrained, lower key, perhaps less predictable, then go
with your instincts and rein yourself in. Remember the three questions
mentioned in the last chapter: ‘W hat would anyone say or do? W hat would I
say or do? What would my character say or do?’ You need to write from a
cocktail of all three, and gesturing tends to come about when the first two are
neglected and the third overworked at and then demonstrated superficially;
this can render dialogue inauthentic and distance the audience.

D on't say it if w e can see it

A n associated trap writers can fall into is that o f getting characters to say
what we’ve already seen.

INT. RESTAURANT. DAY.

SOPHIE, a waitress, watches through the window as DAVE parks his car slap-bang
outside.

EXT. STREET. CONTINUOUS.

DAVE gets out of the car, glances nervously at the printed parking restrictions, then
through the window where he catches SOPHIE's eye.

INT. RESTAURANT. CONTINUOUS.

SOPHIE has started to take an order. DAVE opens the door and hovers. SOPHIE looks over.

DAVE
(to SOPHIE)
Is it okay to park my car
outside like that?

Well, we’ve seen him park the car and Sophie’s seen him park the car; so he
could just say:

DAVE
(to SOPHIE)
Will it be alright there?

In fact, this kind o f fault, which is far more common than you might think, is
a direct result o f writers taking their eye off the ball, stopping watching the
action unfold in their head as they write it. Instead, the writer has become so
focussed on hearing what the characters are saying to each other that they
 Dialogue 99

forget what they (and we) are watching, as well as what the characters w ill
have seen, and therefore w ill not need to refer to. It is very important that
you keep seeing your drama through as you unite it, and be aware of what does
not need describing or explaining.

Failing to define character

In Chapter 4, I outlined strategies for forming character. Once you’ve got
hold of them and are busy jumping from one pair of shoes to another, it really
is vital to preserve each character’s particular voice and characteristic ways of
being in the world of your drama. A time-honoured exercise for knowing
whether or not you are achieving this is to cover up all the names in a copy of
a scene you haven’t looked at for a while and seeing whether you can still tell
who’s speaking. Better still, let someone else who knows the script (but not as
well as you) have a go. W ith practice, you w ill certainly be able to sustain
individual delineated characters, who consistently speak with their own
voices. As I stressed in the last chapter, it’s really important to name charac­
ters, and it can certainly help you carve out individual voices. A sure give
away, more often than not, that a script has had little or no character work
behind it, is the script which boasts ‘M an O ne’, ‘Wom an O ne’, or ‘Mum ’,
‘Dad’, ‘Policewoman’ and ‘G ran’ in its cast list. I admit there may be scripts
where, although this is the case, characters are well defined and formed with
plenty of individual detail, and the device of using relative anonymity is a
deliberate stylistic ploy. However, with newish writers that doesn’t tend to be
the case, so watch out for damaging corner cutting.

Naming names
The world being what it is, some new writers may also go to an opposite
extreme. N ot only w ill they name all their characters, but they w ill then
insist on all the characters addressing each other by name frequently
throughout the script. If you observe how much we call people by name in
reality you w ill notice it is actually quite an occasional business: so it does
ring false when you make it a frequent event in your script. In life people
tend to call each other by name to get their attention, or to create distance
from them, or when they are trying to get a closer connection with them.
O n the whole, the same rules apply in a drama, certainly where naturalism is
concerned. Do watch out for this pitfall; it’s really quite a common failing
for the newish writer of drama to fall into, and it can also creep up on a
scriptwriter who’s out of practice or one who’s failed to get focussed on the
material before settling down to write. If in doubt, err on the side of om itting
names. You’ll know soon enough on a re-read if the actual calling by name
of another character really does have a natural place in a speech.
100 Dialogue

Straying from character. Beware: 'Writer at Work'

Just as obvious as it sounds but som etim es the easiest thing to miss. H ere’s an
exam ple o f what I mean:

EXTERIOR. VALERIE'S GARDEN. CONTINUOUS.

PAULETTE AND VALERIE HOLD A COUPLE OF TENT PEGS EACH, FORMING THE
CORNERS OF A STRING RECTANGLE.

PAULETTE
I thought you'd planned it all out.

VALERIE
I had ... in my head. Now we're
out here it just doesn't feel right.

PAULETTE
Mother!

MICK APPEARS, LEANING ON

THE GARDEN FENCE.

MICK
Afternoon.

VALERIE
Where do you think, Mick?

MICK
What?

VALERIE
(SURPRISED HE HASN'T GUESSED)
For the lawn.

PAULETTE
She's been watching Charlie Dimmock.

MICK
Oh.

VALERIE
She's very good.

PAULETTE
So Hiroshima here's getting a make-over.

MICK
Right.
 Dialogue 101

T h e problem is in that penultim ate line. Paulette is just nineteen. W h ilst

make-overs would definitely be part o f her experience from T V and magazines,
it’s far less likely that she would have come across Hiroshim a. Even if she has
heard o f that city’s devastation at the end o f W o rld W a r Tw o, it’s very unlikely
to spring to her lips as analogous to their neglected garden. U n lik e ly to spring
to her lips, but not to those o f the much older w riter. It ’s such moments when
w hat you as the writer would say obscures a clear im agining o f what the character
would say, that you need to watch out for; and often the w riter can fall into
such moments because he is too attached to something he’s dreamed up to be
able to hear it doesn’t ring true. A t second glance, however, the line did stand
out as uncharacteristic and got changed to:

PAULETTE
(FAKE POSH)
Yes, we're giving the grounds a
make-over.

O bviously your aim is to keep a character’s words consistently believable and

identifiably theirs. Specific details can help the cred ib ility of a character.
Com pare:

RITA
Did I mention my eldest Peter's
moving? He's got a new job. It's
a research post in Milton Keynes.
They're developing G M courgettes.
Controversial, I can tell you.

w ith:

RITA
M y son's going to move. Got a new
job, somewhere down south.
Researching into vegetables or something.

W h ic h is the more m emorable? A n d therefore, w hich convinces you that the

character has a m ind and feelings o f their ow n w ith w hich to respond to their
w orld? Specifics authenticate, and can very often build a most valuable
perspective into the way a character is seeing something. It ’s all part and
parcel of that ever-present drive you should develop as a w riter, to focus in
from the fuzzy, generalised, and not especially convincing, to the detailed,
particular and substantially engrossing.

O ne o f the most powerful ways writers can em ploy particularities is to give

characters quirks or mannerisms. T h is uses the same principle as a caricaturist
102 Dialogue

might, picking on one special habit or gesture and highlighting it. In Alan
Bleasdale’s brilliant television drama G .B .H ., the author gave political
supremo Michael Murray an involuntary twitch. A s Murray’s power grew and
his plotting became ever more grandiose, so the drama’s satire strengthened
and Murray’s twitch almost assumed the proportions of a full-blooded Nazi
salute. Peter Sellers employs a similar mannerism for the hilariously sinister
eponymous atom-bomb scientist in Dr. Strangelove (Stanley Kubrick, Terry
Southern, Peter George, based on the novel Red Alert by Peter George).

When it comes to dialogue, the same device - a verbal mannerism or catch-

phrase, can clearly mark a character out and help define their personality. In
comedy, this is a frequently used strategy: One Foot in the Grave’s (David
Renwick) Victor Meldrew with his i don’t believe it’; Steptoe and Son (Ray
Galton and Alan Simpson) has the young Harold’s ‘You dirty old man’; Ally
McBeal has Richard’s automatic ‘Bygones’, mumbled after every faux pas.
Straight drama can also use these verbal habits to distinguish character;
episodes of Inspector Morse feel incomplete if we haven’t heard Morse trucu­
lently bark or complain, ‘Lewis!’ in that unmistakably incredulous, disap­
pointed way he has, and Poirot will keep referring to those ‘little grey cells’.
Just as real friends, acquaintances and colleagues partly become familiar to us
through their mannerisms and habits, so our identification with or insights
into characters can be strengthened by showing us idiosyncrasies of behaviour,
including verbal mannerisms. A word of caution, though: it can be far better
to let these come about, rather than dream them up and then impose them on
characters. Meldrew’s ‘I don’t believe it’ works so well, because it is so much a
reflection of his outraged stance towards the world.

Losing tone
Quite simply, if you are writing comedy, then the dialogue needs to hit the
right note. It may, and often does, depend on a lot of repartee or banter. This
jokey sparring will have a particular lightness and wittiness which could sit
uneasily in sombre, tragic, deeply-felt drama. Comedy is often a matter of
intellectual recognition, and so both the content of those jokey parries, lunges
and revelations, as well as the timing and poise with which they are delivered,
need precise calculation: whereas a distraught character bearing his soul about
a past tragedy would not display that kind of control (despite the writing
process being every bit as calculated). So the cautionary note is to warn you to
watch for when the tone of a phrase, a speech or an interchange doesn’t have
a place in the larger scheme of things. A s I suggest elsewhere, there are times
when contrasting tone can be and is a most effective device to employ.
 Dialogue 103

Losing rhythm

First of all, you’ve got to have it in order to lose it, and so I suppose this is by
way of encouraging you to find the natural rhythms in your characters’
speech: find it without letting it outstrip the content. These natural rhythms
can be found in individual phrases or lines, w ithin whole speeches, and in the
interplay between one character’s line and another. The feel and sound of the
speech can enhance the flow, can intensify an audience’s engagement with a
drama, and add considerably to the sheer pleasure they can derive from just
listening. But the rhythms do need to fit the tunes being played, as it were.
Sometimes dialogue can sound really energised, beautifully spmng and poised,
when the content doesn’t really merit that level of elaborate ornamentation.
In those cases the matter being expressed can feel too dressed up. It’s worth
remembering that Shakespeare would drop into prose at times, to match the
less poetically charged passages of his plays. However, in the main, it can pay
great dividends to learn to gauge the ‘feel’ of your dialogue as you put it down.

Look at the scene between Almasy and C lifton from The English Patient
(p. 191) and notice how the speech reflects a certain stiff-upper-lipped awk­
wardness, accurately conveying both the social background of the characters
and the unspoken rivalry between the two men. N otice, too, how the lines
are written with beautiful internal balance. They are going to be easy to learn
and to speak, and w ill sound like they belong to the characters. Unless you
self-consciously set out to do so (and some scripts and screenplays which have
their origins in improvisation or are strongly tilted towards social realism do
exactly this) when writing drama you are not aiming simply to reflect every­
day speech, in everyday speech patterns: as I said before, although dialogue is
a close cousin to everyday speech, it is often a distilled and heightened
version, and needs careful management in the writing to ensure it flows easily
and commands engagement from an audience.

This business of rhythm is key in constructing a passage of dialogue. As

w ith music there may be an overall rhythm reflecting the gathering or
relaxing tension, the intensification of contact or the gradual distancing
and release. If you’re following the moments for each and every character
w ith accuracy and feeling, then these overall rhythms w ill end up
being there. A nd along the way there w ill be the bounce of one line off
another, the moments which hang in a well-judged pause, and the run
or stagger appropriate w ithin each tiny section. Take this key passage
from Shallow Grave (Jo h n Hodge), in which the three friends shop in a
D IY store preparing for the next step in their plan to make off w ith that
w indfall of cash they’ve just stolen - the disposal of lodger Hugo’s dead
body:
104 Dialogue

A le x places the screw driver down o n the s h e lf a n d w alks across

the aisle to p ic k u p a saw a n d hamm er.

Now this is what we need. And this.

A le x hands th e to o ls to David, w h o looks a t them w ith disgust.
A lex w alks on.

Now what else?

DAVID
I don't know.

ALEX
A spade, we need a spade - I wish
you would concentrate - we need a
spade if we're going to dig a pit.

DAVID
So who's going to do it?

ALEX
Dig the pit, I don't know.

DAVID
No, not that.

ALEX
Then what? Who's going to do what?

DAVID
You know what I'm talking about.

ALEX
Do I? What? What? What are you
talking about?

DAVID
You know what. Who's going to do it?

ALEX
We all are, David, we’re all going
to do it. Each of us, you, me, and
Juliet, will do his or her bit. Is
that fair enough?

DAVID
I can’t do it.

ALEX
I don't hear this.
 Dialogue 105

DAVID
I won't be able to do it.

ALEX
You’re telling me you want out? Already?
You’re telling me you don’t want the
money? Hugo is going off. He smells. The
flat smells. We can't wait any longer.

DAVID
I'm just telling you, I can't cut him up.

Alex turns away in disgust.

N o tice the staccato, hysterical edge to D avid ’s lines and the way he’s deliber­
ately given repetitions to convey that nervousness. A lex is also given repeti­
tions part way through as a way o f underlining the tension and escalating the
conflict between the two of them. W h e n he reaches his longer line w ith its
patient explanation and its om inously funny reference to each one of them
doing ‘his or her b it’, the aggressive undertone is almost palpable. N o tice as
w ell how D avid is given that longer, more deliberate and collected last line to
show him trying to stand his ground, and how that non-line of A le x ’s - the
turn away - perfectly fits the piece and disrupts the contact, rounding the
scene off to a tee.

You can see, too, how the passage winds itself up, reaches a pitch of antag­
onism , and then breaks off, leaving the tension between the two unresolved,
our knowledge of w hat’s going on for each character quite com plete and our
interest in w here things w ill go next fully aroused.

S U M M IN G U P

I realise there’s a long list o f ‘w atch ou t’s’ listed here, but they are offered
in a genuinely constructive sp irit. If you are just starting out w ritin g dia­
logue, there’s no question but that you will fa ll in to traps here and there.
T h a t’s nothing to be discouraged about. D o look on any shortcom ings as
opportunities to see your ow n process that m uch more clearly. T h e w hole
business o f w ritin g , and p articu larly crafting dialogue, calls for frequent re­
reading and revision o f your work. T h e process o f reflecting on and editing
your work is part and parcel o f getting to w rite w ith econom y, im pact and
‘vo ice ’. No-one I know w ho has developed th eir w ritin g skills has escaped
that process; experience teaches that practice can o n ly make for im prove­
m ent, and the more aware you can be o f w hat needs stripping away to
expose a core o f fu lly powered-up dialogue, the more rapid that im prove­
m ent w ill be.
106 Dialogue

Exercises
1 Take a dialogue scene you've written earlier (perhaps from putting characters
together in Chapter 4) and revise it, bearing in mind some of the pointers listed in
this chapter. If you can do this in a group, discussing the content with each other
and considering strengths and weaknesses, so much the better.
2 Pick a non-dialogue scene from one of your previous exercises, featuring charac­
ters who you felt at the time of writing could well have gone on to have something
to say. Write the scene, or an extension to it, giving those characters dialogue.
Again, if you can discuss this before and after, do so.
 6
Making scenes, building
sequences

A ll conventional dramas for the screen are built up from individual moments
w hich add up to scenes, or significant events in your story. Although a scene is
usually a significant story event in the overall chain of events w hich make up
the bigger story', some scenes are included w ith the aim of fulfilling other func­
tions: they can be there to explore character in greater depth, to establish setting
or tim e, or movement from one setting or time to another, or to provide an
interlude or respite from the m ain narrative drive of the piece. In a short film,
there is neither the time nor the need to explore character in any great depth,
nor to break off from telling the main story?. A feature film , however, provides far
more scope and needs to do exactly those things a short film w ill not allow.

Scenes are built into sequences, and these sequences in turn become the
building blocks form ing the entirety o f your drama. N o t unusually, feature
films w ill contain about ten sequences, each containing about ten or a dozen
scenes. These sequences, each containing scenes from both the m ajor plot
and the film ’s sub-plots, w ill be distributed over three acts.

A h a lf hour episode o f British soap opera w ill, on average, contain somewhere

around 15 to 20 scenes. U sually these w ill concern them selves w ith three
separate stories (possibly a much less significant fourth story elem ent), one of
w hich w ill be the m ajor point of audience interest. These slices o f separate
story are told in interm ingled sequences of four or five scenes apiece. T h e
stories featured in each episode w ill a ll be at different points in their develop­
ment, and the different story strands are so interw oven as to m aintain variety
and interest and provide enough ongoing recognisability for an audience to
come and go in their view ing habits a bit and always be able to latch onto
som ething they know about or feel at home w ith.

W ith episodes o f continuing serial drama or series featuring self-contained

stories (lik e The Bill) different overall narrative structures are deployed to
108 Making scenes, building sequences

engage and m aintain audience interest. The Bill has ongoing interest in the
shape of its regular protagonist, the police, but its stories are designed to be
effective short stories, one-offs containing their own set-ups, conflicts, c li­
maxes and resolutions. Occasionally stories w ill extend over more than one
episode, but they are designed to resolve sooner rather than later. By contrast
an episode of a soap may run a storyline, like the famous Jordache fam ily’s
‘body under the patio’ strand in that erstwhile Merseyside classic Brookside, a
story designed to take place over many months, featuring, with more or less
prominence, alongside more transient story strands.

Although an episode of a soap opera doesn’t have act structure in the same
way as a feature film, it does work to achieve its key moments. In commercial
T V , the scene at the end of part(s) and more particularly the cliff-hanger at
the end of an episode are designed to hook the viewer’s curiosity and so
ensure they’ll watch again.

This quick survey of different structures is offered as a way of demonstrating

that whatever the piece you’re writing, the key components are scenes and
sequences of scenes. Understanding how to build these is crucial.

Just as there is an overall structure to an episode or a self-contained drama, so

each and every scene must also have a clear structure w ith its own beginning,
middle and end.

SCENE STRU C TU RE: S O M E U SEFU L RULES OF T H U M B

A well-worn and nevertheless vital truism about writing scenes for the screen
is that you join the scene as late as you possibly can and leave it as early as
you can. In other words, as soon as the scene has delivered what it’s there to
deliver, it’s time to get out and get on w ith the story. By and large this is a
very useful rule to abide by, although it is only a rule, and certainly, as with all
rules, is to be departed from whenever appropriate. For instance, when
writing a pivotal scene, full of big emotion, it may well be right to allow
sufficient time for the mood to be established and the business of the scene
to feel fully resolved. A scene of this sort may really need more space
than others to breathe. T h at said, being concise and dynamic can and most
often w ill pay great dividends in screenwriting. In particular, avoid wasting
time going through the motions of mechanically bringing characters into
a scene and going through laborious formalities or introductions between
characters unless the way they’re shown doing all this is significant. W herever
you can, simply find your character where you want them. And don’t be
worried about leaving them rather than contriving ways in which they
physically have to leave the scene. O f course we’re all so fam iliar w ith these
techniques you w ill have seen what I ’m talking about a thousand times.
 Making scenes, building sequences 109

However it is a fact that, for many, when they try their hand at actually
writing scenes, they do fall into the trap of giving their characters unneces­
sary entrances, exits and mechanical niceties to get through. Remember,
screenvvriting is unlike writing for the stage: the medium is highly mobile,
and shot-changes can re-focus interest in a second: much of the art of screen-
writing consists of telling the story through the sequencing of shots and the
cuts between scenes.

T o state the blindingly obvious, the beginning of most scenes relates directly
to the end of the preceding scene, and vice versa. Therefore, beginnings and
endings need careful attention, not only in terms of whether they satisfy the
needs of the scene itself, but also in terms of how they build the relationship
between one scene and another. N o scene exists in isolation from others, and
in particular from its closest companions in your script. W here you have just
come from, as well as where you are about to go to directly affects the choices
you make for beginning and ending your scenes. As we look in more detail at
a storyline, a little later on, vve’ll see examples of how this principle is to be
borne in mind.

H O W TO B U ILD A SCENE: B EG IN N IN G IN THE M ID D LE

Having stressed the importance of beginnings and endings, you may be sur­
prised to know the way I recommend you write a scene is to start somewhere
in the middle. As I said at the start of the chapter, for the most part each
scene is a fresh event, and so its purpose is to build on what has gone before,
taking the story on to another stage. So, for the most part, each scene is about
something new, and the entire contents of your screenplay should be
reducible to a fairly simple list of progressively developing events on camera.
There is a useful way in which starting off w ith this approach can really help
you focus on defining each scene. If you cut to the heart of what the scene
you’re dreaming up is about, reduce this to a one-liner, note this down and
then build the rest of the scene up around it, you won’t miss the scene’s
meaning or leave it unfocussed.

Identifying the ‘headline’ which is the heart of the scene can give you an
ideal platform both to build on and, in due course, also to check the resulting
scene against: does it end up being about what you intended it to be about?
Just to clarify what I mean by ‘heart’ here, I should point out that the key
moment in a scene doesn’t have to lie at its physical centre, more or less half­
way through. Life would be very predictable and boring in some ways if this
were the case. W h a t I mean by ‘heart’ is the major moment which the rest of
the scene builds to and revolves around.

Here’s the storyline for a scene from a vintage episode of Coronation Street.
110 Making scenes, building sequences

A man of his word, Percy turns up for dinner as expected. As Maud has gone to so much
trouble Percy eats the meal she has made but there is clearly something wrong. Percy
and Maud discuss their trip to France and Maud's visit to a particular graveyard. Percy
has since talked to Maureen and discovered that Maud had an affair with an American
soldier, and that he is Maureen's real father. Percy and Maud talk about it but Percy sees
what Maud did as a terrible betrayal of her husband while he was away serving his
country. Percy calls their engagement off.

A scene all about Percy’s pride, the key mom ent in this scene, as storylined, is
the last one, also the clim ax of the episode. W h a t this scene is about is Percy
breaking off the engagement. T h e rest of the scene is sim ply the run up to
that moment when Percy’s principled, angry reaction to the truth about
M aud’s past proves an insurm ountable obstacle. So ‘Percy calls their engage­
m ent o ff’ is the headline for the scene - the one-liner core w hich the rest of
the scene must be bu ilt around. T h a t his decision is already made is signalled
by his unease w ith sitting down to eat the meal, and the fact that his talk
w ith M aud is not going to be about w anting to really hear her side of things.
T h e storyline doesn’t te ll us he wants his m ind changed. H e thinks she was
wrong.

T h e next thing to note is that it’s Percy’s scene. Just as stories have their pro­
tagonist, so too, scenes are very often driven by one character. It is that char­
acter who wants som ething and w ill try their best to get it. So, going back to
the headline, it’s clear w hat Percy wants - to break off the engagement.
Beyond that, the deeper driver at work in Percy is his attachm ent to old sol­
dierly pride and the black and w hite virtues o f unquestioning loyalty.

So, Percy’s overall objective in this scene is to finish the engagement. W h y

not just get him in there, let him tell M aud, and then w ind up the scene?
Because, just as w ith the telling of the w hole story, conflict and narrative
tension are the life-blood of its individual scenes: it is these w hich ensure the
audience stays engaged and identified w ith the piece as it unfolds. Besides,
the scene becomes a great deal more em otionally authentic once the w riter
acknowledges that there are contradictory em otions at play, and that this is a
difficult process for Percy. H e and M aud are not sim ply friends. In the end,
writers look to play scenes (and especially big scenes) for a ll they’re worth.

M aud is the antagonist in the scene, and she is going to fight to preserve their
engagement. T h e interest in the scene isn’t just going to be about how it
turns out (though that, of course, is its ch ie f interest): each em otional step
should hold our interest and have us gripped.
 Making scenes, building sequences 111

E M O T IO N A L JO U R N E Y IN G
For the scene to work fully, both characters need to have travelled from one
em otional state to another, and in the process taken us with them. A t the
start o f the scene M aud is trying to mollify Percy. Sh e is guilty and feels sorry.
Percy is stuck in self-righteous indignation, is nursing a grievance and ob vi­
ously feels very angry. By the end o f the scene, both are going to reach a
point o f resignation and deep regret. But they are going to get there by a care­
fully thought out route. H ere’s the very m oving scene Patrea Sm allacom be
wrote from the storyline.

SCENE 17 INT 1845

SET MAUD'S HOUSE
PSC
PERCY. MAUD.
PERCY EATS HIS MEAL IN SILENCE.
MAUD NEEDS AN ANSWER ON HER
FUTURE.
MAUD:
(OF THE FOOD) I'll have to remember
that dish if you like it?
PERCY:
(NON-COMMITTAL) Mmm.
MAUD:
(SORRY) I was planning on telling you,
Percy.
PERCY:
(DOUBTFUL) And when would that have
been?
MAUD IS UNABLE TO ANSWER. PERHAPS
SHE WOULDN'T HAVE TOLD HIM.
PERCY:
You know, thought of coming home to
wives and young ones were all that
kept some blokes going.
MAUD:
(EVEN) But not all of them came back.
PERCY:
So some of you took out a
bit of insurance just in case.
(CHALLENGING) Is that how it was?
THIS IS THE FIRST OPENING PERCY GIVES
MAUD TO JUSTIFY HER BEHAVIOUR OF
112 Making scenes, building sequences

SOME FORTY-ODD YEARS AGO. SHE

ISN'T ABOUT TO.
MAUD:
(DEFENSIVE) You weren't all so innocent,
either.
PERCY:
Are you referring to your Wilfred?
MAUD:
(QUIETLY) No. Not that I know of.
PERCY:
(POINT PROVEN) No ...
MAUD:
(BITING BACK) I never asked. And if I had,
who knows if I would have
got the truth the way you all
stuck up for one another. Yes, you
were all in it together. And didn't
we know it. When you came back
it were like some secret society - one
us women could never be part of.
Fifty years on and it's the same.
You only have to go down t'Legion
and you can still feel it.
(ANGUISHED) Endless remembrance
ceremonies and D-Day celebrations.
PERCY:
Commemorations.
MAUD:
Don't any of you just want to forget?
PERCY:
(BETRAYED) It were you who used my trip
to Normandy to remember the war as you
saw it. You who've got the constant
reminder in your Maureen.
MAUD IS STUNNED INTO A CRUSHED
SILENCE. SHE DIDN'T SET OUT TO USE
PERCY OR HIS TRIP, BUT IT SEEMS FUTILE
TO EXPLAIN.
PERCY:
I saw blokes receive letters such as
the one I presume you wrote
Bombardier Grimes.
(TEARS BEGIN TO ROLL DOWN MAUD'S
CHEEKS.) They didn't think 'Oh, well, on to
Making scenes, building sequences 113

the next one!' News of wives and

girlfriends giving themselves to the Yanks
killed 'em as sure as any gunfire.
Even knew of some willingly walking to
their deaths thinking they had nothing
more to live for.
MAUD BREAKS DOWN AND SOBS. SHE
DOESN'T WANT TO HEAR ANY MORE.
DOESN'T TRY TO DEFEND HERSELF OR
HER ACTIONS.
PERCY:
(ANGRY) Your men were young, frightened.
They were out there risking their lives
for you and that's how you
repaid ’em.
MAUD:
(DISTRESSED) We were frightened too.
PERCY:
(PULLING BACK) I'm not saying you
weren't. (EXHAUSTED) I suppose we all
dealt with it differently, that's all.
MAUD:
Maureen was part of our future - mine
and Wilfred's. He loved her. Loved me.
PERCY:
Then you were very lucky. But I'm
telling you, it wouldn't have been
my choice.
MAUD:
(COMPOSING HERSELF) And now?
PERCY:
Can't say as I feel any
different now as I did then.
MAUD:
(BRAVE) And neither do I.
(RESIGNED DIGNITY) So that's it then?
PERCY:
Aye. (WITH DIFFICULTY) I suppose it is.
WITH GREAT SORROW, BOTH HAVE
COME TO THE REALISATION THAT THIS IS
THE END OF THE LINE.

END OF EPISODE 2712

114 Making scenes, building sequences

Going through the scene, it is worth noting some of the key moments and
major shifts both characters pass through in pursuit of their objectives. The
first couple of interchanges down to Maud’s uneasy silence see her offer him
the chance to forgive and forget - to carry on as if nothing had changed.
W hen it’s clear he doesn’t want to know, she becomes regretful, trying to
appease his anger. He is determined to punish her. W ith that in mind, he
goes on the offensive. She stands her ground and w ith that line, ‘But not all
of them came back’, is trying to plead mitigation for her infidelity. She’s
asking for him to see it her way. Percy ploughs on with his offensive, deter­
mined to get her to admit her guilt. The best means of defence being attack,
she strikes back, trying to minimise what she did all that long time ago by
referring to the disloyalty shown by men during the war years. N ot to be
deflected, Percy brings it right back to her doorstep, personalises the issue and
asks whether her husband ever gave her cause to doubt him. She is forced to
admit that he didn’t and we reach the first point in the scene where Maud
could admit defeat. But she rallies and renews her attack on the secret con­
spiracy of men with their endless ‘celebrations’ of war. He corrects her, point­
ing out that they’re ‘commemorations’.

Although the point of the scene is Percy breaking off the engagement, the
following interchange forms the emotional heart of the scene, discovered by
Patrea in the writing of it, and supplies the reason behind Percy taking this
step. Maud’s betrayal of her husband all those years ago was bad enough in
Percy’s eyes, but now he accuses her of a double betrayal; as he sees it, she used
his recent trip to Normandy to betray him as well, by visiting the ‘Yank’s’
grave. A secret lover she’d also kept a dark secret from him. G iven that she’s
done that, how can he trust her now? It’s an unimpeachable reason for drop­
ping her. And from here on, Maud is unable to defend herself as Percy presses
home the attack as he once might have made a bayonet charge (even though
he was in the catering corps!). He accuses her of playing with W ilfred’s life.
It’s the killer blow and pushes Maud to break down. S till he can’t resist
kicking her one more time, and in that moment Maud finds it in her to speak
the simple truth — she was frightened. It touches a nerve with Percy, who
comes to himself, comes back to the present, relents and finally shows some
compassion. She breathes again. Perhaps he w ill understand and forgive. In
the hope that she can free them both from the past, and save their future now,
she refers to the way W ilfred came to terms with her waywardness and forgave
her. The im plicit invitation to Percy is clear; he shouldn’t throw away what
they’ve got. But he has already made his choice and at the cmnch moment
(M aud’s ‘And now?’) he sticks with the past, leaving Maud to retrieve what’s
left of her dignity with an implied assertion she was (and is) only human, and
has always been true to her feelings. They have reached the end of the road.
 Making scenes, building sequences 115

Throughout the scene, she has done her best to save the relationship, and he
has stuck to his guns and accomplished what he set out to do - finish it.

It ’s a terrifically well-written scene, constantly moving Percy and Maud on

from one stage to another, escalating the conflict, opening possible turning
points, and in its touching conclusion, ringing absolutely true to character.
You can see how nothing whatever has been left to chance here. Every stage
has been thought through, crafted to flow naturally from the last, and calcu-
lated to set up the next. It is especially true of this sort of T V drama that
writers occupy themselves w ith the minutiae of characters’ feelings from one
moment to the next. These tiny brush-strokes form the substance of what
these dramas are about. C m cial to this process is the writer’s ability to inhabit
the emotional truth of each and every moment. Indeed, 1 would say this is a
corner-stone of all good dramatisation.

Just a couple of incidental points on this scene. You w ill notice with many of the
lines Patrea has specified, in parentheses, the characters’ intent, or their tone of
delivery. O n the whole this is a practice I ’d discourage; write a line with clear
enough intent and the actor should then be able to understand it, too. O bvi­
ously, where there’s room for misunderstanding, it can be very helpful to offer
clarification. As for manner of delivery - which really relates to the emotional
charge of a line - actors are skilled at working out an iiiterpretative line through
their characters’ parts, and it can be no bad thing to leave them to do just that.
Their way may not be the same as your way, but may be just as (if not more)
effective. In the same way writers need a movie in their heads to write the script
of a drama down, so they also need to hear their characters speak in their heads
as they get their lines down; but, they needn’t make the mistake of thinking that
has to be the way it is all going to sound in production. So, why then would a
very experienced and talented writer incorporate so many instructions on the
page? 1 have several possible suggestions.

One is to do with the nature of high-pressure T V production undertaken to a

tight schedule, where actors and directors have very little rehearsal time, and
where the writer may well not he present to iron out any queries. These addi­
tional pointers woven into the dialogue and action are offered by way of defini­
tive and helpful clarification. Another reason may lie that, just as T V companies
have differing house-styles on the printed page, so too they may well have indi­
vidual cultures and conventions on how much or little writers are encouraged to
specify their ‘vision’ and intent. Clearly, w ith Coronation Street (as with many
high-volume T V dramas) it is quite acceptable to be this prescriptive.

Finally, writers are individuals and do not all conform to a set of rules; they
have personal preferences about how specific or not they want to be in their
116 Making scenes, building sequences

instructions. M y personal recommendation is that you weigh the pros and

cons; definitely clarify and supply supporting information where there’s a
need for it; and, at the same time, also allow for interpretative freedom of
expression. In the end it’s going to be your decision how much or how little
you want to interfere or pin it all down. However, do try1 and differentiate
between what you needed to create in order to make the scene live in your
mind so as to write it, and what others may then want or need to do to bring
that page to life on the screen.

Having looked at the thought, feeling and speech in this scene so closely, a word
on the visual aspect. Often scenes rely for their first impact on what we see, and
here we are offered a special meal - a clear sign that Maud has gone to some
trouble for her man, and a visible sign of her bid to make a particular effort. This
context underpins the poignant irony of the scene’s outcome for the pair.

Experience teaches me that, having read all the analysis above, some people
w ill now be saying to themselves, T h a t’s all very well, but surely to goodness
writers don’t actually think about all those things when they’re writing a
drama!’ W e ll my clear opinion on that is that they absolutely do - and they
absolutely don’t. How much of it is a self-conscious process by the time a
writer has become experienced at the craft is, indeed, a good question. But
one way or another, I do believe that talented and experienced writers con­
stantly perfect their skills in making the most of whatever it is they are
writing. W hether it happens in the planning, during the actual doing, or in
the reflective editing and honing of their work (and it’s usually a mixture of
all three) is really beside the point. Effective scripting is, as I said at the
outset of this book, not an accident, and the more conscious you make your­
self of what you are setting out to achieve, the more potential you w ill be able
to fulfil.

C O N SID ER IN G O PT IO N S : W H A T IF ... THAT SCENE HAD

BEEN W R ITT EN D IFFEREN TLY?
A well-written scene w ill always flow off the page with energy and presence. It
may seem effortless and that things just couldn’t have happened any other
way. However, if the storyline for this scene had been given to another writer,
the finished product would not have been the same; that much is a certainty.
Just where, and to what degree, another writer’s version would have varied, or
how significant those differences would have been, is immaterial: the import­
ant point to grasp is that you can always do it differently.

W ith this in mind, it’s important to note that your first thoughts are not
always the ones which are going to make for the most effective or engaging
version of a scene; before you get going, as well as throughout the writing
 Making scenes, building sequences 117

process, it’s going to be important to keep considering your options. It’s also
equally important to make and commit to choices having considered several dif­
ferent ways of writing your drama; without that commitment, the end
product w ill retain needless ambiguities, and may well be short on clarity,
presence and impact.

So, for the sake of a specific, concrete example, let’s just look at the scene
between Maud and Percy afresh, considering the kinds of different choices a
writer could have made. Once a writer has been given the storylined version
of a scene, they w ill very often work strictly to that outline. After all, if the
storyline writers have done their job well, they w ill have grafted hard, pre­
sifting many possibilities. They w ill have tried to offer the one which fits the
mood and tone best and also has most to play (offers the characters most con­
flict and potential for complication). However, as a matter of fact, apart from
safe-guarding the continuity of the episode (that’s to say, not overturning
events in a way which will re-write history or go against character), episode
writers often do make changes to storylined scenes in the process of making
them their own.

For the sake of argument, let’s consider total freedom to revise the elements
of this scene, working to the single simple headline ‘Percy breaks off the
engagement’. How might this have been written differently? To illustrate this
I ’m just going to track a few of my thoughts and see where they lead me.

Characters
Just who is going to be in a scene is one of the fundamental questions to be
answered. Percy wants to break off the engagement. Does he have to do this
in person? W hat if he writes a letter? W hat if he does this over the phone?
W hat if he were to use a go-between? There is both the question of dramatic
potential, as well as characteristic behaviour to look at here. First and fore­
most, Percy is no coward and it’s very hard to believe that he wouldn’t do this
face-to-face. Scenes played out remotely tend on the whole to be much less
dramatic than face-to-face encounters. Reaction is at least half the business of
any scene between characters and can be the overwhelming interest. Cer­
tainly Maud’s reaction to Percy’s onslaught is affecting, and whilst she could
get a letter and break down reading it, actually seeing him watch her distress
has far more dramatic interest and impact. So it both fits his character and
makes for better drama to bring them face-to-face. This also gives her a fight­
ing chance to hang on to her man, which is, in part, what the scene is about.

It’s always worth considering whether a scene would benefit from the addi­
tion of any other characters dipping in to help out or make life more difficult.
118 Making scenes, building sequences

W ith the scene set in Maud’s house, the answer to this question seems clear
enough. If it was in a more public setting then the constraining influence of
others nearby or the reaction of strangers to unchecked emotion could be an
interesting and powerful addition. If, say, Percy were trying to control the
meeting, and avoid uncomfortable shows of emotion by choosing a semi-public
setting, and if Maud did her best to find privacy within that setting, the scene
might offer an interestingly ironic take on the question of Percy’s courage.

Setting
W here a scene is set is one of the most basic questions to address. Here it was
decided to set the scene at Maud’s. But what if . . . ? W e ll, what if the scene
were set at Percy’s? G iven that he is a lodger at Em ily Bishop’s, there is the
question of how much Percy’s place is his or not to take into account. N ot an
insurmountable problem (it’s always possible to get other characters out of
the way) but definitely one to bear in mind. In any case, inviting Maud round
is probably not a good idea and not credible. He wants to finish the relation­
ship, and is also feeling angry; so he’s going to want to be able to walk away as
and when that feels right. H e is not going to want to have to deal with any
difficulties any longer than he has to.

However, what if he were coming from a different place em otionally and

breaking this relationship off more in sorrow than in anger? W h at if he could
see why Maud did what she did all those years ago, knew it really didn’t
matter in the grand scheme of things, and yet still just couldn’t bring himself
to carry on with the engagement? G iven that as emotional background,
maybe it would be very strong, dramatically, to invite her round to his place.

But that isn’t the case. Percy’s character is such that he is inflexible and
what’s more he has made up his mind. He is black and white in his opinions,
and to make him change now would be unacceptable meddling in continuity;
unless we were given some compelling reason, viewers would simply not
believe another version of Percy. Even if he were still struggling w ith whether
or not to carry on, it would still be stronger for him to be able to walk away.
(It can be very useful to consider the question of a character’s power in a
scene and characteristically how much they are able to retain it or not.) In
this scene, Percy is going to have to be strong, and we know he can be. It w ill
not be easy but he must break off the relationship.

W e ll, if not at his place, what about on neutral ground? W hat if he’s decided he
must break off the relationship, and doesn’t want the embarrassment of being
looked after or made to feel at home? W here would be a good setting; the cafe
or the pub? These are rather too public a setting for an intimate talk of this sort.
W h a t about an outing to the park? This offers the possibility of safe, neutral
 Making scenes, building sequences 119

ground where they can credibly find a quiet comer. Perhaps they have an
awkwardly polite cup of tea in the park’s cafe, not full of other Weatherfield
regulars, yet still a constraining atmosphere. Maybe they then go and find a
quiet spot before getting to the heart of the matter. W h a t’s more, that quiet
corner might be not too far removed from the war memorial; tangible
reminder of those other betrayed parties - Maud’s dead husband and Percy’s
fallen comrades. O r is that too obvious? Hm . . . definitely worth thinking
about: a sneakily subconscious move on Percy’s move to turn the screw and
punish a conscience-striken Maud? It has its appeal as long as that memorial
is featured to just the right degree - not too much, not too little.
However, the park as setting would be putting them both in a place where
things were already clearly cooler between the two of them. The scene as
storylined chooses to have Maud believing, or at least telling herself, that the
situation is retrievable, and the way to Percy’s heart is via the time'honoured
alimentary canal. This is a way of her demonstrating she really wants to hang
on to him.

W here you can go to in a drama, depends largely on where you have been.
So both character and plot play their part in dictating what you must play
next and where you must play it. You can’t just leap over stages: if Percy
and Maud are relatively estranged at the start of this scene, we w ill need to
know how that came about, and preferably to have seen it.

Finally, this scene is about home-truths, and where better to tell them than
in Maud’s home? Here, where she should feel safest, she comes under
attack. It is an intim ate environm ent for intim ate dealings and as such is
totally appropriate. M y alternative thoughts about the park and the war
memorial would be all well and good if it fitted where the characters were
up to w ith each other, but I wonder if it could ever have the same impact
as an intim ate domestic setting: since the scene has to be the cliff-hanger,
the major em otional moment on which we leave the characters and
the episode, 1 wonder how much a strange setting would lim it that all-
important atmosphere. Perhaps it would be just a different kind of scene
w ith a different kind of final moment. Percy falling silent and looking away,
Maud doing the same, disconsolate, holding back her tears - the two of
them tellingly framed against the backdrop of that war memorial.

Action
As you can see, the choice of where to play a scene is not unimportant and
can have a real bearing on the action. A s for the action itself, to repeat the
point, as long as you are true to the characters and to the events which have
impinged on their lives to date, then the rest is really up for grabs. W h a t you
120 Making scenes, building sequences

have to watch for is which option offers the most potential. As we have seen
from the finished scene Patrea Smallacombe wrote, there is a great deal going
on for each of the characters and they both pursue their objectives as far
as they can to a point which w ill not be reversed: end of story. (W e ll,
until she tries to propose to him in the future! However, he did think she had
to be joking. So to all intents and purposes the story of their romance is at an
end.)

I’ve suggested there might be one or two alternative scenes to play - the cafe
and park; or, building on that idea, say, for instance she has invited him for a
meal, he has rung and cried off. She guesses what’s happened and goes round
to explain she was going to tell him about the past when the moment was
right. W ith Em ily lurking in the background, this is a highly embarrassing
conversation for both and so, reluctantly, he agrees to take a walk so they can
discuss the matter.

Then again, perhaps there’s a scene in which Percy has made up his mind,
calls round to return a gift Maud gave him during the engagement period.
W hatever the choice you make, any alternative scene must take account of
Percy’s im m ovability and Maud’s refusal to be rail-roaded into begging for­
giveness for her behaviour in the past: she may be sorry not to have told
Percy about it, but there’s no sign that she is ashamed. (History tells us that
she can be every bit as dogged and perverse as Percy.) So, even if we design a
scene where she is forced to take the initiative in order to try and keep him,
it’s still important to be true to her character.

Remember, Maud’s bottom line is still that she w ill not be shamed, Percy’s
that he needs to feel righteous: knowing what he does about her, she is almost
a fifth columnist now, and whatever else you might do, you do not sleep with
the enemy. The emotional attitude of each character must ring true to how
they would behave under such pressures, and those emotional attitudes must
be respected in the telling of the story.

KEEP ASKIN G Q U EST IO N S

Once again, the suggestions I ’ve run through are by no means intended to be
an exhaustive list. However, I hope they serve to illustrate the importance of
constant self-interrogation. Like a good chess player, you have to try to plan
ahead, scrutinising different possible runs of moments, to find the one which
offers the greatest possible conflict, complication, the most satisfying resolu­
tion, and of course, through all this dramatic interest - entertainment. W h ilst
sorting through the different possibilities in your head, and focussing in here
and there to test how you can make them solid, it’s important to keep an
open mind. U n til you actually do commit to a choice, keep turning over
 Making scenes, building sequences 121

possibilities. Don’t be afraid of turning an idea through one hundred and

eighty degrees just to see whether it plays more interestingly. Don’t be
worried about flirting w ith even the most outlandish of possibilities at the
planning stage: some of the best, most worthwhile and em inently workable
fragments are often discovered in the middle of otherwise unpromising ideas.

I stress the importance of all this because for some, once they have started
involving themselves w ith and attaching themselves to particular ways of
outlining a story, they then find it very hard indeed to see it another way.
Yet, along w ith the capacity to visualise your drama, this capacity to pan for
gold, as it were, is one of the most valuable assets you can develop as a writer
of screen drama. A ll of which said and done, in the end it’s just as important
to be able to recognise which moment and which way of playing a series of
moments really do speak to you, for those are the ones you’re going to be able
to give life to most convincingly.

THE FIN ISH ED PLAN IS O N LY EVER A START

I remember talking to a writer friend after I had settled on the idea for how I
was going to write a new play. I was full of enthusiasm and bubbling with
excitement, even though there wasn’t a word of the play as yet written. ‘Enjoy
the feeling,’ said my friend. ‘It never gets better than this —just harder’.

There is a cruel irony embedded in the fact that, just as you settle on a good
outline which definitely can bring its own feeling of reward and completion,
you realise you have to write it, and inevitably the writing of the piece w ill
have its ups and downs, and even throw up one or two problems. Nonethe­
less, that vital planning stage, and the detailed step outline, w ithin individual
scenes as well as between those separate larger steps, w ill have assisted your
process enormously. Make sure each step of the way builds on the previous
steps and keeps carrying the story forward. Make sure the parts all relate to
the whole, and vice versa. Keep telling the story, and telling the story means
revealing what’s going on each and every step of the way for all the characters
involved, and even where that may be similar to what has gone on for them
before, making sure it is still somehow different.

And if, at any stage, it all gets to feel too easy, you forgot to turn the engine
on, and wherever you think you are, you’re still sitting in the car park.

B U ILD IN G SCEN ES IN TO SEQ U EN C ES

As mentioned earlier in the chapter, screen dramas are made up of inter­
woven strands of separate (though often related) stories. So how one builds
each of these story strands, as well as how one chooses to inter-weave them,
122 Making scenes, building sequences

merits som e close attention. It can be quite a com plicated process, and
depends on both craft skills anti instinctive feel. Principally, there are two
considerations at work. How do you build a run o f scenes within an indi­
vidual story strand so as to develop it to best effect? A nd then, how do you
place each scene from one particular story strand am ongst scenes from others,
also to m aximum effect?

Building an individual run of scenes

T h is essential process o f constructing sequences is, o f course, com m on to
drama for both television and cinem a. However to illustrate it here I’m
drawing on another Coronation Street storyline. (Just to clarify one or two
potential queries: on Coronation Street there has always been a strict con ven ­
tion o f stating the precise time o f day; there’s also a convention o f listing all
the characters featured in a scene directly beneath the scene heading; finally,
‘P S C ’ stands for ‘portable single cam era’, and appears in the headings of
scenes to be shot on location.)
Rather than reproduce all o f Episode 4116 here, I’m going to pick out the
m ain story strand and then look at how parts o f that story strand were woven
into a couple o f short sequences using scenes from other story strands. A t the
top o f this storyline, the four strands featured in this episode are summarised
in headlines:

ANNE KISSES CURLY, MAXINE GOES FURTHER.

ASHLEY TAKES DON HOME.
TRICIA FINDS OUT ABOUT THE CHILD SUPPORT AGENCY.
LIZ HOLDS OUT ON JIM.

A s the bold print suggests, Curly W atts’ story is the m ain one featured in this
busy edition o f the soap. H e is about to leave the street having been disap­
pointed in love. T h e scenes (or parts o f scenes) forming Curly’s story in this
episode are as follows:

SCENE 3 PSC THE STREET 1230

MAXINE. FIONA. CURLY. LIZ.
Back from shopping, Maxine notes that having a new man has certainly perked Fiona up,
and she reluctantly admits that she misses Tony - she's always had a bloke in tow. Liz
passes. Fiona tells her that she got a Christmas card from Steve - how is he? Well - has
Fiona got five minutes?
Curly's off to the pub. He asks if he can buy these three a drink tonight, but they all
decline. Rejected, Curly heads off. Maxine feels sorry for him.

SCENE 4 ROVER'S BAR CONTINUOUS

JACK. VERA. CURLY. TRICIA. FRED. NORRIS.
Curly expects to be the centre of attention but no-one seems interested. Vera hardly
 Making scenes, building sequences 123

gives him the time of day. Miffed Curly is unaware that Vera's pulling out every stop to
make sure tonight is a success.

SCENE 6 PSC THE STREET 1330

CURLY. ANNE. EMILY.
Curly heads home, he's got a lot on today. Emily spots him - he hasn't forgotten that
she's giving him dinner tonight has he? Curly bluffs that he certainly hasn't - he's looking
forward to it. Anne's knocking on his door.

SCENE 8 WATTS 1345

ANNE. CURLY.
A present from Anne - a practical Swiss army knife. She eventually confesses her feelings
- she's glad he's going, it will make life much easier for her. She's always carried a torch
for him. If only things had worked out differently. She kisses him. Startled, Curly
responds. Anne has to go before things go too far.

END OF PART

SCENE 10 WATTS 1910

EMILY. CURLY.
Emily tells Curly that dinner will be ready in about half-an-hour. Curly's reflective and
considers the enormity of what he's doing - he's burnt so many bridges, and who knows
what this trip has in store for him? He’s looking at Raquel’s star chart - what should he
do with it? Kind Emily will look after it for as long as he likes. They set off for Emily's.

SCENE 11 PSC THE STREET CONTINUOUS

EMILY. CURLY.
Emily suggests a quick drink for old time's sake. Curly's not too keen, but she insists. She
pops into the house with the star chart which leaves Curly standing alone in the deserted
street. He takes a long look round.

SCENE 12 ROVER'S BAR CONTINUOUS

JACK. VERA. CURLY. DES. LIZ. JIM. MAXINE. FIONA. EMILY. ALAN. ANDY. ANNE.
TRICIA. NORRIS. FRED. MAUREEN. MIKE. ALMA.
The pub’s packed with hushed regulars when Curly and Emily arrive. Surprise! He's truly
gobsmacked and his eyes fill with tears. Jack says a few kind words and hands over the
present - a camera, bought with the proceeds of a whip-round. Maureen beams at him.
Andy confides that Anne's responsible for all this. Curly's touched, she really is a
remarkable girl.
Fred and Norris can't help regret Curly's rashness, but they're smarmy to his face - he
was on the point of being admitted to the Inner Rectangle! Another crevice to fill.

SCENE 14 ROVER'S BAR 2045

MIKE. ALMA. JACK. VERA. CURLY. LIZ. JIM. MAXINE. FIONA. EMILY. ALAN. FIONA.
ANDY. ANNE. TRICIA. NORRIS. FRED. MAUREEN.
Maxine's cornered Curly. He must be so upset about Raquel - is that why he's leaving?
Curly would rather change the subject, but Maxine's intent on being 'sympathetic'.
124 Making scenes, building sequences

SCENE 16 ROVER'S BAR 2045

JACK. VERA. CURLY. LIZ. JIM. MAXINE. FIONA. EMILY. ALAN. FIONA. ANDY. ANNE.
TRICIA. NORRIS. FRED. MAUREEN. DES.
Des is surprised to find all this going on - he had no idea Curly was leaving.
Vera and Tricia are celebrating their victory over Baldwin. Tricia goes to serve and Curly
tells Vera that there's something she ought to know. If Tricia signs on, the Child Support
Agency will track down Terry and tell him he's a daddy again ...
Fiona reckons Maxine is drunk - can she get Alan to run her home? Maxine's going
nowhere. In that case, Fiona has other fish to fry - she leaves with Alan.
Curly bumps into Des at the bar. Des expects the worst, but Curly keeps his powder dry.
He feels sorry for Des. He dumps one woman and moves on to the next. He'll never
know what it's like to really love someone. Like Curly loved Raquel. Des finds this hard to
deny.

SCENE 18 ROVER'S BAR 2240

JACK. VERA. CURLY. LIZ. JIM. MAXINE. EMILY. ANDY. ANNE. TRICIA. NORRIS. FRED.
MAUREEN. DES.
The gloss has been taken off the evening for the Duckworths. Terry finding out he's a
dad can only mean one thing - trouble.
Time for Curly to go. Tears are shed. There are kisses from Anne and Maureen - neither
knowing how the other feels. Maxine's sitting on her own and gallant Curly wonders
how she's getting home. Fiona told her to get a taxi but she's not sure if she's capable.
Curly will sort her out. With Maxine clinging on to him he takes his leave of the Rovers.

SCENE 19 PSC THE STREET CONTINUOUS

CURLY. MAXINE. DON. ASHLEY.
Maxine fancies a night-cap - has Curly got anything in? He has - but just one, mind. In
the background, Ashley and Don cross the street.

SCENE 20 WATTS CONTINUOUS

CURLY. MAXINE.
Maxine would rather forget about the drink. She pulls Curly close and snogs him within
an inch of his life.
END OF EPISODE

Curly’s story forms the spine o f this episode, a major one for the character. A s
such, it gets both the lion’s share o f the programme and is unsurprisingly given
both the end o f part, and end o f episode scenes. In addition, the first scene o f
the episode establishes the preparations for the surprise o f party so that, from
the beginning, the audience can savour the irony o f what they know but Curly
does not. Curly’s potential for fatal naivety is what the episode plays off: there’s
a surprise party and he hasn’t got a clue it’s coming; and then there’s also the
question o f Curly’s innocence in the women department. Both o f these are
 Making scenes, building sequences 125

explored with comedy and pathos - traditionally a hallmark of the Coronation

Street ethos, tears and laughter often keeping close company.

So, from that first meaningful moment when he slopes off to the pub alone
and ‘Maxine feels sorry for him ’ in scene three, we may have more than an
inkling of what she’s got in mind, but Curly most definitely does not.

The first three scenes all build on each other to let us know that Curly clearly
wants a get-together, a farewell drink, however informal, with friends and
neighbours in the Rovers. He wants to feel that people care that he’s going.
He wants to feel he’ll be missed. A casual invitation to Maxine, Fiona and Liz
leaves him feeling snubbed and the next scene moves on to intensify C urly’s
feelings of rejection as people in the pub (including Vera, an erstwhile land­
lady of his, and therefore closer than most) make a show of more or less
ignoring him in the interest of m aintaining surprise. Pretending that he has
too much to do to linger, he heads home, and meets decoy Em ily (his very
first landlady on the street) who reminds him about her dinner invite. His
bluffed reply underlines where he’d really rather be that evening, and empha­
sises his sense of isolation. So A n ne’s appearance is timely; by now he is a
man in need of consolation. And it arrives in the form of a Swiss army knife -
a present which lets us know, whatever A nne’s feelings are towards Curly,
she’s a practical sort of soul, not given to romantic impulses. A ll the more
surprising for us, and for him, when she can no longer keep it all in, and
comes clean about her feelings, giving him a kiss. Unsurprising, however, that
just as he gathers his wits and responds, she reverts to type and runs off. Her
fantasy is far safer than the real thing and C urly’s left holding his knife. Par
for the course. In fact, the writer of this episode had the good judgement to
change the knife to a torch, both symbolising what she’s been ‘holding’ for
him in her heart, and also the perfect present for a man so frequently left in
the dark where his dealings w ith women are concerned: now who’s holding
the torch? (In fact, in the end it was decided to go w ith just one present from
everyone and neither the knife nor the torch made it through to the broad­
cast episode - a reminder that the writing process is just that, a process.)

W e leave part one intrigued and amused, wondering if this w ill come to any­
thing. It’s perfectly in character for Curly, so often disappointed in love, to find
himself sitting alone in scene ten, pondering the wisdom of his action in
leaving, and raking over a few regrets. The previous scenes have all built beau­
tifully to this moment where he can open his heart to dear, kind Em ily, pretty
much a mother figure to him. So here we see the lovelorn husband holding his
errant wife’s star chart and openly wondering about what’s to come: we could
not have a clearer sign of how much he had seen his future as bound up with
Raquel’s. It is also a graphic reminder of how ill-starred Curly has been in
126 Making scenes, building sequences

relation to her, if not with women in general. Finally, for those who remember
it, that star chart also reaches back to Curly’s origins on Coronation Street.
(Before he arrived on the street many years ago, he had turned down a place at
university to read astronomy, an interest which, from time to time, he has in fact
pursued.) W e are invited to ponder with Curly, not only his place in the street,
but in fact his place and meaning in the cosmos! If there’s more than a hint of
wry humour in the scene, there’s also a good deal of sympathy for the character
at work as well. Curly’s helpless attachment to that star chart tells us where his
heart is really tied up, and Em ily’s gentleness and sensitivity in offering to take
care of the chart for as long as he wants, is a truly touching acknowledgement of
his feelings and his deepest hopes. Handing it over to her for safe-keeping, is also
a sign of beginning to let go, and of relinquishing those hopes.

In just five scenes Curly has been moved progressively from bonhomie,
through disappointment and annoyance via bewilderment and further disap­
pointment to reflective sadness: a journey from wanting to reach out, to
needing to reach inwards. And so it feels quite natural that by the time Em ily
tries to get him into the pub for the party, he’d actually rather just spend a
quiet evening with her, nursing his feelings. To get him to this point of
melancholy solitude is perfectly judged, and maximises the impact of the
overwhelming kindness he’s about to be shown. W e feel with him. The story
has taken us along with his hopes that he is cared about anti that he w ill be
missed, and as he steps into The Rovers it fulfils those wishes. He, and we, are
moved and satisfied.

The story? can now shift up a gear and click back into the comedy of errors
which makes up Curly’s love-life. So Maureen can beam at him, a reminder
for those who remember of her tenderness towards him, their ill-fated one-
night stand when things were rough between her and Reg, and also of Curly’s
definite tendency for being used as a shoulder to cry on. So it was with
Raquel, and so it is perhaps about to be with Maxine, who homes in, appar­
ently offering her own shoulder to comfort Curly. Curly resists the invitation.

W hat we see is him being increasingly buoyed up by the drink and the mood
of the party. That vulnerability we saw just prior to his arrival at the party has
vanished and he’s in warrior mode. And it’s in this frame of mind that he
deals with Fred and Norris smoothly over what they secretly see as his ill-
judged defection; then he rains on Tricia and Vera’s parade by pointing out
the snag about the C S A , and reminding us what a good guy he is compared to
T ricia’s wastrel of a man, Terry Duckworth; finally, loins definitely girded for
the occasion, he squares up to Des, responsible for so much romantic mayhem
in Raquel’s life. A fatal triangle these three, with Curly’s love for Raquel
being just like hers for Des - never truly reciprocated. So there’s a lot of
 Making scenes, building sequences 127

history behind this little tete-a-tete, and it’s com pletely true to character,
though scant comfort, for C urly that he would now claim a moral victory
where Raquel is concerned.

The w riting continues to take this expansive, empowering line w ith C urly,
showing him surrounded by women who’ve all got a soft spot (or more) for
him. But he’s sorted; his life is free of complications, and he stands poised to
ride out of town. O n the face of it, he’s just showing his usual, caring nature in
offering to get Maxine back home safely: in fact, of course, he’s succumbing to
his unavoidable flaw, and is about to be taken in all over again. Maxine started
circling him that very morning and is now going to snap C urly up in those
gaping jaws, a veritable shark to A n ne’s minnow. W e could be celebrating w ith
C urly since he ends up going home w ith tonight’s star prize, but somehow we
already know, given M axine’s history, this is not about making him happy.

Now you can see how carefully orchestrated this story is, it’s also worth
picking out one or two key moments in the w riting to show how they
enhance what’s going on. T he crunch moments w ith A n ne and M axine are
placed at the ends of the respective halves, book-ending the party and illus­
trating, by contrast, how C urly is fated to fall in w ith the wrong woman. A t
the end of part one, we wonder what, if anything, C urly w ill do about A nne;
at the end of part two, we wonder w hat M axine w ill do w ith C urly. W h en
A ndy promotes A n n e ’s cause, in scene twelve, C urly can be touched but not
enthralled. T he next tim e we see him , M axine already has him in her
clutches. Despite the best, of intentions, when it’s his call, C urly is destined to
make the wrong choices.

T here’s also a telling moment at the end of scene eleven. T he writers have
carefully engineered the moment to give us a desolate C urly lost in memories
against the backdrop of the street. T he cut is to a hushed expectant throng,
and the contrast is effective. C old, dark, lonely and excluding cuts to warm,
bright, excited and inclusive, moments before we see C urly make the trans­
ition from one to the other. W e know they are waiting for him ; we also know
what the impact is likely to be on him.

W E A V IN G S T O R Y STR A N D S
There are many pressures in the making of a soap opera w hich impinge
directly on its writing. A major story is going to dictate its own inclusion;
that said, there may well be a pressure to let a popular story run over a long
period suspensefully, and so the question of when, and how often, to deal
w ith a story becomes a matter of strategic judgement. Earlier in the book I
mentioned Brookside’s Jordache fam ily’s ‘body-under-the-patio’ story as an
example. O ften in soap there are no major events to be writing about, and
128 Making scenes, building sequences

then when there are more im portant developm ents, as w ith this episode, they
can threaten to overw helm the rest o f the storyline, squeezing the rest of the
script into a corner, if not handled carefully.

W h ic h other stories can be run is also affected by actors’ availab ility; where
scenes can be played is affected by the number o f available sets and how
much exterior shooting is available — so there are a number o f logistical con­
siderations to consider, w hich are going to govern the m aterial storyline
writers may have available to work w ith.

C le a rly the art o f the storyliners consists o f doing th eir best to com bine
story elem ents w here they can play o ff each other, or at least find th eir
prom pting from w ith in one another, rather than just seem like an arbitrary
assembly o f events, piled up one beside another. A ll this must be done
w h ilst also keeping an eye on the feel o f sequences, th eir rhythm , allow ing
enough tim e to elapse betw een scenes so that it doesn’t ja r against the
actual tim e w h ich needs to have passed in the actio n o f the drama.
A further, seem ingly sim ple consideration is how m any characters are
in vo lved in runs o f scenes; it can, for exam ple, become very m onotonous
to have scene after scene, each w ith just tw o characters inter-acting.

In this script the chance encounter between Liz and Fiona in scene three
gives Fiona the opportunity to m ention the Christm as card from Steve; it’s a
perfectly credible pretext for her enquiry after him and for Liz to take the
chance to unload. T h e ir next scene together and, thus, the inclusion of that
story, has been w oven w ell into the fabric o f the episode. It probably has least
resonance w ith C u rly’s story and so needs to find its place; it is given least
prom inence of a ll the four story strands (one scene, plus one telling moment
in the party) and is kept w ell away from the central story.

Don Brennan’s story, on the other hand, offers more potential. T h e afterm ath
o f a suicide attem pt (his second), and especially D on’s depression offer a
sombre atmosphere, totally at odds w ith the party-planning going on down
the street. T h e contrast is such that they work w ell against one another,
seemingly having nothing in common. H ow ever, w hen we get to scene seven,
sitting between the C u rly—Em ily and C u rly- A n n e scenes, we see it has been
placed there w ith good reason. T h is is the scene:

SCENE 7 1315 PLATTS

MARTIN. DON.
Martin tackles Don. The smoke will have done some damage, carbon monoxide
poisoning can have disastrous effects. He's got to have a check up. Don's one step ahead
- Martin's talking about a psychiatrist isn't he? Martin comes clean; yes he is. Don will
have none of it. Can a psychiatrist pay his debts, wind back the clock and stop his life
 Making scenes, building sequences 129

from falling apart? No way is he going to see a shrink. He blames the medical profession
for saving him the last time. They should have left him to die like he intended.

Don is that much older than C u rly, w ell into his fifties, and thoroughly
em bittered. T h e point of dropping this scene in here just after we’ve followed
a rejected-feeling C u rly home from the pub, is to offer us the comparison w ith
Don. W ill he end up like Don, isolated and desperate? T h e fact we’ve just
seen A n n e hovering by his door offers us hope that he w ill not; how ever, the
resolution to the next scene w ith A n n e, makes us think that it’s a possible
risk. N othing ever seems to flow happily for C u rly in his personal life. It ’s
certainly a them e picked up in the second h a lf o f the episode, and explored
up to the point where he stands alone and sad taking that long look round
the street. A t the same tim e, we know C u rly is capable o f bouncing back, and
so is quite a different character from Don: the question left hovering is
w hether this w ill always be the case. T h e proxim ity of that scene about Don
suggests, perhaps, that there but for the grace of G od, perhaps, walks C urly.
If we look at later scenes in the Don story, we can see how the them e is
further developed and the comparison between C u rly and Don used effect-
ively. Just after C u rly has had his m om ent o f truth w ith Des at the party, we
cut to scene seventeen in w hich A shley, D on’s lodger - shocked on his return
from a trip away to discover w hat’s been happening to D on - has now found
him at the Platts’. So we go straight from C u rly telling Des that he doesn’t
know the m eaning o f real love to:

SCENE 17 PLATTS 2210

MARTIN. GAIL. DON. ASHLEY.
Ashley wants Don to come home. Don wonders why Ashley should care one way or
another. Ashley's answer is simple. He cares because he cares about Don. He's grown
fond of him and can't bear to see him like this. Don is struck by Ashley's sincerity and
eventually agrees to go home with him.

T h e scene demonstrates a depth o f care and loyalty C u rly knows about too,
and sets up the idea o f returning home w hich we are about to cut back to at
The Refers, where C u rly faces the prospect of doing exactly that. If only he
could find someone truly w orthy of his attentions - someone w ho’ll really
care about him . Iro n ically, of course, he’s about to ‘find’ M axine.

A n d this link between the two stories is concluded w ith a deft little touch: as
M axine wangles her way into C u rly’s house, in the back of shot we see Ashley
being a true friend and escorting Don home, having found a way through his
depression and past his defences. T h e contrast in motives between Ashley and
M axine - selfless and selfish - forms an effective counterpoint. T he moment
also highlights the fact that both Don and C u rly are em otionally vulnerable
130 Making scenes, building sequences

types. (Curiously enough, by the way, it won’t be that long to go in Coronation

Street history' before M axine and Ashley are m arried!)

ST O R IES W IT H IN ST O R IES
Coronation Street, in common w ith other long-running series, is a never-
ending story, whose chief concern tends to be about the relationships
between the characters. So there are, as I outlined earlier, the characters’
ongoing, longer-term stories in the series, as w ell as the stories we get offered,
short-term w ithin any one episode. Those individual, immediate stories also
observe the rules of classic story- telling.

In this episode, C u rly is the chief protagonist. A dom inant feature of his life
on the street is that he wants happiness in his future, and love to work out for
him. T he longer-term version of this story has featured several women, and in
particular Raquel. Although this episode clearly does relate to those longer-
term events, it also offers us a shorter-term story concerning M axine and
A nne.

C urly wants happiness and love to work out for him . T he obstacles to this are
his naivety and the fact his affections are still tied up w ith Raquel, who has
gone. Does he get what he’s after within this episode I Yes and no. T he antago­
nistic forces at work mean that he cannot get it together w ith A nne so he
falls foul of M axine’s predatory attentions. So he does end up w ith a desirable
woman, but not the one he wants and at altogether the wrong time. The
other thiiig he wants, a clean get-away, is compromised in the process. It ’s
both a satisfying self-contained resolution, and one which leaves us enthusi­
astic to learn more. Such is the art of good soap; constantly paying stories off
w hilst managing to leave their audiences wanting more.

T his does mean, as we have seen, that the arrangement of stories, their
internal sequencing, and their patterning w ithin the grander scheme of
things —as w ith all good screen w riting —does need careful planning.

In pointing out the artfulness of some of that patterning - how and where
moments and scenes are placed in relation to each other - you may already
have realised there are some reasonably reliable principles you can draw on to
make effective transitions between scenes. Pointing up strong sim ilarities or
differences can ease your path, as can exploring resonance.

S IM IL A R IT Y
Earlier in the chapter I mentioned that beginnings and endings of scenes
deserved special attention in terms of how they relate to the beginnings and
 Making scenes, building sequences 131

endings of adjacent scenes: indeed, this can also apply to the beginnings and
endings of sequences.

Cutting between similarities can feel like a very natural sort of transition, and
there are different sorts of similarity to move between.

Identical dialogue
A line delivered at the end of one scene and then repeated at the beginning
of another can be most effective. Consider this scenario.

A man, let’s call him Ray, goes to take up a labouring job he’s been offered by the
local authority. He encounters Doug who’s unaware of this development because
he’s not bothered to answer his mail. He doesn’t like the idea and tries hard to deter
Ray who sticks to his guns, insisting he’s been appointed. He is only taking the job
to please his partner, Kath. In grandiose mood, Doug insists this was sneaked in
behind his back and he would never have agreed to the appointment. Finally he
‘softens’ and with obvious mischief in mind offers to ‘interview’ Ray the following
day. Ray goes ballistic but remembering how important this is to Kath reluctantly
agrees. As a parting shot, Doug tells him to get a good night’s sleep because there’ll
also be ‘a practical’. ‘Practical1’ Ray queries, totally flummoxed. We then cut to
the next scene where Kath immediately repeats, ‘Practical?!’ , shaking her head and
oozing incredulity.
In a flash we’ve got the fact that she’s had the whole story from Ray, and is
not impressed with the fix he’s got himself into. The cut graphically demon­
strates and emphasises the rock and the hard place between which Ray is
being squeezed.

Similar or identical action

Cutting between two actions, with one part happening in one scene and the
other in the next, can help tie together scenes, and this device - the action
cut, a favoured film editing trick - is also useful for the screenwriter to think
about. It can be as simple as a character raising a glass to their mouth in one
scene and a different character who has just finished drinking (in an apparent
continuation o f the action from the scene before) putting their glass down in
the next. This kind of cut can also be a useful way of making a transition
backwards or forwards in time. For example, a young girl bounces a ball
against a wall. We see the girl, we follow the ball and see it strike the wall
and then see the girl catch it. She throws it again, we see it strike the wall
once more, but this time years have passed and we see a woman (obviously
the same character but older) catching an almost identical ball.
132 Making scenes, building sequences

Similar or identical imagery

Matching a particular image at the end of one scene and the beginning of
another can be a useful device. The same house, landscape, boat, homed in
on and matched perfectly via a rapid dissolve, can also take us from one
moment backwards or forwards to another. A clock zoomed in on and then
pulled out from can reveal the same setting at the same time of day, but
weeks, months or years apart.

Then again, the juxtaposition of two very similar, but non-identical images can
also help us move easily from one scene to another. For instance, a locomotive
enters a tunnel at the end of one scene; at the start of the next, a matched shot
of its toy counterpart, seen as if life-size, emerges from the tunnel on a model
railway enthusiast’s lay-out. The compressed similarity and difference between
the two images surprises, combines and contrasts all at once.

Similar subject matter

It can also be useful to use a coincidental topic of conversation - though
between totally different characters in a totally different time-frame - to
move between scenes, making a virtue of the coincidence and allowing it to
be the opportunity for the juxtaposition. Or, perhaps at the end of one scene,
characters speak of a particular dream or fantasy, a world-cruise maybe, and at
the start of the next scene we see that same cruise . . . with another character
doing the cruising. As with the seeming absurdity of all coincidences in
fiction, you need to be sure it fits the tone enough not to jar the audience out
of its engagement with the piece.

Resonance
As we have seen with the Don and Curly storylines above, one can invite the
comparison between characters or moments without trying to depict them as
identical or even strongly similar. In the case of Don and Curly there are lots of
differences; Don is much older and depressive, embittered, pessimistic and really
quite a loner. Curly has plenty of friends flocking to show support, is bright and
energetic; he always seems to manage to get on his feet again and start over. Yet,
temporarily, there is a resonance of mood between the two, and the suggestion
that Don’s fate might just foreshadow that of Curly. There are times when the
ripples spreading out from one scene can mingle with those from another, invit­
ing some valid comparisons and tying those two scenes together.

Pace, tone and feel

It can be very effective to tie scenes together with moments of similarity in
pace, tone or feel. The earlier extract from Some Mother’s Son (p. 51) is a
 Making scenes, building sequences 133

good example. T h e urgent pace o f the dancing, its tone o f traditionalism , as

w ell as its feel of drilled precision, all marry w ell w ith the demeanour of
and values held by the IR A team fulfilling its mission. W hereas the pace
of action is observable and obvious, the mood, tone or feel of a scene can be
a more subtle commodity, and calls for the w riter to stay alert to what they are
creating on the page beyond just the straightforward speech and action.

A n o th er way of carrying over mood or in ten tio n from one scene to another,
and tying scenes together, is v ia the music and effects tracks. C inem a has
always recognised the power o f a good music track, and where television
drama has had the budget and the daring to follow suit, the gains have been
tangible, and the well-tim ed reprise of a theme or m otif can suddenly bond
moments together or carry over the mood from one scene to another. W h ere
lavish costume dramas had ploughed right in and copied from cinem a, on the
w hole, smaller-scale, more dom estically proportioned dramas had been more
hesitant to follow : probably a m atter o f m oney, convention, the fact that T V
tends to be relatively dialogue intensive and may not leave m uch room for an
elaborate sound track, and o f course, u n til recently, the inferior quality of
sound reproduction available for T V have also been deterrents. It is interest­
ing to note how some soap-operas, Neighbours for one, drew on a very cheap
and cheerful version of this device to highlight heightened moments. T h e
cross-over between cinem a and T V drama, w hich became ever-more pro­
nounced from the 1980s, and especially such ventures as Twin Peaks (M ark
Frost and D avid Lyn ch ), drove a horse and carriage through that sense of
small-screen reserve and paved the way for a sizeable tranche of (especially,
but not exclusively A m erican ) T V dramas to be quite elaborately orches­
trated. Good examples of this are to be found in Ally M cBeal (D a vid E.
K e lle y) and The Sopranos (D avid C hase).

Carried-over sound effects or dialogue

Foreshadowing the first images o f the subsequent scene by including their
accom panying sound at the end o f the preceding scene is a very common
device used to pull the two story events together. So, at the end of one scene
a character may announce their intention to get away somewhere, then w hile
they’re still talking about it or preparing to go, before we leave the scene, we
w ill hear the sound o f the train, plane or car used in their journey.

S im ila rly w ith a character recalling a scene from their past, it can be an
effective device to include the sound from the first action of the follow ing
scene (th e actual flash-back) quite audibly w ith in the last moments of the
preceding scene. C onversely, it can help to carry the last of the dialogue or
effects from the preceding scene into the one follow ing, letting it run out
over the first images o f w hat comes next.
134 Making scenes, building sequences

These devices employed to anticipate or recall the contents of immediately

adjacent moments in the story (though they may be far from immediately
adjacent ‘in reality’) helps to m aintain narrative tension and can serve to
emphasise the link between events, or may help to expose the ironic gulf
between them.

Similar but different

Sometimes you can juxtapose two moments w hich are sim ilar but different,
creating an interesting effect in the process. Take the example of a couple,
K evin and Pauline, who have gone out for a drive in the country. They start
bickering and then have a full-scale argument. Finally Pauline demands to be
let out of the car. In no mood to compromise, K evin complies, and to her
astonishment he then drives off. M uch later, and seemingly oblivious to her
fate, K evin is taking a nice hot shower (in a glass-sided shower cabinet) and
singing to himself, using the shower spray as a microphone. From here, we cut
to a shot of a wet and miserable Pauline huddled in a phone box at night,
trying to call home, the rain lashing down outside.

The overall images are sim ilar; both K evin and Pauline enclosed in glass cabi­
nets, both holding handsets, one for the shower and one for the phone, w hilst
water cascades around them. A nd yet, of course, the differences are there to
be appreciated as w ell. O ne is happy, warm (bathed by a soothing hot
shower) and also safe at home, w hilst the other is wet, unhappy and still miles
from home, facing the prospect of an uncomfortable walk through the
pouring rain. T he superficial sim ilarity between the shower cabinet and
phone box only serves to emphasise the irony of the situation - an unbridge­
able gap between both characters’ circumstances.

Definite differences
Stark differences can also generate a lot of interest and can make for a power­
ful way of juxtaposing scenes. A total contrast between someone’s stated
intention and their subsequent behaviour can be an engaging com bination. If
someone tells their partner there’s no way 011 earth they’re going to go to that
party w ith them, and then the very next scene we see them in tow, falsely
beaming away at all the other party-goers, the gap between their firm stated
intention and their actual behaviour makes us smile; this gap is intensified by
the contradiction being made immediately apparent.

A sim ilar device is at work when someone’s voiced-over thoughts are saying
something quite at odds w ith the pictures we see at the same time. In this
case their actual or pretended self-opinion is set against the observable truth,
and, again, the gap is illum inating, if not fascinating to the audience.
 Making scenes, building sequences 135

As with similarities of tone, pace and feel, pronounced differences between

any or all o f these can invite interesting comparison, and so make for
powerful transitions. In Network {Paddy Chayefsky), the story revolves
around a disenchanted news anchorman who is fired and promptly announces
his intention to kill himself on air a fortnight hence. His show becomes com­
pulsive viewing after he goes on air again - supposedly to apologise and say
his dignified farewells - only to rant and (obviously unbalanced) indulge in
apocalyptic truth telling. Newly-appointed director of programming Diana
Christensen sees her chance to capitalise on events, make the show a huge
hit for the station, UBS, and in the process do herself a big favour. Here is
her moment of truth:

INT. UBS BUILDING, LOBBY

Howard Beale, bleached white by the GLARE of the CAMERA LIGHTS, is obscured by the
CRUSH of cameras, REPORTERS, SECURITY GUARDS.

HOWARD
Every day, five days a week, for
fifteen years, I've been sitting behind
that desk. The dispassionate pundit...

INT. DIANA'S APARTMENT, BEDROOM

Diana, naked on the edge of her bed in a dark room, watches Howard Beale's
impromptu press conference on television.

HOWARD
(on TV screen)
... reporting with seemly detachment the
daily parade of lunacies that constitute
the news... and ...

Also on the bed is a naked STUD, who isn't really interested in the news. He is fondling,
fingering, noodling and nuzzling Diana with the clear intention of mounting her.

HOWARD
(on TV screen)
... just once I wanted to say what I
really felt.

The young stud is getting around to nibbling Diana's breasts.

DIANA
(w atching the TV set w ith single-m inded intensity)
Knock it off, Arthur.

The juxtaposition of stark differences speak volumes. The noise, glare and
turmoil of the bustling press conference in which Howard is laying his soul
136 Making scenes, building sequences

bare, contrasts strongly with the dark, peaceful cocoon in which Diana
watches him. Here she actually is warm and naked, but is starting to show
herself as cold, veiled and dangerous; we know from watching Arthur that her
real thoughts and feelings are a million miles away from the apparent inti­
macy and vulnerability of her setting. Howard may be intent on saying what
he really feels; it is questionable whether Diana even knows what she feels,
and very doubtful whether she would ever say it. In extremis, Beale has set
about reaching out, the best way he can, to all his faceless viewers: watching
him do this, Christensen couldn’t be less interested in the immediate human
contact she actually has on offer, right there in her bedroom. It’s clear what
she doesn’t want, and by implication we are invited to guess what really does
turn her on. The darkness of her setting also suggests the secrecy of her
scheming and the ruthless, dark nature from which it springs. The contrasts
between the individual scenes underline a third level of meaning beyond the
literal level of what’s going on in either scene, and this third level is made
available to us by comparing them both.

Differing tones
A s mentioned earlier in this chapter, contrasting moods or tones can also
make for arresting transitions. Perhaps chief amongst these is the juxtaposi­
tion of pathos and comedy. In Brassed O ff (Mark Herman), set in the
depressed northern English town of Grimley, the local miners’ brass band
battles towards and (eventually) wins the national competition, despite the
closure of the pit, economic hardship, domestic tensions all round, and the
illness of Danny its musical director. Danny’s son has very bad luck, and faced
with the threat of his wife anti children leaving, he puts on his Mr Chuckles
clown outfit to go and do some work as a children’s entertainer. A t real crisis
point for Phil in the film, we suddenly cut to him in the middle of an abortive
suicide attempt, dangling in mid-air dressed in the costume. The cut is doubly
shocking - both because of his despair and because he’s dressed like a clown,
which only serves to underline the fact that Phil’s bungled the attempt.
Later, there is a scene in the hospital where his father is struggling with pneu­
moconiosis, still arranging parts for the band and determined to make those
finals at the Albert Hall. The scene builds gently and the mood is sombre.
Suddenly there is a rapid cut to the hospital corridor where Phil, still dressed
in the ludicrous costume, is passing Danny’s room. The contrast is shocking
and effective - comedy and pathos tempering each other and proving a
potent mix, reminding us of the complicated mixture of emotions life throws
up.
Nurse Betty (John C. Richards and James Flamberg) has a most extra­
ordinary shift of tone in it, and one which has a crucial function with regard
 Making scenes, building sequences 137

Figure 6.1 Renee Zellweger in Nurse Betty © Abstrakt/Gramercy/IMF/The Kobal

Collection/Birmelin, Bruce

to the plot. Betty Sizemore lives in small-town Kansas working in a local

diner and unhappily married to selfish, unfaithful car-salesman husband Del.
She comforts herself reading romantic fiction and most of all by avidly
following hospital drama A Reason To Love whose heart-throb surgeon, con­
veniently and just recently enough bereaved David Ravell, Betty dotes on.
The film opens gently and amusingly on Betty’s thirty-first birthday
anatomising Betty and Del’s awful marriage and showing both Betty’s coping
strategies and also the fact that she is not without spirit and initiative, as she
secretly manoeuvres to borrow the Buick LeSabre she wants and deserves to
go out in with friend and neighbour Sue A n n to celebrate her birthday,
rather than the car Del has foisted on her. In the event Sue A n n can’t get
out to play and so Betty stays in to indulge herself secretly by watching an
episode of her favourite soap, a habit which Del derides as ‘people with no
lives watching people with fake lives’. Unaware she is at home Del comes
back with a couple of men whom Betty has seen and served as customers in
the diner and who she assumes, from what Del has told her earlier, are
potential customers for one of the Buicks. In fact Del has decided to try his
hand at some unauthorised drug trafficking, fallen foul of the dealers and the
two men, Charlie and Wesley, are father and son hit-men sent to retrieve
the drugs and mete out retribution, which the younger man, Wesley, does
138 Making scenes, building sequences

w ith appalling violence when he scalps D el in retribution for an insulting

rem ark about ‘Injuns’ and in order, as W esley puts it, ‘to make a statem ent’.
T h e build up to this shocking scalping w hich is described, and was film ed, in
graphic detail is interspersed w ith scenes from the soap episode B e tty’s
w atching in w hich R a ve ll has rejected the advances o f schem ing nurse
C h lo e, because he is not ready and knows there’s ‘som ething special out
there for [him ]’, only to be accused o f sexually assaulting her, putting his
career at risk. H er attention fin ally drawn away by D el’s cries of distress
Betty looks through to the dining room from the den where she is w atching
and sees the scalping and D e l’s subsequent agony before he is put out of his
misery by C h a rlie shooting him . It is anything but a gratuitous use o f v io l­
ence designed as it is to shock the audience sufficiently for them to believe
the incident is enough to put Be tty into deep post-traumatic shock and
induce a level o f dissociation in w hich her fantasy soap w orld now becomes
a reality for her:

CHARLIE
JESUS CHRIST!!!

Wesley steps back, staring at the dripping scalp in his hand, as if wondering how it got
there. Betty is transfixed, horrified.
Charlie re-enters. The two men look at each other over Del's MUFFLED SCREAMS as he
plows headlong into the wooden panelling, a china cabinet, and finally back toward
them near the breakfast counter. Del bashes blindly into it.

CHARLIE (cont'd)
(to Wesley)
What the fuck is the matter
with you?!

Wesley is practically foaming at the mouth, still rushing on what he did. Charlie draws a
silenced pistol and mercifully SHOOTS Del through the head. The big man stops
suddenly, blinks once or twice, topples over.

INT. BETTY'S HOUSE-DEN-NIGHT

Betty points her remote at the dining room and clicks it, as if trying to make the image
disappear. Finally she gives up, slowly turning away from the carnage and aims at the
TV. A Reason To Love pauses on the face of David Ravell and Betty sits in absolute
silence.

T h e natural flight response Betty has to witnessing her husband’s brutal

k illin g is about to be transformed into a mission. Betty is about to become
Nurse Betty, one tim e fiance of D avid R a ve ll, and w ill suddenly take off for
L A in pursuit o f her one and only true love.

T h e plot of this comedy th riller develops w ith enorm ously entertaining inge­
nuity, ‘art’ (in the form of soap opera) and reality constantly vying to outdo
 M aking scenes, building sequences 139

each other, all underpinned by that imperative o f comedy to be too much and
keep delivering more. T h at switch o f tone described above, though by no
means the only one in the film is incredibly effective and the whole script
really worth studying, dem onstrating as it does how bold conjunctions of, and
variations in, both mood and m atter can excite surprise, arouse interest and
intensify engagement.

Differing pace

Intercutting radical contrasts in pace can be a useful strategy. In the extract

quoted earlier from Some Mother s Son, you may remember that just as the
rocket was about to be launched, the girls were suddenly seen dancing in
slow m otion. W here there has been an unim peded rush in a sequence, such
a m om ent can herald the clim ax o f an action sequence. It can m axim ise
tension, just before all hell breaks loose. It can also eloquently counterpoint
the reality o f w hat’s going on, taking the viewer out o f time, as it were,
aping the effect that shock has in actual m om ents o f extrem e crisis, to
seem ingly elongate time. In this case it also heightened the lyricism o f
those last m om ents o f dancing. Equally, brief m om ents o f frenetic activity
seen cut against outwardly reflective calm , notably when m oving into a
flash-back sequence, can create a startling counterpoint and can also
provide an effective transition into an extended sequence o f that busier
recalled activity.

T h ese few exam ples are by no m eans m eant to be an exhaustive survey:

I hope they help to illustrate the importance o f being aware o f what kinds o f
transition in sense, content, feeling, tone and pace you are m aking in m oving
from one scene to another, and how those transitions - created by the
moments you choose to move between - are essentially part and parcel o f the
business o f writing. I do recommend that you read screenplays and, more
importantly, pay close attention to the films and programmes that you watch,
exam ining them closely to see what kind o f choices have been made in
joining up scenes, and to see how these choices do (or do n ot!) work to
enhance the structure and m eaning o f the drama.
140 Making scenes, building sequences

Exercises
1 Storyline a different scene for Percy and Maud in which he's persuaded to continue
their engagement, and let Maud be the driving force in the scene. Perhaps try
writing the scene. As ever discuss your ideas with a writing partner or the rest of
your group.
2 The morning after for Curly and Maxine. Storyline the scene between them over
breakfast. Storyline the next scene for both of them once they have parted.
Possibly as part of this, Anne comes round to say goodbye, only to find Maxine
there. Go on to storyline the next scene for her as well, once she has left.
3 Pick a scene you particularly like the look of and write it.
Once again, where possible, cast your work and read it, then discuss what you
thought.
 7
Adaptation

A really useful practice w hich can help develop screenwriting skills, and in
particular the ability to visualise scenes and sequences in action, is to try your
hand at adapting a short story. If you are struggling to create any kind of a
narrative through-line, then w ith this exercise there is, of course, the in-built
advantage that the raw m aterial is already there for you to take off from and
work w ith. T h at said, it w ill still offer scope for invention and w ill also
require you to reflect on the existing material and select w ith an eye to what
w ill make for engaging and effective screen drama. Above all, as I ’ve emphas­
ised throughout the book, you w ill need to visualise the story as it already
exists before translating that into a short screenplay, visualising it afresh and
editing and augmenting image and action in the process as best fits your
emergent script. In this chapter I w ill discuss both a short story and its screen
adaptation. First though, a few general observations about the business of
adaptation.

A n y number of screen dramas have been adapted from short stories, novels,
novellas and plays. A contentious acid-test often applied in assessing the
success of the venture is whether or not the adaptation was ‘faithful’ to the
original, and many’s the time writers (and directors) of screen versions have
been criticised for changing the original source m aterial out of all recogni­
tion. W riters and perhaps more particularly directors can differ widely in their
approach to this issue of keeping faith, or even in what way they choose to
understand that idea. H itchcock for example, when asked by Truffaut how
many times he had read Daphne Du M aurier’s short story T h e Birds’ whilst
preparing to make his film version, blithely retorted:

What I do is to read a story only once, and if I like the basic idea, I just
forget all about the book and start to create cinema.
(Quoted by David Thomson, in the Virago edition of
Du Maurier's short stories, 2007).
142 Adaptation

And of course it showed. The action was shifted from depressed, post-war, rural
Cornwall to Marin County, California; the central character translated from a
disabled ex-soldier, now part-time farm-worker, struggling to protect his wife and
family, to a glamorous, philandering lawyer who, at the start of the film, is
caught between three decidedly non-working-class women all competing for his
attention - one ot whom (shades ot Psycho) is his clingy mother! The original
story (published in 1952) hovers adroitly between the birds’ mass attack stand­
ing as an allegorical, Jungian evocation of dark, unconscious forces, or more
transparently as the manifestation of incipient Cold W ar paranoia, rooted in
recent experiences of Blitzkrieg, and foreshadowing a feared Soviet-bloc inva­
sion. After the first attack in the story, hero Nat Hocken warns his wife:

There are birds in there,' he said,' dead birds, nearly fifty of them. Robins,
wrens, all the little birds from hereabouts. It's as though a madness seized
them with the east wind.'
And later a farmer asks him:

'Well what do you make of it? They're saying in town the Russians have
done it. The Russians have poisoned the birds.'
(Ibid., pp. 6, 19)

Figure 7.1 The Birds © Universal/The Kobal Collection

 Adaptation 143

Clearly Hitchcock was having none of that. In the film there is a jokey, flirta­
tious opening set in a pet shop, a romantically comedic love-tangle, scarcely
a mention of the wider world outside Bodega Bay (and that only fleeting and
local); this in stark contrast to the original story’s use of B B C news bulletins
specifically describing an unfolding national disaster. In the film the emphasis
is on straightforward entertainment throughout. Du Maurier’s original story
closes with Hocken and family bleakly besieged, most probably doomed, only
ominous silence from the once comforting wireless, Hocken’s wife plaintively
enquiring:

'Won't America do something? They've always been our friends, haven't

they? Surely America will do something?'
(Ibid., p.38)
Ironically perhaps, given that last quotation, and by way of stark contrast,
with the Hollywood film we are unsurprisingly offered the central characters’
escape and the anodyne prospect of a return to happy, privileged normality
just around the corner.

But of course what Hitchcock did get hold of was that core element of massed
birds and the terror of their attacks, realised most brilliantly on film. And as
renowned master of suspense he improved no end on the pacing of that key
component. In the book the first attack happens almost immediately; in the
film, timing and intensity of the build up are gradual and judged to perfection.

In other words Hitchcock knew exactly what he was after - surprising and
spectacular suspense-cum-horror - took that element and with the techno­
logy available to him in the late 1950s he worked it to perfection. And
knowing what you want to do with a chosen story over and above simply
translating it into dramatic action, is a very important part of the process of
adaptation.

Another striking example of an adapter deliberately assuming a fresh point of

view and inventing so as to deliver it to his audience, can be seen in Andrew
Davies’s T V adaptation of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Davies was very
aware that Austen gave herself the limitation of never seeing D ’Arcy on his
own or with other men’ (interview, B B C Radio 4, 5 August 2007) and decided
to invent material which filled this gap so as to ‘write a pro-D’A rcy’ version of
the story. O f course adapting a novel for serial drama is different from writing
a feature film based on a novel. The latter will often result in the writer, as
Diana Ossana neatly puts it, ‘cutting a path through thickets of prose in order
to shape a powerful screenplay while maintaining the essence of character and
story’ (Brokeback Mountain, Story to Screenplay, p. 145). In contrast creating
scripts for several hours of television drama can offer more latitude for
144 Adaptation

invention and exploration. Indeed Davies took satisfaction in writing new

scenes and making his audience believe they were penned by Austen.

O f course Jane Austen is no longer around to comment on how she feels

about Davies’s changes...unlike Susan Orlean, author of The Orchid Thief, the
book about a plant collector which was the basis for Charlie Kaufman’s bril­
liant screenplay Adaptation. The screen rights were originally optioned on a
magazine article and subsequently the book which grew out of that article.
W hilst the article clearly had the raw ingredients of a mainstream film, a fas­
cinating central character, interesting and unusual subject matter as well as a
crime (plant stealing), producer Edward Saxon had a creative challenge on
his hands when the book was finished. As he put it, ‘You couldn’t take a
highlighter to the book and say “There’s our movie”.’ He did think it ‘a fan­
tastic hook which needed a little glue to join it together as a movie...maybe a
lot of glue’ ( http://movies.about.com: Susan Orlean and Edward Saxon inter­
viewed by Rebecca Murray and Fred Topel). In fact Kaufman’s screenplay
takes considerable and, at first glance, unlikely looking liberties with its
subject matter. Cheekily he uses a reflexive conceit and puts himself in the
screenplay, one story strand tracing his tortured struggle to find a way of
adapting the hook, whilst his twin brother Donald (an entirely fictional cre­
ation!) breezes his way to newcomer screenwriting glory. And if that wasn’t
enough Kaufman goes on to include the character of writer Susan Orlean, in
the script roundly (and fictitiously) defaming her as a drug-taking adulteress
unethically involved with Laroche, the plant-hunter/thief subject of her jour­
nalistic assignment. Fortunately for the film makers Orlean proved to be a
very game participant who (after some initial resistance) not only tolerated
Kaufman’s poetic licence and consented to her inclusion, but was also, ulti­
mately, full of admiration for his skill:

The book isn't a linear conventional story...it's not really about this crime,
plant stealing - it's using the crime as a way of looking at issues of passion
and desire and how you figure out your life...That's the irony of course, that
it is actually an extremely faithful adaptation of what the essence of the
book was for me.
(http://movies.about.com: Susan Orlean and Edward Saxon
interviewed by Rebecca Murray and Fred Topel)
If we take her at her word, and there’s no reason not to, then it’s clear that
Kaufman’s screen adaptation goes way beyond whimsical and hilarious inven­
tiveness, insightfully probing the thematic heart of the piece and ingeniously
laying it bare. There are, as they say, more ways than one to skin a cat, and
that question of faithfulness to source material is less straightforward than it
might at first appear. Perhaps there are several possible interpretations we can
 Adaptation 145

give that word ‘faithful’ as it applies to adaptation: faithful to the events and
characters of the original story; faithful to the themes and ideas it explores;
faithful to the story it relates; faithful to the tone in which it is told; faithful
to what you perceive as the ‘spirit’ of the piece; or faithful to your own vision
of what any or all of those criteria just listed might mean as they fit the
adapted piece you create. However you choose to look at it, there are judge­
ments and choices to be made if your adaptation is to engage readers effect­
ively and clearly show the potential to make for engaging viewing.

In contrast to that case I cited of H itchcock’s The Birds, it is not uncommon

for writers to read and re-read the original piece carefully before setting about
the business of adaptation. This process of close scrutiny is aimed at thor­
oughly understanding the story, identifying essential characters and plot;
noticing particularly in the case of novels {the very length of which usually
calls for compression) whether events and characters can be conflated or
omitted; or conversely, in the case of a short story being adapted into a
feature film, noticing whether there is a need to invent extra material. And
there does seem to be a general consensus around the importance of safe­
guarding the essence or true spirit of whatever is being adapted; lining up
w ith the author’s underlying intention is a crucial part of the task. So all of
that said, I wonder what you make of this (very!) short story ‘Encounter’ by
Norwegian writer Roy Jacobsen, translated by Frankie Shackleford.

EN C O U N TER
Arvid had delivered the fish to the packing plant and returned the boat to its
moorings. It wasn't much of a catch, a half crate of cod, three big coalfish,
and some rosefish - from forty nets! Still it was no worse than expected. It
was a bleak time, with bleak expectations.
He rowed ashore in the dinghy and put the coalfish in the wooden crate on
his moped. He always kept the biggest coalfish for himself. You can't get
much for it, and besides, it tasted better than cod. He walked the moped
past the drying rack and up onto the road, brushed wet snow off the seat,
and put on his driving goggles.
From the packing plant it was twelve kilometres home on a country road,
straight across a flat swamp. It could be a tough trip in the winter, but Arvid
just bent over the handlebars when the weather got too bad, didn't push
down on the gas so hard, and made sure that he stayed in the middle of the
road. He got up at five every morning, and drove the twelve kilometres to
take the fishing boat out to sea. In the evenings he drove back. It was a nice
rhythm. His parents had been farmers, but Arvid was a fisherman. He liked
the sea better than the soil.
146 Adaptation

He started the engine.

Up on the swamp he shifted into third gear and accelerated. It was a gray
day with no wind, so he could drive fast. When nobody was looking he
sometimes leaned forward over the handlebar even though it wasn't really
necessary.
After driving a few minutes he caught sight of a small figure at the other
end of the world. It was moving towards him on the narrow ribbon of road
and resembled a man on a moped, his own mirror image almost...
Arvid didn't understand what this could mean. There was only one moped
on the island and that was his. Once in a while there was a warm mist
over the swamp that distorted one's vision, but that was only in the
summertime.
He gave it more gas and leaned even closer into the handlebars. The figure
was getting larger. It really was a man on a moped. Arvid moved over to the
right a bit, but not much, so that his opponent had to yield more than he
did. They passed each other. The man on the other moped was a black
man.
Arvid sat up straight. He drove 230 meters into the darkness before he
managed to brake. He stopped and looked back. The black man continued
driving as though nothing had happened, kept getting smaller and smaller
and threatened to disappear completely.
 Adaptation 147

Arvid pulled himself together, turned the cycle around and went after him
as fast as the moped would go. Fortunately the black man wasn't going
very fast - he was the type who sat upright and looked around at the
scenery while he drove. And slowly but surely Arvid caught up with him,
glided up next to him and looked at him. They looked at each other. The
black man smiled. He, too, had a crate on his baggage rack. Arvid signalled
that he should stop. They stopped.
Arvid got off his moped and walked right up to the man.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"I be selling books," said the black man and patted the crate.
Arvid couldn't imagine anything more meaningless. The man talked just the
way the blacks talk in the Donald Duck comic books...
"I came by ship," he said. "Many be buying books here on the island."
"By ferry," Arvid corrected and was forced to laugh. "You came by ferry.
This afternoon?"
"Ja,ja," the black man continued to smile. He said he was a student from
Ghana and that he had to sell books to finance his studies.
Arvid had never seen a stranger man. He took off his goggles and moved
even closer. The black man took off his goggles, too.
"What kind of books?" Arvid wanted to know and slapped the crate.
"You be interested?" asked the man cheerfully and got off his moped.
"Fine books."
He opened the crate and paged through a book, since Arvid's hands were
too dirty to touch it himself. The book was red on the outside. On the inside
there was a lot of text and Arvid saw several pictures of Jesus. The book was
called Gleams of Light. He wrinkled his nose. He didn't like Jesus. They had
a church in the community, but it was only used for confirmations and
funerals. The black man laughed at him and pulled out another book. It was
green and much thicker. It was a cookbook. Arvid looked at the colored
pictures of the various dishes. He didn't like cookbooks either. But he didn't
want to abandon this mystery so soon.
"Will you manage to sell this stuff?" he wondered
"Ja, ja," said the black man. "I be going over there now."
He pointed at the farm of Martin Gnanli, which they could barely see smoke
148 Adaptation

from at the other end of the swamp. Arvid thought that though Martin
couldn't read, he was probably just dumb enough to buy a book.
"Don't you have anything else?" he asked.
The black man happily pulled out one more.
"This be a novel," he said and displayed a thick book with nothing but
writing. It was called Moby Dick.
“I've heard of that," said Arvid and was suddenly embarrassed. Maybe it
had something to do with the name Moby Dick, but maybe it was just that
he felt sorry for this person from the other side of the world who didn't
realise how ridiculous he was.
"I'll take it," he said.
"Buying?"
"Ja,ja, buying."
But it was a premature act of charity, for Arvid had only a wrinkled wharf
invoice in his pocket and nothing else. The black man looked at him.
"Fish,” he said and pointed at his crate. And Arvid could, of course, have
offered him the coalfish, but it sounded as if the man said "fish" just to
show that he knew the word.
"I don't have any money on me," he said, “but you can come to my house
afterwards, and I'll pay you then."
He explained where he lived, but they weren't able to communicate well
enough, so he had to draw a map on a piece of paper that the black man
gave him. He wanted to give him the book right away too. He could pay later.
"Take it," he said.
Arvid hesitated. He wiped off his hands and held the book with his fingertips.
It was heavy and nice to hold. He stuck it under his overalls, closed the zipper
and looked around. There wasn't really anything else to say.
"Ja,ja," he said and was on the verge of exploding with laughter. The black
man was laughing too. They got on their respective mopeds and started the
motors. They put on their goggles, lifted their thumbs in greeting and drove
off their separate ways.
Arvid steered straight ahead in the middle of the road without leaning over
the handlebars. He was stiff. After several hundred meters he stopped and
looked back. The black man was just a little figure on the other end of the
 Adaptation 149

swamp. Arvid stood still and watched him disappear. The only thing left of
him was Moby Dick heavy against his chest.

The story has one or two qualities which immediately make it an attractive
proposition for adaptation into a short film script: first there is its own brevity
and the palindromic neatness of its ending; then it has an evocative setting, a
wintry landscape of working fisher-folk’s coast and, at its heart, the moody,
mysterious limbo of a seemingly endless stretch of swampland at twilight per­
fectly fitting that ‘bleak time with bleak expectations’ described in the very
first paragraph; and also it has the immediately entertaining, highly intrigu­
ing, synchronous coincidence of the near identical mopeds (‘his own mirror
image almost’) fated to meet in that archetypal wasteland, and Arvid catch­
ing sight of that ‘small figure at the other end of the world’. In itself this is a
strongly evocative image redolent of one of the most famous shots in cinema
that of Sherif A li’s famous long, slow approach towards camera out of the
heat haze across the desert in Lawrence of Arabia (Robert Bolt and Michael
Wilson). It is a comparison further summoned up by that mention of occa­
sional mirages in summer on this stretch of swampland; yet in this Norwegian
story that memorable moment of high romance blends with the much more
absurd evocation of Arvid, a latter day Don Quixote, charging for the joust.
And beyond those associations there simply is the curious contact between
black man and white man, at one level almost as if a printed filmed image was
meeting its photographic negative.
Then there is the story to consider and what it might be taken to mean. It is
certainly a piece which resonates at different levels - that of the unfolding,
literal action but also carrying religious and cultural associations all within a
definite air of the allegorical with clearly more than a hint of looking at what
it means to ‘meet yourself coming the other way’. But before looking at that
any further let’s see how Joe Tucker approached the business of adaptation:

ENCOUNTER
1. EXT. COAST. EVENING.
ARVID, a young, bearded fisherman in his late twenties, is out at sea in a small, rusting
trawler boat. He hauls in a meagre catch and throws it into a crate. The spasming fish
barely cover the crate bottom. He selects the largest fish and inspects it, before slipping it
into the front pocket of his overalls. We see its head poking out.

2. EXT. FLAT SWAMPLAND. EVENING.

The title fades up over the following:
ARVID is riding down a long, straight road on his moped. He is wearing goggles and a
helmet. He leans over his handlebars rather unnecessarily. We see the fish head poking
out of his pocket.
150 Adaptation

3. INT. ARVID'S HOUSE. NIGHT.

ARVID sits alone in a sparsely furnished and dourly decorated room, eating his fish. His
wet clothes dry in front of the fire.

4. INT. TOILET. NIGHT.

ARVID sits on the toilet reading an old comic book. The comic book caricatures black
people as racial stereotypes, with over-sized lips and wide, wild eyes. He smiles as he
reads.

FADE TO BLACK.

5. EXT. FLAT SWAMPLAND. EARLY EVENING.

ARVID is travelling home on his moped. Again a fish head peeks out from his top pocket
of his overalls. In the distance, another character, also on a moped - almost ARVID'S
mirror image - catches his eye. ARVID shakes his head in disbelief and goes for another
look. Sure enough, we see a rider on a moped headed towards ARVID. The rider is a
young, black man named EZE. They pass one another at close quarters, almost colliding.
ARVID stops and looks over his shoulder in disbelief at the stranger who rides off into the
distance. Turning his moped round, ARVID pursues EZE. EZE drives in a relaxed manner,
sat upright and looking around at his surroundings. ARVID signals for him to pull over.
He obeys and remains seated, smiling as ARVID dismounts and approaches him, out of
breath.

ARVID
What are you doing here?

EZE
I be selling books. To finance my
studies. Many be buying books here
on the island.
ARVID looks in total disbelief and bewilderment at EZE.

ARVID
What kind of books?

EZE
Fine books. You be interested?
EZE opens one of his books and begins to flick through the pages. We see only text, then
suddenly and very briefly a picture appears. As EZE watches the pages turning, ARVID
gingerly takes the opportunity to study the stranger's face. EZE looks up and ARVID
quickly breaks eye contact.

ARVID
Turn back.
EZE turns back the pages and when he reaches the picture ARVID puts out his hand to
stop the pages turning. It is an image of Jesus. ARVID wrinkles his nose in displeasure. He
points at another book.
 Adaptation 151

ARVID
What about that one?
EZE begins to finger through a second book for ARVID. It is a cookbook and ARVID is
disinterested. EZE moves to get back on his moped.

ARVID
Will you manage to sell this
stuff?

EZE
Ja,ja.

ARVID
Don't you have anything else?
EZE spots the fish poking out from ARVID'S overalls and happily reaches for another
book. He produces a copy of Herman Melville's 'Moby Dick'. It has a large image of the
white whale on the front.

EZE
This be a novel.

ARVID
[Excited]
I've heard of that. [Pause] I'll
take it.

EZE
Buying?

ARVID
Ja, ja, buying.
ARVID pats his pocket in search of money. EZE points to the fish.

EZE
Fish.

ARVID
I don't have any money on me.
You can come to my house
afterwards. I'll pay you then.
ARVID points behind him to a lone cottage in the distance.

ARVID
[over pronouncing his words]
My house, see? You understand?

EZE
[offering the book]
Take it. Please.
152 Adaptation

A pause, then ARVID wipes his hands and takes the book. He removes the fish from his
pocket and places it into his crate. He puts the novel in its place. The white whale's head
on the cover of the book pokes out over the top of his pocket as the fish did.

ARVID
[holding back laughter]
Ja, ja.
EZE nods and laughs too.

EZE
Ja!
ARVID climbs on his moped and starts his engine. EZE starts his engine and they both put
on their goggles. ARVID lifts his thumb in greeting and EZE does the same in response
before riding off. ARVID rides away in the opposite direction.
ARVID looks over his shoulder and we see EZE disappear over the horizon. Finally we see
a close-up of the book against ARVID'S chest, the white whale's head poking out from
the pocket.
END CREDITS.

The first thing to notice is the way Joe Tucker changes the opening, inserting
a scene actually showing Arvid out at sea fishing. It is really not at all uncom­
mon to make such a change, introducing interesting action at the start of an
adapted screenplay to hook the audience’s interest, cinema thriving on land­
scape and movement of characters, camera or both. For example, in another
famous and remarkably faithful adaptation of a Du Maurier story, Don’t Look
Now - already mentioned in an earlier chapter, screenwriters Allan Scott and
Chris Bryant invent action to dramatise what is back-story in the original
piece - the death of a little girl. The original short story opens with John and
Laura Baxter in a Venetian restaurant on holiday trying to recover from the
shock of this tragic loss. They are about to have their first contact with a pair
of elderly sisters one of whom is psychic and has a message for them from the
dead little girl; dramatic prospect though this is, the scene itself is very seden­
tary and driven by dialogue. By way of adaptation Scott and Bryant introduce
new material showing a fatal accident —(in the story she has already died of
meningitis) - in which the little girl drowns whilst playing. The build up to
this is intercut with John and Laura happily installed in a warm interior after
a lovely lunch - before that cosy scene is shattered by John’s sudden premoni­
tion and desperate ill-fated dash to save his daughter.
Though ‘Encounter’ is certainly a long way from ‘Don’t Look Now’ in
content and tone, Roy Jacobsen’s story also starts a lot less cinematically than
Joe Tucker’s adaptation. Lively action will usually play better on screen at the
 Adaptation 153

start of a film, and work to establish atmospheric mood. N ot only is the same
information conveyed but for screenwriting purposes Joe improves on the ori­
ginal. W e see A rvid is a fisherman, but in a very small kind of way; A rvid is
alone and notice that the trawler is described as small and rusty. This eye for
telling, specific detail can be so important in screenwriting and is clearly at
work here. G iven what I ’ll suggest is a running theme of fishing in the story
and in particular the way in which Moby Dick features, it is poignant to
compare this down-at-heel, unromantic and unworldly figure w ith that of
Captain Ahab. And from the off, with A rvid, still at sea, popping that coal-
fish (a very miniature whale indeed) in his breast pocket, the ironic contrast
is effectively drawn. That moment w ith the fish is also of course Joe Tucker’s
invention. In the story the fish is taken and thrown into a wooden crate on
his moped. It is left to near the end of the story for the reader to hear about
Moby Dick and then retrospectively reflect on the comparison between A rvid,
unassuming hero of a tiny short story, and Captain Ahab the driven,
demonic, vengeance seeking centrepiece of M elville’s huge epic. In his adap­
tation Joe sets that comparison in train from the start, revising the action to
highlight the theme and create comedic tone. There is something incongm-
ously funny about popping a fish (still alive, as that curiously coined ‘spas­
ming’ tells us) in your breast pocket, almost as if it were a pen; a tamer
comparison to harpooning and running after a giant whale would be harder
to find. O f course the idea of putting the fish there also sets up the impact of
this short film ’s final image, and quite possibly was inspired by the image of
the book against A rvid ’s chest already in the story. In the following chapter
on metaphor, I w ill discuss in some detail how consciously structuring and
plotting the imagery in a script is an essential part of effective screenwriting
and further pick up on that aspect of this adaptation. But for now, by way of
further illustration, I’ll mention in passing a small, very significant change
made by director Nicolas Roeg to the scripted version of that opening
sequence of Don’t Look Now mentioned above. In the script, Baxter’s little
girl, Christine, as ‘seen’ by psychic Heather is wearing ‘a little blue dress’. In
the film (as M ark Sanderson notes, B F I, 1996) Roeg elaborates on the exist­
ing image of the girl’s red ball popping to the surface of the pond as she
drowns, taking just the colour and giving her a hooded, bright red P V C coat;
this also reverses the colours of coats worn by Laura and Christine in the ori­
ginal story, and is all part, not unconventionally, of establishing red as a con­
sistent sign of danger in the film. C rucially, though, it also sets up a direct
correspondence and deliberate confusion with the red-coated, murderous
dwarf who is to be John Baxter’s nemesis in the dark back streets of Venice.
The power of an adjusted or elaborated image and invention around how it is
included can be considerable, and Joe’s fish-in-the-pocket image (fishing in
any case being close to A rvid ’s heart) amounts to just such a device.
154 Adaptation

T he second scene in Joe Tucker’s script is also a new one, though again credi­
bly dramatised from action w hich is reported in Roy Jacobsen’s story.
Show ing a travelling shot of A rvid making his regular journey home has the
immediate m erit of continuing the moving action. M oreover it establishes
and rehearses that regular ‘rhythm ’ of A rv id ’s work-life mentioned in the
story, one which we’re told he is well accustomed to and likes. In addition Joe
takes the opportunity to am plify the comedic elem ent he has already intro­
duced. T he goggles mentioned in the story are now supplemented by a
helm et, the full m otorcycling monty being quite simply funnier to look at.
G ive n the fact A rv id ’s metal steed is a tiny moped, the scope of his high­
speed, daredevil fantasies - indicated by that leaning forward over the han­
dlebars - are decidedly at odds w ith reality; A rvid is a far cry from being any
kind of M arlon Brando or Peter Fonda. Above all, that image of the fish head
poking out of his pocket lends the shot an absurdly amusing twist. It ’s worth
[iontiering the irony of A rv id ’s judgement on the student visitor in the story,
the moment when he ‘felt sorry for this person from the other side of the
world who didn’t realise how ridiculous he was’. Just who is the more ridicu­
lous figure here is a question Jacobsen is inviting the reader to engage w ith
and one Tucker also explores in this script. Finally, taking the opening titles
over this shot is not only aesthetically appropriate (and a commonplace for
road m ovies), it also foreshadows exactly where that encounter of the title is
going to take place.

The next two scenes are also invented by Joe Tucker, and this tim e com ­
pletely from his imagination but again predicated on strong likelihood. The
transition from cold, noisy exterior to gloomy, near-silent interior is a distinct
and effective switch of scene and mood, underscoring A rv id ’s solitary exist­
ence and im plicitly suggesting his circumstances and environm ent hardly
invite company. H e is shown as subsisting, surviving in a restricted little
world rather than happily thriving; fishing for a meagre catch and then con­
suming part of it so he can go and do the same again. A ll of this builds a
picture of his daily existence, a norm ality w hich we w ill in due course
measure against that of an adventurous, enterprising student far from his
homeland taking practical steps to raise money to support him self and his
studies.

T he next scene showing him reading a comic-book w hilst on the toilet is

unexpected, earthy and immediately amusing, again working to build A rvid ’s
character. Taking his cue from that m ention of the Donald Duck comic
books, Joe Tucker conjures this entertaining moment. It suggests something
about A rv id ’s reading habits, a level of childish playfulness and possibly of
lim ited literacy too, certainly hinted at later in the story, and in retrospect it’s
a moment w hich w ill again ironically contrast A rvid and Eze, given the
 Adaptation 155

latter’s status as a student and easy fam iliarity with books. The book’s illustra­
tions depicting stereotypical black characters pre-figure and explain A rvid’s
ignorant and prejudiced condescension towards the Ghanaian when they
meet. There is also an intriguing, incidental prescience about those illustra­
tions, in tune with the haunting coincidence about to unfold.

The opening sequence allows Joe to jump time after the fade out and we
rejoin Arvid as he returns from work the next evening, that fish in his pocket
being all the explanation we need. And with no further ado we are at the
heart of the action.

So something really to notice here is the way simple description, thought, or

reported action can all provide inspiration and raw material for scenes which
actively explore character, setting and tone whilst moving the story forward.

Though the script from here on in follows the story fairly closely, there are
one or two changes worth noting. (Incidentally, just on a technical level the
next block of action is not paragraphed into possible shots, but I doubt that it
was all being envisaged as one shot. As I pointed out earlier, how a script will
be shot is the director’s prerogative; nevertheless there is nothing to stop the
writer blocking the action into possible shots.)

That said, most of the significant moments in the story are highlighted, and
one or two are pointedly omitted. A rvid’s astonishment on encountering
what he at first takes to be his reflection is there, actively underlined by the
inserted double-take, which also indicates that Arvid thinks he may be imag­
ining what he is seeing, perhaps building on that mention of occasional,
optical illusions made in the original.

In the story it is clearly implied that Arvid plays a game of chicken with the
stranger:

A rvid moved over to the right a bit, but not much, so that his opponent
had to yield more than he did.

In the adaptation Tucker pointedly omits this moment, substituting it with:

They pass one another at close quarters, almost colliding.

It is not an unimportant change. In the story A rvid has a patronising,

bemused attitude to the stranger who, as mentioned earlier, he clearly consid­
ers laughable. In the story he is torn between ridicule and pity; when he
decides to buy the copy of Moby Dick it is an ‘act of charity’. Quite unaware
of his own prejudice he assumes a position of superiority, that of the native
islander who belongs and knows all, as opposed to the naive, incongruous
outsider trying his luck; and this delusion is reinforced by that comic-book
156 Adaptation

scene we have already watched. Positioning himself dom inantly on the road
is clearly an aggressive manifestation of that perception. So Joe Tucker’s
decision to omit the moment decidedly tones down the dynamic at work, and
this odd couple’s near collision which Eze simply rides on from, apparently
w ith perfect equanimity, now reads as if A rvid ’s driving is no more than
absent minded, induced by his total surprise at the encounter, and then
amplified at the last moment by a xenophobic reflex as he gets a close-up look
at the stranger. In fact the overall tone of the piece dwells more on the whim ­
sical than the satirical, though the latter is certainly still there to be dis­
covered.

The fact is that Eze, as Joe names the Ghanaian - lending him a specific indi­
vidual identity he does not have in the original story - becomes more an
object of curious fascination (notice that stolen moment of close-up scrutiny
by A rvid inserted in the adaptation), than the potential butt of A rvid ’s super­
cilious assumptions, chief amongst which must be just who has got the better
of whom by the end of this encounter. That fascination 1 just mentioned is
there in the original. W e are told A rvid prolongs the encounter because ‘he
didn’t want to abandon the mystery so soon’, and the screenplay dramatises
that nicely by having Eze giving up on a sale and making to move off before
A rvid stops him by showing continued interest.

The reference to M artin G r0 nli is lost from the adaptation. It would have
been possible, if difficult, precisely to dramatise A rvid ’s scepticism or amuse­
ment at the prospect of a sale to his illiterate neighbour, but the inclusion of
that moment would only have served either to establish A rvid ’s unfavourable
judgement of an opportunistic, exploitative student, and to explore further
the heavy irony Jacobsen injects into the story, after all it is clear A rvid
himself is more responsive to pictures than text and may himself not be much
of an intellectual power-house. Tucker sums all of this up in that moment of
A rvid over-enunciating the simple direction to his house, when it is clear by
now that this student is far more intelligent than the simple fisherman is able
or w illing to credit. Put this together w ith A rvid needing to see the picture of
Jesus before the penny fully drops that he is looking at a scriptural text and
the ironic reversal of the time honoured ‘Christian missionary-and-gullible-
native’ story is complete.

And the adaptation inserts another telling moment which further explores
that theme of religiosity. As Eze flicks past the page with the illustration of
Christ, an invented moment is inserted w ith A rvid putting his hands dirty
from fishing out to stop the pages turning. The image is an arresting one,
graphically demonstrating A rvid ’s lack of reverence and providing a telling
contrast w ith the way he wipes his hands on his overalls before taking deliv­
 Adaptation 157

ery of the novel. The right image w ill often serve to synthesize or crystallise
layers of meaning in a way which w ill work on both the viewer’s conscious
and subconscious, not only delivering essential theme or meaning in a way
which is appropriate to the medium. A fisherman’s dirty hand holding down a
picture of Christ is just such an image.

The important change made in the adaptation is that fish-itvthe-pocket

image finally replaced by a picture-of-huge-fish-in-pocket image. O n one
level this is in itself enough to explain the barely suppressed laughter between
the two characters which then breaks through as they catch the funny side of
the swap. A t another level, as 1 suggested earlier, it’s all about suggesting
some one-upmanship at work. In the story A rvid stops and looks back at the
disappearing stranger. In the adaptation he merely looks over his shoulder
and presses on. This avoids breaking the flow of action and allows for atten­
tion to move fluidly between that look over the shoulder, to A rvid happily
pushing on home, and thence to a big close up of that comical image of the
whale peeking over the top of his pocket. Ironically the story ends w ith A rvid
having been sold a dream of wild seafaring adventure, the story of Moby
Dick, which might feed some sense of grandiosity but which he is unlikely
(probably unable), to be able to consume as fiction, let alone get anywhere
near emulating in real life; meanwhile the stranger rides off with ‘the one that
got away’, a flesh and bone fish which he w ill certainly eat and be nourished
by. But before the viewer makes any sense of the film ’s final moment or puts
any reasoned conclusion into words, (s)he w ill simply be struck and amused
by the sheer absurdity of an image w ittily calculated to make a lasting impres­
sion. And it is the ability to recognise (as well as invent) those images which
hold potential to carry weight and summarise meaning or layers of meaning
which is central to the business of adaptation.

Though Roy Jacobsen’s story is a very compressed affair, I hope you can see
both the scope it offered for an interesting adaptation and also the care and
intelligence with which Joe Tucker attended to the choices and changes he
made whilst clearly telling the story.

Last but not least, I should mention the business of acquiring rights. A ny
story which is out of copyright is fair game and you can simply adapt and film
a script from such a work. (D o note that U K copyright extends seventy years
after the death of the author - U S sometimes longer.) If a story is still in
copyright and you have any intention of publishing or filming your script,
then you need to acquire the right to do that. This can be done by contacting
the rights department of the publisher who may deal with it themselves or
more likely w ill give you further details of whom else you need to contact to
get permission. Bear in mind that rights to dramatise may already be held
158 Adaptation

elsewhere or may quite simply be unavailable. Having said which don’t jump
to the conclusion that a well-known writer is going to turn down your
request; I know of at least two students who approached very celebrated
writers and acquired film rights for short stories. And o f course if it’s your
intention to adapt a copyright story as a writing exercise pure and simple with
no other goal in mind, there is nothing to stop you at all.

Exercises
1 Read the short story 'Encounter' again identifying the tone or meaning you take
from the piece, which could be quite different in places from what I have written
about in this chapter. Try outlining moments and scenes which work to express your
different way of looking at the story.
2 Pick a short story you like then take a paragraph which is all about a character's inte­
rior process, reported action, or which is simply heavy on description. Now dramatise
this paragraph, omitting, changing or inventing material as needed to make an
effective screen drama.
3 Read some other short stories with the business of adaptation in mind. Pick out one
or two and put them into screenplay form.
 8
Metaphor and moment:
deepening your drama

Having previously spent some time looking at the finer detail of scene con'
struction, it’s time to take a look at the bigger picture once more. In the last
chapter I touched on the topics of imagery and theme. In this chapter I ’ll
discuss these aspects of screenwriting in more detail and explore how
careful choice and judicious management of both can really help you
achieve greater impact and depth of meaning in your story telling for the
screen.

If you cast your mind hack to Two Sharp, you’ll remember that the imagina­
tive impulse for that story was the idea of a pencil in need of a sharpener. In
summing up the story I said that, following my first instinct, and letting the
story unfold, it turned out that first image proved to be a potent metaphor,
without going into any detail. Now it may be useful to look at the idea of
metaphors in more depth, with the aim of understanding how you can draw
on them to deepen your story telling process, and lend your writing moment:
the very thing we’re trying to create in effective drama is the moment; as well
as ‘an instant’, this same word can also mean importance. It is the creation of
a succession of instants or brief periods of time which carry significance and
impact, that is the dramatist’s business.

In The Poetics (trans. Malcolm Heath) Aristotle tells us:

... the most important thing is to be good at using metaphor. This is the one
thing that cannot be learnt from someone else, and is a sign of natural talent.

W e ll 1 think I ’d quibble w ith the notion that you’ve either got it or you
haven’t in the metaphor department. As Aristotle goes on to say, handling
metaphor is essentially ‘a matter of perceiving sim ilarities’. The way 1 prefer
to look at matters, consciously setting out to make yourself aware of the ways
in which expressive devices are used in dramatic writing can be a very
160 Metaphor and moment

powerful step along the path o f starting to use them effectively yourself. It
may also waken up your own readiness to ‘perceive similarities’.

S o what is a metaphor? T he word itself comes from Greek and means ‘to
transfer’; what it boils down to is one thing standing for another as well as
for itself. A metaphor com bines both a literal and a symbolic level of
meaning. It is the concurrent co-existence o f both levels o f m eaning which
give metaphors their power. H ere’s a script by Joanna Sm ith which illus­
trates clearly how a well-chosen metaphor can be pressed into service:

THE GREENHOUSE EFFECT

FADE IN:
EXT. STREET OF TERRACED HOUSES. MIDDAY.
MAUREEN (mid 40s) dressed in a supermarket overall with a coat over it, and carrying
shopping bags is walking down the street. Tired and preoccupied she reaches an end-
terrace house and walks up her front path. Along the passage at the side of the house
she catches sight of her husband, DON (late 40s). He is intent on laying out the
sections of a self-assembly greenhouse in the small back garden and doesn't notice
her. MAUREEN pauses, puzzled and irritated, trying to make sense of the scene.

MAUREEN
Don?

DON looks up, giving a little wave and a sheepish smile.

DON
Alright, love?

MAUREEN walks down the passage and over towards where he stands surrounded by all
the pieces of the kit, taking it all in very quickly.

MAUREEN
What the hell are you doing?
DON
It's a greenhouse.
MAUREEN
(sarcastically)
Oh, really? (BEAT) And where's it come
from?
DON
Off Pete. He'd had it for a
while, but never got round to putting
it up. So he give it
to me.
MAUREEN
He gave you a greenhouse?
 Metaphor and moment 161

DON
Well, no. I paid him fifty quid
for it. It's brand new.

MAUREEN responds with speechless exasperation.

DON
What? It's still in the packing, look. He's
not going to give it away, is he?

MAUREEN
No, of course he's not. Not when
there's an idiot like you to give
him fifty pounds.

DON
I know things are a bit tight,
but I thought -

MAUREEN
No, you didn't.

MAUREEN turns away abruptly and starts to walk back down the garden path. She looks
back over her shoulder at him.

MAUREEN
I don't believe you, I really don't.

DON is left standing amidst the pieces, looking after her retreating back. She goes
through the back door and slams it. He sighs and dejectedly picks up a section to carry
on with his building.

INT. KITCHEN. CONTINUOUS.

The table is still covered with breakfast things. Washing-up is in the sink. No attempt has
been made to clear up. MAUREEN's face is set with suppressed anger. She slams around,
throwing food into cupboards. She starts to clear the mess from the table over to the sink,
where she catches sight of DON through the window, busily intent on the greenhouse. She
exhales angrily, watches him for a moment and then continues clearing up.

DON enters the kitchen. MAUREEN ignores him and carries on. He hovers in the
doorway, watching her.

DON
I'll put the kettle on, shall I?

MAUREEN continues her activities noisily and doesn't look at him.

MAUREEN
Oh, do what you like.

DON continues watching her and doesn't move. MAUREEN turns the tap on violently
and the water gushes into the sink. She squirts the washing-up liquid in angrily.
162 Metaphor and moment

DON
I know it's fifty quid, but -
MAUREEN
You don't even like gardening.
DON
That's not true. I've never
had the time.
MAUREEN
Rubbish. I used to have my work cut
out getting you to mow the lawn
on a Sunday. And now all of
a sudden it's a bloody greenhouse!
DON
Well, I was working then, wasn't I?
MAUREEN
This house is over-flowing with your
abandoned 'hobbies' and 'interests'. You
never finish anything. You go off
half-cocked, leaving a trail behind you -

DON looks away from her and stiffens. He interrupts her with controlled anger.
DON
Well, I've got plenty of time now!

Abruptly he leaves through the back door. MAUREEN pauses for a moment, then goes
over to the door and calls after him.
MAUREEN
But no time to do the dishes
or clear up I see. More important
things to do.

EXT. BACK GARDEN. CONTINUOUS.

DON stops in his tracks, pauses, but doesn't turn or respond. He continues resolutely to his
greenhouse kit. Shaken, MAUREEN crosses to the kitchen table and slumps into a chair.
Distressed, she fumbles in her bag, takes out and lights a cigarette. Quietly she starts to cry.

EXT. GARDEN. CONTINUOUS.

DON sets to his task with grim determination.

INT. KITCHEN. CONTINUOUS.

The doorbell rings loudly. MAUREEN starts, scrabbles in her bag for a tissue and rubs at
her eyes. The doorbell rings again.
MAUREEN
Alright, alright.

INT. HALLWAY. CONTINUOUS.

MAUREEN comes down the hall and opens the front-door, to her daughter JACKIE
 Metaphor and moment 163

(early 20s). The smile of hello drops from JACKIE'S face as she takes in her mother's
distress.

MAUREEN
Oh, Jackie.

MAUREEN’s face crumples as she starts to cry again.

JACKIE
What's up? What's happened?

JACKIE enters and puts her arms round MAUREEN.

MAUREEN
He's bought a greenhouse.

MAUREEN pulls away gently from JACKIE and goes back down the hallway back into the
kitchen. Closing the door, JACKIE follows, perplexed.

JACKIE
What? What are you talking about?
MAUREEN
Your Dad.
JACKIE
(trying to take it in)
You're crying because Dad's got a
greenhouse.
MAUREEN
Yes. No. I mean, it cost fifty
pounds. We can't afford to throw away
fifty pounds. What does he want with
a greenhouse? He hates gardening.
JACKIE
Well, maybe he thinks it'll give him
something to do.
MAUREEN
He shouldn't be pottering round with a
watering-can. He needs to get a job.
JACKIE
He knows that, Mum. It's not easy.
MAUREEN
Oh, I know. It’s just... it's been
six months now, and nothing, not even
an interview. How long's it going to
take? I'm worried he's never going to
get another job.
164 Metaphor and moment

JACKIE
So's he. But he's still looking, isn't he?

MAUREEN nods.
JACKIE
Well, then, he hasn't given up. That's
what counts. And if this helps...
MAUREEN
I know. It's just money we haven't
got spare. A greenhouse of all things!
What possessed him?

JACKIE squeezes her hand. MAUREEN smiles back.

JACKIE
I'll go out and see him.

JACKIE leaves the kitchen, walks down the path to where DON is so deeply immersed in
his construction he doesn't notice her.

JACKIE
Alright, Dad?

DON looks up, pleased to see her, and stops work.

DON
Hello, Jack. You alright?

JACKIE
Yeah.

They both stand looking at the part-assembled greenhouse for a few moments.

JACKIE
This is it, then.
DON
Mm. Your Mother still mad at
me, is she?
JACKIE
She's calming down.
DON
I know it probably sounds daft, but -
JACKIE
Dad, you don't have to justify yourself.
(pause) How are you getting on?

DON
Oh, alright. The instructions are missing, but
 Metaphor and moment 165

it seems fairly straightforward. Although this

bit's foxing me, I must admit.

He picks up a section and starts fiddling again. JACKIE watches him. He carries on
working, his face a picture of concentration. They stay in silence for a few moments.

DON
I can't win.

JACKIE
What?

DON
Whatever I do it's wrong. I used
to do stuff around the house, try
and help out. But that got on
her nerves cos I didn't do it
right, or I put the plates back
on the wrong shelf or something.
I don't know ... so I thought,
right, best if I don't interfere.

JACKIE
You know what she's like, Dad. She's
got her set way of doing things.

DON pauses from his work and looks up at her.

DON
But what am I meant to do?
Where does that leave me?

He resumes his work.

So I got this. I thought that'll

give me something to do. Maybe grow
some tomatoes and that. Keep out
of her way a bit. But then
that's wrong too. I can't win.

JACKIE
She doesn't mean to take it out
on you. It's her way of coping.
She's scared, Dad.

DON pauses in what he's doing but doesn't look up.

DON
So am I, Jack. So am I.

JACKIE puts her arm round him and hugs him. He smiles weakly.
MAUREEN has come out holding a cup and saucer, and is watching them from just
outside the back door.
166 Metaphor and moment

M AUREEN
Jackie.

JACKIE
Yeah?

M AUREEN
Ask Alan Titchmarsh if he wants
this cup of tea.

FADE O UT

The greenhouse is, of course, the metaphor. A n important thing to notice

is that it has a strongly credible place in the story at a literal level. It is
entirely believable that Don would have bought such an item. He has got
it in a bid to occupy himself and to fill the time he has on his hands. As
he also says he aims to grow a few things, perhaps some tomatoes, and so
be productive; in itself symbolically important to a man who has lost his job,
and whose daughter has grown up and left home. And on top of these
reasons there’s also the fact that he now finds himself getting under
Maureen’s feet and feeling like he’s nothing more than an irritant to her.
So, at the literal level, we can believe in this turn of events, and also see
how buying the greenhouse has only served to fan the flames between
him and Maureen: the greenhouse is not only an extravagance in Maureen’s
eyes, she may well also perceive it as a sign that Don has given up trying to
find work, thrown in the towel and settled for a premature {if enforced)
retirement.

The greenhouse is also working hard for its keep at the level of deeper sym-
bolism. Consider the qualities of a greenhouse: fragile, brittle, hot, transpar­
ent and therefore exposing. Don’s vulnerability and the hothouse atmosphere
between him and Maureen (one in which only distance and friction seem
able to flourish) are mirrored in the qualities of the kit he’s trying to assem­
ble. Moreover, Don is discovered standing amongst the pieces of this green­
house. As the story progresses, we understand how his working life is also in
pieces, how his domestic life is threatening to be, and how he is trying to ‘put
the pieces together’ in more ways than one; again, the literal and the sym­
bolic are tied together. In other words, Don standing amongst the pieces is a
graphic illustration of what he is literally trying to build, as well as what
things have come to. There’s a cleverly judged moment in the writing when
daughter Jackie asks, ‘How are you getting on?’ H e chooses to understand her
question as applying purely to the job in hand, but his answer ( ‘O h alright.
The instructions are missing’) also carries on the symbolic level of meaning.
Handling unemployment, with its damaging knock-on effects, does not come
with its book of instructions either. Revealingly, once he has deflected the
 Metaphor and moment 167

true in te n t o f Ja c k ie ’s question and she has given h im space to do so, he starts

to open up about his fears and his difficulties, som ething he has been unable
to do w ith M aureen. W e have seen him row ing w ith her in the k itch en ,
w here significantly he gets no further than hovering in the threshold: it’s
clear he isn’t feeling w elcom e in his house and so there is an add itional
poignancy to D on’s efforts to construct another ‘house’ to go and spend his
tim e in.

I suggested at the beginning o f the book that stories often achieve m ythic or
proverbial resonance: this one may w ell put the view er in m ind o f the saying,
‘People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones’. C ertain ly, the story develops in
line w ith this proverb. A t the start o f the film , M aureen is seen returning from
work, carrying shopping - clearly the breadwinner. G iv e n this, it’s doubly frus­
trating for D on w ho hasn’t got a leg to stand on w hen it comes to fighting his
corner. A g ain this is very w ell picked up on in the w riting:

MAUREEN
This house is over-flowing with your
abandoned 'hobbies' and 'interests'. You
never finish anything. You go off
half-cocked, leaving a trail behind you -

DON looks away from her and stiffens. He interrupts her with controlled anger.

DON
Well, I've got plenty of time now!

Abruptly he leaves through the back door. MAUREEN pauses for a moment, then goes
over to the door and calls after him.

MAUREEN
But no time to do the dishes or
clear up I see. More important
things to do.

EXT. BACK GARDEN. CONTINUOUS.

DON stops in his tracks, pauses, but doesn't turn or respond. He continues resolutely to
his greenhouse kit.

F in a lly , Jo a n n a had the w it to use her title ‘T h e Greenhouse Effect’ to p u ll in

yet another le ve l o f m eaning; global w anning, or rather over-heating, is the
consequence o f the ‘greenhouse’ gases depleting the ozone layer and render­
ing our w orld vulnerable to natural disaster. P la in ly and sim ply, the overh eat­
ing betw een this couple is w hat is placing the w orld o f th e ir m arriage in
danger, and it’s notable that the story ends on the hopeful cooler note o f
truce and co n cilia tio n .
168 Metaphor and moment

From all of this, it should be plain how well-chosen the greenhouse has been
as the occasion for a short story. It serves as both totally credible pretext for
the conflict visibly acted out between Maureen and Don, and as potent
metaphor carrying a layer of meaning which symbolises the unspoken
undercurrents and overtones surrounding their relationship. It is this sec­
ondary layer which nudges us into a greater understanding of what is going on
and makes the drama both an emotionally transferable and a fuller
experience.

Getting the balance right, so that a metaphor is equally poised between the
literal and the symbolic is crucial. Very often metaphors are made obvious, if
not extremely obvious to an audience, and as long as the balance of signifi­
cances is right this obviousness helps rather than hinders the processes of
understanding and emotional engagement. In Lasse Hallstrom’s film M y Life
As A Dog, we follow the story of a young boy coming to terms with his
mother’s impending death. To allow her peace and quiet he is sent away from
home to stay with an uncle and aunt; his father is ‘away’, Ingemar believes,
working as a sailor on a banana boat, though the strong implication is that
the separation is a more permanent one. Ingemar is now also separated from
his own dog, Sickan. The film is also interspersed with moments when
Ingemar reflects on the fate of Laika, the dog sent into space by the Russians

Figure 8.7 M y Life as a Dog © 1985 AB Svensk Filmindustri

 Metaphor and moment 169

and left up there to die. Early in the film we see how closely he identifies with
his own dog. A fter he and Sickan are separated, he never stops asking after
the dog, and asking when they can be reunited. Near the end of the film it
becomes necessary to move Ingemar again, making him stay with an elderly
neighbour, in a sense sending him out to kennel yet again. He agrees, on con'
dition that he can have Sickan come to stay w ith him. Shortly after, Ingemar
discovers his dog has been put down and his uncle has lied to him. In his dis­
tress he seeks sanctuary on a freezing night in the ramshackle summer house
he has helped his uncle build. W hen his uncle comes looking for him,
Ingemar plays a fam iliar game of escape, pretending to be a dog, barking and
warding off contact. His uncle leaves food and drink outside for him and
Ingemar finds a warm coat to put on. W hen his uncle does get in next
morning, he finds the boy crying his eyes out. In a superb piece of writing
Ingemar asks for reassurance that he didn’t k ill her, that it wasn’t his fault -
and his uncle thinks he is talking about the dog; in fact, Ingemar is finally
starting to grieve for his mother.

By the time the film shows us Ingemar in the thick coat barking like a dog in
the summer house, the metaphor could not be made more explicit, and
indeed the title of the film is there all along prompting us to draw the parab
lei. The reason that the metaphor is not too obvious is that the literal chain
of events holds true throughout, and is entirely credible. The metaphor has
its secure place at the literal as well as at the symbolic levels of the piece.

Another fine example of metaphor at work can be found in Driving Miss Daisy
(Alfred U h ry).

Spanning the years between 1948 (just prior to the Am erican c iv il rights
movement) and 1973, Driving Miss Daisy traces the relationship between
Daisy, a rich, elderly and irascible Jewish widow and Hoke, an unemployed
black man, who proves to be patient, dignified and loyal, hired against her
w ill by Daisy’s son to chauffeur her around once it becomes clear she’s no
longer able to drive herself.

The storyr moves from downright hostility and rejection on her part springing
from pride, humiliation and quite possibly unconscious prejudice, to a position
of acceptance and equality. A n early scene shows Daisy refusing to be driven,
whilst Hoke follows, urging her to allow him to drive her. The final moment of
the film (in the old people’s home, Daisy now aged 97) shows her genuinely
caring about Hoke’s welfare and letting him help her with her food.

Central to the journey which both characters make is the Hudson car Hoke
chauffeurs for Daisy; or rather a series of cars, as they are updated over the
years, w ith previous models passing into Hoke’s ownership.
170 Metaphor and moment

A t the literal level, the car stands for personal independence and mobility.
A t the symbolic level the car stands for social independence, status and
m obility. In one key scene, for example, Hoke is driving Daisy to the syna­
gogue and they are forced to turn back when they find out the temple has
been bombed by racists. It is a sobering moment for Daisy (who, we have
seen earlier in the film , is very uncomfortable with the idea of being seen
to have a chauffeur waiting for her at the synagogue), as she now wrestles
with the idea that she and Hoke are fellow travellers in more ways than
one.

O n one level the story is about circumstances throwing two unlikely charac­
ters together, and the sparks that fly as a consequence; at another it can be
seen to explore ideas of racial and social tension and inequality; and at yet
another, the story is about a journey - both actual and metaphorical - (chauf-
feured by Hoke) in which Daisy travels from unbending pride to openness,
humility and the acceptance of common humanity. Driving Miss Daisy turns
out to be a powerfully personal piece of drama as well as one which speaks to
much broader, universal concerns.

Brokeback Mountain, is another story centred on deeply held prejudice, this

time amongst the rural dispossessed of Wyoming. E. Annie Proulx’s stunning
short story, adapted by Larry M cM urtry and Diana Ossana and magnificently
directed by Ang Lee also makes use of a well-chosen and superbly effective
metaphor. If Joe Tucker’s short screenplay makes much of its last image so
too does Brokeback Mountain. The story of forbidden and ill-fated homosex­
ual love between two latter-day wranglers in Wyom ing culminates with the
killing of Jack Twist. W hen he eventually gets to hear of his lover’s death
Ennis Del Mar makes a journey to Tw ist’s parents. Left alone in Twist’s
room he spots a shirt of Jack’s in the closet, still bloodied from a nosebleed
he, Ennis, incurred in the rough and tumble of a passionately playful
encounter. The shirt is ‘stiff with long suspension from a nail’. He takes it
out:

The shirt seemed heavy until he saw there was another shirt inside it, the
sleeves carefully worked down inside Jack's sleeves. It was his own plaid
shirt, lost, he'd thought, long ago in some damn laundry, his dirty shirt, the
pocket ripped, buttons missing, stolen by Jack and hidden here inside Jack's
own shirt, the pair like two skins, one inside the other, two in one.
(Brokeback Mountain, Story To Screenplay, p.26)
A perfect metaphor for the hidden love between the two men the shirts in
the closet appear at the beginning and just before the end of Proulx’s story.
The final moment of the screenplay is lifted almost verbatim from the short
story with the addition of two moments:
 Metaphor and moment 171

And there on the back of the closet door, WE SEE THE SHIRTS, on a wire hangar
suspended from a nail, and next to them, a postcard of Brokeback Mountain, tacked
onto the door.
He has taken his shirt from inside of JACK'S, and has carefully tucked JACK'S shirt
down inside his own.
He snaps the top button of one of the shirts.
Looks at the ensemble through a few stinging tears.

ENNIS
Jack, I swear...
Stands there for a moment.
Then closes the closet door.
He looks out the window, at the great bleakness of the vast northern plains...
(Ibid., p.97)

T h e additional moments inserted in the screenplay are that snapping o f the

button w hich speaks o f caring intim acy and the look out of the window
w hich summons emptiness and despair. T h e shots carry devastating emo­
tional power on screen and work predom inantly through the haunting image
of those em pty shirts in mute embrace.

A t the start of this book I talked about the importance of recognising when an
image, or a moment, held the potential to make a story: I also pointed out that
stories have power for us because they are metaphors. Therefore, developing this
ability to recognise when a setting, image, or event provide both the occasion
for a totally believable, engaging narrative at the surface level, as well as carry­
ing the potential for deeper meaning is a key asset in a dram atist’s armoury. It is
a skill w hich, when used w ell, can lend your screenwriting greater richness and
a considerably enhanced power to com m unicate w ith your audience, pulling
them into a stronger level of identification w ith your story.

Running imagery

A n image w ith m etaphorical resonance may have just m om entary im pact in a

story, or its m eaning may be explored tim e and again throughout the story.
Som etim es the m om entary im pact is very m uch to the fore, as w ith the torch
it was planned A n n e should give C u rly in the Coronation Street story quoted
earlier. T h e gift has a sym bolic resonance, but isn’t m eant to evoke particular
moments of history from previous stories: the star chart, in his scene w ith
Em ily, is also prim arily a m om entary metaphor, tragi-com ically summoning
up C u rly’s ‘star-crossed’ fate in regard to Raquel; how ever, faithful, long-term
viewers may get extra value from the moment, remembering as they m ight his
172 Metaphor and moment

fascination w ith star gazing, and those career hopes (p ilo t, astronom er)
shelved long ago. B u t it really doesn’t m atter w hether or not these associ­
ations register for that m om ent to work.

W h e n sym bolic imagery is threaded right through a piece o f drama, it can serve
to underline and illum inate the em otional significance o f the story for both its
characters and, by association, its viewers. M 31 Life A s A D og uses the running
imagery o f dogs, and Ingem ar’s relationship w ith this imagery, to explore ideas
o f caring, love and loss. In that film , we also see Ingem ar travel to his relations
during different seasons o f the year. T h e seasons are used here (as they are often
used in film s) to m irror the em otional state of play. So it is in w inter that
Ingem ar experiences his descent into actual loss and starting to experience grief
w hilst the flash-back rem iniscences o f times spent w ith his m other at the
seaside are drenched in summer sun. A s the film ends and Ingem ar starts to
recover and embark on a new phase o f his life, so the season turns to spring.
C hanging w eather is also often used to express interior em otional states. M>'
Life A s A D og is a film rich in running imagery. T h e cold exteriors are con­
trasted w ith sunny flash-backs and also w ith the w arm th o f the furnace in the
glass factory, very m uch at the econom ic and social heart of this com m unity.
O n several occasions characters fool around after accidents, playing dead,
although on each occasion there is a m om ent w hen you believe they could
indeed have com e to grief; these ‘rehearsals’ for the real thing rem ind the
view er w hat Ingem ar’s journey is all about - accepting and getting used to the
idea o f loss. Ingem ar and the other children play at boxing, and in particular we
see several sparring sessions and bouts. T h e clim ax o f the film coincides w ith
Ingem ar Johansson’s world title fight w ith Floyd Patterson. A s he trium phs, the
locals run into the street to celebrate, and the radio com m entary declares:
in g em ar didn’t let us d o w n!’. T h e final shot o f young Ingem ar sees him snug­
gled up asleep on the sofa w ith his sparring partner and would-be girlfriend,
now no longer fighting but at last able to accept a loving embrace in this, his
new life. T h a t radio com m entary applies to both Ingemars. H e wasn’t knocked
out by his terrible loss. H e w ill com e through and w in.

A good exam ple o f a single image repeatedly explored is th a t o f the red rose
in A m erican Beauty, the title o f w h ich is itself the nam e o f the very popular
varie ty o f A m erican rose grown by C a ro lyn Burnham . T h e image is used at
d ifferent points in the film to sum m on up a w hole variety o f associations:
love, rom ance, sexuality, beauty, blood, danger - a ll are there:

EXT. BURNHAM HOUSE - MOMENTS LATER

CLOSE on a single, dewy AMERICAN BEAUTY ROSE. A gloved hand with CLIPPERS
appears and SNIPS the flower off.

CAROLYN BURNHAM tends her rose bushes in front of the Burnham house. A very well
 Metaphor and moment 173

o
\_
a + -$ ¥ * * L ^

Figure 8.2 Mina Survari in Am erican Beauty © Dreamworks/Jinks/Cohen/The Kobal

Collection/Sebastian, Lorey

put together woman of forty, she wears colour-co-ordinated gardening togs and has lots
of useful and expensive tools.

LESTER watches her through a WINDOW on the first floor, peeping out through the
drapes.

LESTER (V.O.) That's my wife Carolyn. See the way the handle on those pruning shears
matches her gardening clogs? That's not an accident.

A n d a little later, w hen Jim #1, one h a lf o f the gay couple next door, appears:

Lester watches a ll this from the w in d o w .

CAROLYN: Good morning, Jim!

Jim #7 walks towards the fence to greet Carolyn.

JIM #1: I just love your roses. How do you get them to flourish like this?
174 Metaphor and moment

CAROLYN: Well, I'll tell you. Egg shells and Miracle Grow.
Jim #7 and Carolyn continue to chat, unaware that Lester is watching
them.
LESTER (V.O.): Man, I get exhausted just watching her.
Lester's POV: We can't hear what Jim and Carolyn are saying, but she's
overly animated, like a TV talk show host.
LESTER (V.O.): She wasn't always like this. She used to be happy. We used to be
happy.

W e are in vited to contrast C a ro ly n ’s suburban obsession w ith surface appear­

ances and w ith control (n o t to m ention the uncom fortable associations called
up by those pruning shears in the first sh o t!) w ith Lester’s w ild , in stin ctu al
fantasies about daughter Ja n e ’s friend A n g ela, in particular the one w hich
finds her posed seductively in a bath-tub fu ll o f red roses. T h is is the fantasy
C a ro ly n wakes to discover Lester enjoying, m om ents before we see how
‘th o rn y’ she herself has become to him .

Projected images o f beauty and the actual experience o f it (sensual and spir­
itu a l) are called up tim e and again through reference to the rose image and,
o f course, by our m em ory o f the title. A n d if you th in k I ’m overstating the
case, consider these moments from the end o f the film , com ing as it does,
hard on the heels o f Lester’s refusal to ‘p luck’ that young rose-bud, A n gela.
T h e y are h aving a frien d ly talk in the k itch en . A n g ela goes to the to ile t and
Lester, feeling very at one w ith him self, picks up a fam ily photo:

LESTER crosses to the kitchen table where he sits and studies the photo.
He suddenly seems older, more mature ... and then he smiles: the
deep, satisfied smile of a man who just now understands the punchline
of a joke he heard long ago ...

LESTER: Man oh man ...

(softly)
Man oh man oh man ...
After a beat the barrel of a CUN rises up behind his head, aimed at the
base of his skull.
ANCLE ON an arrangement of fresh-cut ROSES in a vase on the
opposite counter, deep crimson against the WHITE TILE WALL. Then a
CUNSHOT suddenly rings out, ECHOING unnaturally.
Instantly, the tile is sprayed with BLOOD, the same deep crimson as
the roses.

You could not have a clearer exam ple o f all the associations sum m oned up
throughout the film being tied together, and bounced o ff that image o f the
red rose.
 Metaphor and moment 175

Fish and fishing are dominant images threaded right through Roy Jacobsen’s
‘Encounter’ and Joe Tucker’s adaptation of that story. I’ve already mentioned
the ironically symbolic significance of Moby Dick in the piece, the demoni­
cally driven Ahab and the vastness and strength of the whale providing a
vivid and ludicrous contrast with Arvid and his coalfish. And I pointed to the
way that contrast externally illustrates the spirit of ambition or adventure and
how this is at work in the stranger and not in Arvid. Beyond all that there are
religious associations at work. Arvid is a fisherman as were the first disciples.
The fish, indeed, is an age old symbol of Christanity. The first book Eze tries
out on Arvid is a religious one. As he is selling his own hooks to raise money
this incidentally raises the probability that the Ghanaian student has cer­
tainly had an interest in Christianity, may still have an affiliation, and might
even have some evangelical intent in offering this book first. If so he quickly
drops it when he sees A rvid’s response to the book - a wrinkled nose and
then a dirty hand resting on a picture of Jesus. This particular fisherman is in
no way a disciple, and that moment of the hand on the picture holds all the
distaste Arvid has for Christianity described in Jacobsen’s original story. I
mentioned earlier the overtones of ‘missionary1 and native’ transaction at
work in this encounter, playfully and ironically subverted. Beyond a humor­
ous recognition of the switch-around, a deeper point is being made. It is
about faith and optimism. That ‘bleak time with bleak expectations’ is graph­
ically depicted in the paucity of A rvid ’s catch and the glimpse of his austere,
impoverished existence we are shown. Eze, on the other hand has prospects.
He certainly has initiative, calm assurance and good humour. These speak of
a spiritual repose. A rvid has routine, survival, comic books and as far as we
can tell nothing much else.

W hen Eze takes the fish off Arvid, swapping it for the book, it’s a moment
which functions at three levels: Arvid feels he has completed doing this
‘ridiculous’ outsider a favour and so can bask in some misguided sense of supe­
riority; in fact, Eze has won out and proved himself the better fisherman
‘catching’ a fish he wants and letting go of a whale (story) he has no need of -
one which is useless to Arvid. A t a much subtler yet nevertheless powerful
level Arvid has not just lost the last vestige of his meagre catch, that lonely
coalfish also standing for the sense of hope and religious connection which is
so eroded in his community and presently absent from his own life -‘a bleak
time, with bleak expectations’. It is a state of affairs im plicitly standing for
and reflecting on a wider malaise afflicting the developed world, one which is
often perceived as having widespread casualties amongst those who are mate­
rially advantaged but spiritually impoverished. As he rides home, book in
pocket, we should remember Moby Dick does not exactly turn out well for
Ahah.
176 Metaphor and moment

Another film with a potent recurring religious image is Crash (Paul Haggis,
Robert Moresco). With its multi-stranded weave of stories, sandwiched
between the framing device of two road traffic accidents, Crash has a title
which refers not only to those actual accidents in question, but also to a serial
collision of cultures and values in multi-racial Los Angeles, and the complex
fall-out from these intricately plotted (if often highly coincidental), intercon­
necting conflicts all of which unfold over the thirty six hours running up to
Christmas.
One of the story strands follows a pair of young, black carjackers Anthony
and Peter. Each time they steal a car, Peter takes a St Christopher figurine
out of his pocket and attaches it to the top of the dashboard, to act as talis­
man for the duo’s unholy activities. In mid-stream this story strand reaches a
pitch of high tension when they carelessly hijack the car of Cam eron Thayer,
a successful, black T V director, he unexpectedly resists the attack and then
chooses to stay in his car with them holding him at gunpoint. In the midst of
this minor mayhem, the police happen on the scene and give chase to
Thayer’s car. Finally forced to stop, instead of telling all and handing
Anthony, the remaining carjacker (Peter having run off), over to the police,
because he too is black and along with his wife a recent victim of police
harassment himself, Thayer shows solidarity and chooses to protect the boy
by abusively confronting the police; an act of foolish bravado he gets away
with due to the intervention of one of the officers present (earlier involved as
an unwilling accomplice in that episode of racial and sexual harassment) who
now claims to know Thayer and intercedes on his behalf. A n added irony is
layered into the scene by the presence of a large Santa Claus decoration
further up the driveway Cameron has finally pulled up on, and which is
clearly visible in the back of the shot; for the young carjacker Christmas has
definitely come early. That Santa Claus also links into the strand of religious
iconography.

Later in the film the resolution of the car-jackers’ story-strand links back to
the start of the film. Chastened by Thayer’s defiance and seemingly having
decided, for the moment at least, to go straight, Peter hitches a lift from a
passing motorist, who unbeknownst to him just happens to be the same patrol
cop, Hansen, now off duty, who has had such tangled dealings with Thayer
and who is hence doubly motivated to do a good deed now by picking up
Peter, a young black man on the wrong side of town and offering him a lift.
A s conversation develops between them, a level of prejudice and suspicion
arises in Hansen. Finally he thinks he is being ridiculed and angrily pulls over
to eject his lift. Confused and also angry, Peter reaches into his pocket to
show him something. The cop is sure it’s a gun and very agitated by now tries
to stop him. Peter however carries on deliberately ignoring the warnings and
 Metaphor and moment 177

certain he is about to be held at gun-point the cop shoots and kills the young
m an. A fte r he has shot him , the cop discovers w hat his victim was getting out
of his pocket; it is, of course, not a gun but the S t C hristopher figurine, being
fished out on this occasion w ith purely innocent intent in response to the
amusing coincidence o f Hansen already having the self-same figurine on his
dashboard.

T h e bitter irony could not be clearer; S t Christopher, patron saint and pro­
tector o f travellers, has failed tw ice over. T h e deeper message being conveyed
here is that w hilst affiliations and loyalties to religious, cultural and ethnic
groupings and traditions can offer id entity and a sense o f support and
belonging, these same groupings and the prejudices w hich attach to them can
also be anything but redem ptive, stim ulating fear, mistrust and open hostility
between neighbours.

In the case of young carjacker Peter’s story, irony is then piled high on top of
irony when, a little later on, the film picks up on that car crash we see at the
beginning o f the film . O ne of the cars involved had slowed for standing traffic
and been run into from behind. Its driver is a detective who is none other
than the dead boy’s older brother, G raham W aters, a rising star in the L A P D .
A s his girlfriend gets out of the car and takes issue w ith the other driver,
W aters wanders off, his attention caught by the nearby police line and crim e
scene. H e chats to a colleague and asks w hat’s going on. Hearing it’s the
hom icide o f a young man he casually slips into professional mode and starts
exam ining the evidence. W ith in moments he is pole-axed as he catches sight
of the victim and sees it is his brother Peter. Elsewhere in the film we have
seen the older brother trying to tend to his drug-addicted m other w ho takes
him to task for not looking after his delinquent younger brother. T he final
beat o f this story strand underpins this chain reaction theme of carelessness at
work both here and more generally in the film . A b out to quit the scene and
go back to his car, som ething catches W a te rs’s eye half-buried by the side of
the road. It is his brother’s S t C hristopher figurine and he bends to unearth
it, holds it in his clasped hands resting his thoughtful head on them in a
prayer like pose. W h e th e r or not he recognises it as belonging to his brother
its ironic resonance and overtones are far from lost on him ; a m om ent of
bitter awakening.

A final example o f running imagery is taken from The Fisher King (R ich ard
LaG ravenese). T h e story is a modern day re-interpretation of the G ra il m yth
and is suffused w ith rich use o f imagery throughout. I touched on the story
earlier in the book but to recap and elaborate, it concerns the fate of Jack
Lucas, a celebrity radio shock-jock, who discovers his contemptuous and cav­
alier treatm ent of a regular sad-case caller results in that same caller going out
178 Metaphor and moment

shooting innocent drinkers in a bar, before killing himself. What Jack has
told Edwin (the caller) about Yuppies, that ‘they must be stopped’, seems to
have been all the encouragement he needed to go and perform these killings.
Jack’s career falls to bits and he takes to the bottle, and it is at this stage of
the stor>r that we see his quest unfold. In the depths of his despair and on the
brink of suicide, he is saved by street bum, Parry (a modern-day Parsifal) who,
by the kind of extraordinary coincidence we will easily tolerate in a modern-
day myth, turns out to be none other than the husband of one of the women
killed in that very same shooting. Parry (once a medievalist and lecturer) has
been totally deranged by the shooting, but is now going to be instrumental in
the process of Jack’s redemption: Jack, in turn, will be instrumental in Parry’s
return to sanity and society. In Jack’s bid to make amends, he begins a
journey which will entail facing the truth about himself and opening his
capacity to love both himself and others.

Figure 8.3 Jeff Bridges in The Fisher King © Columbia/Tri-Star/RGA

 Metaphor and moment 179

S o m uch for the broad o u tlin e. A t the very beginning o f his quest, as Jack
stum bles around the N ew York streets, despairing and drunk, a ch ild carrying
a P in n o ch io d o ll crosses his path, and most strangely gives him the d o ll to
keep. T h a t d o ll keeps Ja c k com pany throughout his adventures. A t the very
start o f his quest, just prior to his suicide bid, he has a drunken ‘conversatio n’
w ith the doll:

JACK
You ever read any Nietzsche? ...

The smiling Pinnochio clearly has not.

JACK
(continuing)
Nietzsche says that there are two kinds of
people in this world ... People who are
destined for greatness like... Walt Disney
and ... Hitler... and then there's the rest of
us... He called us the Bungled and Botched.
We get teased. We sometimes get close to
greatness but we never get there. We're the
expendable masses. We get pushed in front
of trains... take poison, aspirins... get
gunned down in Dairy Queens...

He drinks from his Jack Daniels bottle ...

JACK
(continuing)
You wanna hear my new title for my
biography, my little Italian friend ... 'It Was
No Fucking Picnic - The Jack Lucas Story.'
Like it? ... Just nod yes or no ...
(tries it in Pig-ltalian)
'II Nouva Esta Fuckin' Pinicko' -
(he smiles)
You're a good kid ... Just say no to drugs...
(he nods and drinks)

Ya ever get the feeling sometimes you're

being punished for your sins?
CUT TO:
21 EXT. EAST RIVER, NEW YORK CITY - NIGHT

CLOSEUP of two feet standing beneath the railing overlooking

the East River. Taped to one ankle is a brick. Taped to the other
is a smiling Pinnochio doll.
180 Metaphor and moment

This alliance w ith Pinnochio w ill endure throughout the story, despite an
attempt to give the doll away, and at the end of the tale when all is well and
love has triumphed, Parry and Jack lie on the grass in Central Park at night,
cloudbusting (m oving clouds by the power of thought alone). Between them
lies the Pinnochio doll.

The Pinnochio story is all about the need to stop lying. The Fisher King is a
story about facing up to the truth, dropping delusion and getting real. In the
Pinnochio story, when he stops lying the doll becomes a real boy. In The
Fisher King, when Jack has fully undone the lie his life used to be, he is free to
be a real man.

The Pinnochio doll strongly prompts the audience to draw that comparison.
U nlike the greenhouse in Joanna Sm ith’s script, the doll is a device very
much imposed on the plot, and yet given the m ythic realms which both
source and The Fisher King are inhabited by, its introduction fits the appropri­
ately improbable tone of the piece. It has a secure position in the literal chain
of serendipitous events offered at what is the mystical level of reality depicted
in this story'.

Exercises
1 Make a note of some metaphors or running images in some of your favourite films
and TV dramas. Discuss these with a writing partner or in the group, and consider
how they are set up to support the meaning of the drama. How successful do you
think they are?

2 Think up a story and design it around an object which is going to have metaphorical
power. Write a short screenplay. Cast these and read them in the group or with a
writing partner. Discuss what you thought and felt about how the idea worked.
 9
Subtext

'Then you should say what you mean,' the March Hare went on.
'I do,' Alice hastily replied, 'at least - at least I mean what I say - that's the
same thing you know.'
'Not the same thing a bit,' said the Hatter.
Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

If metaphor can radically step up the engine capacity of your writing, then
creating an interesting subtext can really super-charge the process. O ne of
the most interesting facets of us human beings is our capacity to w ithhold
what we really mean from each other. O ften we carry on w ith others at a
comfortable and convenient level leaving it up to them - in London
Underground parlance - to ‘mind the gap’; that gap being the space
between the apparent meaning of what we say or do, and the hidden or
im plicit meaning. In reality our capacity to dissemble and disguise can lead
us into all kinds of pain, inconvenience and difficulty. ‘W h at a tangled web
we weave when first we practise to deceive’, is often true enough about the
consequences of being less than fully open and honest. In the realms of
making good fiction, and especially writing interesting drama, our potential
for lack of candour is nothing short of a god-send.

In making hidden messages, submerging real meaning beneath apparent

meaning, we can create ironic distance. O ur audience is boosted to a privi­
leged position from where they can compare what is actually being said and
done w ith what they know remains unsaid and undone. N ot only that, as a
spin-off, we create all kinds of potential complications and tensions between
characters, the very stuff of any good drama. If you as writer are ingenious
enough to create telling subtext then your reward w ill be more satisfied
viewers whose engagement with the story has been intensified as they work
hard to uncover the real meaning, recognise all those complications, and feel
clever to have done so.
182 Subtext

A n o th e r sim ple fact about w ith h o ld in g is that, w h ilst it can be uncom fortable
to do, or to be on the receivin g end o f it in real life, for an audience w atching
this behaviour unfold in a dram a, it really can be a most enjoyable
experience. W a tc h in g people lie can be great fun. It can, o f course, also be
deeply m oving, as there are a varie ty o f reasons why we w ith h o ld inform ation
from others; subterfuge can take the shape o f avoidance, denial, defence, or
manipulation. These m ay w ell overlap, or be served up in interesting com bina-
tions. T o expand on them a little m ore, under one or more o f these headings
com e those tim es: w hen there is an unacceptable co n flict o f interests betw een
people; w hen ignorance (som etim es even pretended ignorance) is taken to be
bliss, or ‘w hat you don’t know , can ’t hurt you’ become the w atchw ords for
w ith h o ld in g inform ation. T h e n there are those tim es w hen fear o f being
exposed is d rivin g devious behaviour, and we w ant to m inim ise risk or save
our ow n skins; there are also those tim es w hen fear o f a co n flict is at work;
tim es w hen one hides the tru th to save another’s feelings, rather than reveal
unpalatable truths. F in a lly , there are occasions w hen people operate co vertly
as a means o f m anipulation, in order to disguise th eir real goals.

Back in the T rem b ling T ro u t (in C h ap ter 3 ) you m ay or may not rem em ber,
E ric prom ised to have a quiet word w ith Bern ice.

INT. RECEPTION AREA. A LITTLE LATER.

BERNICE sits with her back towards ERIC key-boarding away intently, he makes for his
office, changes his mind, creeps up, moves HECTOR and perches on the edge of her
desk, it takes a moment or two before she notices.
BERNICE
Ooh, Eric! You frightened the life
out of me.
ERIC
Well that makes a change.
A moment, then she gets it and pushes him playfully.
BERNICE
Get on with you.
ERIC
Anyway, how are you settling in
with us?
BERNICE
Fine thanks, Eric. I love it here.
ERIC
Good, good. How long's it been now?
BERNICE
Six months.
 Subtext 183

ERIC
Six months! Would you believe it?
Bit of an old hand by now,
aren't you? Still it is nice isn't
it when you get over all those
little teething problems. When you know
where everything is, who's who,
and exactly how people like
things done.
BERNICE has been following every word.
BERNICE
(Vehemently) Oh yes. You’re dead right there.
A pause. ERIC throws a pointed glance at his pile of work.
ERIC
Not too much for you, is it,
looking after the two of us?
I mean the work-load's not
too heavy?
BERNICE
(With a big, sunny smile) No, no. You're no trouble
really. Either of you.
ERIC
You know I really like that about
you, Bernice. You're a really happy
sort of individual. Always got a smile
on your face.
BERNICE
Oh, stop it, Eric. You'll have
me blushing.
ERIC
It's true. Always ready with a smile
and a friendly word for just
about anyone.
BERNICE
That's what you're like too.
ERIC
I know. Been my downfall sometimes, that
ready smile. Too ready some might say.
BERNICE
Oh no, I think you get it
just right. I much prefer outgoing people,
don't you? Between you and me it
wouldn't do Adrian any harm to smile
a bit more often. Takes fewer muscles
you know.
184 Subtext

ERIC
Yes... (Helpfully) I've found everything has to
be just so for Adrian before he
lets the sun come out.
BERNICE
(Commiserating) I know. Gets on my wick.
ERIC
But if you do your job well,
then he really does lighten up.
BERNICE looks very doubtful even though ERIC underscores this covert encouragement
with some cheerful 'it's-true' type head nodding. He stands and pats the pile of papers.
ERIC
Do you know, I once went to
a conference, and the title they gave
one of the sessions was 'A busy
desk is an empty desk'. Food for
thought that, isn't it?
This one goes right over BERNICE's head but she smiles politely even so.
ERIC
Well I've enjoyed our little chat.
BERNICE
Me too. Ooh, you're dead nice,
you, Eric.
ERIC
I'd better leave you to get on,
hadn't I? See you now.
BERNICE
Yeah, see you, Eric.
He goes, she turns to the key-board. We see a satisfied smile on his face. When he has
rounded the corner the phone rings and she answers it.
BERNICE
'Chelle, hiya. Guess who was just
dead nice to me?

Though the real purpose o f this conversation eludes Bernice, w h ile E ric con-
siders it a job w ell done, the point to notice here is the m otivation for his not
just com ing straight out w ith it. W h ile dropping a broad h in t, he wants to save
her feelings, a com m on enough m otive for disguising the truth. T h is scene also
illustrates a com m on outcom e o f the scene carrying subtext - characters w ill
be left w ith very different perceptions or levels o f understanding about w hat
has passed between them , and the audience w ill inevitab ly know best.

H e re ’s another exam ple o f subtext at w ork, a script by Ia n M ayo r w h ich ,

though w ritten as an exercise, stands w ell as a self-contained piece, illu strat­
ing ingenious and appropriate use o f both m etaphor and subtext.
 Subtext 185

A Right Pair

FADE IN:

INT. FRONT ROOM. OLD TERRACED HOUSE. NIGHT.

The sound of rain lashing at the windows and a persistent knocking on the front door.
TERRY (early 50s) opens it. RICHARD (26) stands in the downpour soaking wet and
shivering in his hoodless jacket. He is holding a sopping wet jumble made up of an
assortment of his clothes and trainers. Some of them are muddy. He grins weakly.

INT. FRONT ROOM. LATER.

Dressed only in his boxer shorts and socks, RICHARD sits in a well-worn comfy chair
drying his hair with a towel. In front of the gas fire is a clothes rack draped with clothes
and RICHARD'S trainers laced together, hanging off one corner. TERRY enters with two
mugs of tea and gives one to RICHARD.

RICHARD
Ta.

TERRY walks to the sofa and clears a space in the Autotrader and Classic Car magazines
which cover it in loose piles. He sits down, looks at RICHARD and grins. RICHARD grins
back.

RICHARD
What?
TERRY
You can't live with 'em ... and
you can't live with 'em.

They both laugh.

INT. FRONT ROOM. MORNING.

The sofa is crumpled, all the cushions are bunched at one end and it clearly looks slept
on. The magazines are neatly piled on the floor, next to a plate with the remains of a
fried breakfast, an empty mug, and RICHARD sitting in last night's boxer shorts and a
clean, unironed T shirt. The clothes rack is bare, and RICHARD is sorting the now dry
washing from a pile on the floor. TERRY sits in the comfy chair, reading the Sunday
M irro r. Next to his chair is similar breakfast debris. RICHARD is pairing the socks.

RICHARD
You gonna give me a hand?
TERRY
I never was any good at that
kind of stuff.
RICHARD
And I am?
186 Subtext

RICHARD runs out of pairs and is left with two odd socks. He holds them up for TERRY
to see.
TERRY
Always happens like that.
RICHARD
If you took the trouble to sort
them out before sticking them in
the wash it wouldn't.
TERRY
Probably.

TERRY goes back to his paper. RICHARD drops the socks and starts to straighten a shirt.

FADE OUT.

There are m any things to admire in the w riting of this piece. First and fore­
most the piece does strike that im portant balance between literal and
sym bolic. W e are offered a very credible scenario in w hich, first o f all, we
im agine that R ichard has been chucked out o f his home. T h e fact that he has
a bundle o f clothes and that, some o f them are muddy suggests he was more
than given a helping hand on his way. T o begin w ith, how ever, we are still
only guessing, just as we are about the exact relationship o f these two men.

B y the second scene, it’s clear R ichard is free to make him self more than
welcom e here, and we are assuming they are either close friends, or far more
likely father and son. T h a t weak grin o f R ich a rd ’s as T erry opens the door on
him suggests this is not an unfam iliar situation, that explanations are unnec­
essary, and that the young man expects to find autom atic safe-haven here.

A ll o f this is supported by their jokey interchange. W ith an ironic tw ist on the

standard deprecating line about men and wom en they laugh it off, and collude
in the im plication that women are just impossible to live w ith. N ote that it’s
the older man, Terry1, who initiates placing the blame on the other sex, and
invites his son to happily settle for that ‘fact’. It ’s crystal clear from the look of
the house that T erry is on his own and w hat’s more the state of the sofa, w ith
its piles of car magazines, suggests indifference to this state of male solitude.

T h e final section incorporates both m etaphor and more subtext, as Richard

ends up trying to sort pairs o f socks, asks for help and is first fobbed off w ith a
line w hich subtextually explains very w ell w hat a wom an may have become
im patient w ith; for that ‘good’ in T erry’s rebuff, let’s read in ‘w illin g to make
the effort’. R ich ard ’s reply also suggests he was brought up to do no better.
L e t’s also notice w hat Richard is asking his father for help w ith - getting
things sorted, and specifically into m atching pairs.
 Subtext 187

W hen the crunch moment in the script arrives, and Richard holds up the odd
socks, we are presented with some very clever writing. Terry can only manage
doomed resignation in the face of what he sees as a natural phenomenon.
Richard’s response is enlightening. These are, after all, his socks and yet he
chooses to take his father to task on the matter. It’s as though Terry is
responsible for this particular pair, and the illogicality of the moment brings
us up short. Because of this, we look at that moment more closely, and as it
works on us we can access the symbolic level of what these socks stand for as
well as the literal. These odd socks can stand for a man unsuccessfully looking
after himself. They also demonstrate unsuccessful pairings, and here those
comically dangled socks - which at one level invite a knowing smile from us,
and are an invitation to accept Terry’s philosophy of life - at another level
stand for the unsuccessful pairing Richard’s currently involved in, as well as
the unsuccessful pairing(s) his father may have been involved in, and finally
for the ‘odd coupledom’ of this (presumed) father and son situation right
now. It’s with all this going on that Richard’s parental injunction to Terry to
sort out socks before putting them in the machine carries a definite
poignancy. O n one level they’re definitely just talking about socks, and
Richard’s doing no more than challenging his father’s victimhood. On
another he’s highlighting his own limited capacity to care and relate, and
blaming the poor model he’s been offered up by his father. After all they are
Richard’s socks, so why else is he lecturing Terry? Again that unconvinced
‘probably’ ending the piece, underlines its poignancy: father and son making
the best of it, cheerfully sticking together, and at the same time very ‘prob­
ably’ destined to do no better. A Right Pair puts me in mind of the saying ‘It’ll
all come out in the wash’, meaning that all difficulties w ill be resolved in the
natural way of things. In fact, the opposite has happened with this wash.
Ironically we see exactly where the problem has come from.

1 think some of the fine detail of Ian Mayor’s writing is worth noting. The
fact that Richard is sorting out his washing from a pile on the floor is signifi­
cant. It underlines a sense of uncaring ineptitude, and echoes the loose piles
of magazines on the sofa. It’s interesting to note the way Richard tidies them.
Perhaps simply a show of trying to do better, perhaps an act of nurture. The
unspoken relationship, the subtext in what is going on, partly functions
through this attention to detail.

To summarise, at the surface level of meaning we have a short drama in

which a young man is thrown out of his home and turns up, dirty washing
and all, to seek sanctuary with his father, who is happy to laugh his son’s
crisis off with him. Richard is offered a roof over his head for the night, but
little more. He does his washing, gets irritated that he has ended up with two
odd socks, and also with his father’s seeming indifference, and reluctantly
188 Subtext

settles for it. A t the deeper level, lan M ayor astutely spotted the potential a
pair of odd socks could have to carry the undertones about the father’s vie-
timhood around women, if not life in general, both men’s deficient upbring­
ing, and Richard’s anger and disappointment with where he has been failed
by his father. The piece also captures both men’s limited capacity to
communicate with each other at a meaningful, emotional level.

The socks are a well-chosen metaphor, a simple image which carries complex
meaning and supports it all without feeling like an extraneous device; it is
firmly located in the literal world of the story.

W h en Terry jokily observes, ‘C an’t live with ’em, and you can’t live with
’em’, what we are seeing is a combination of defence and avoidance at work.
Terry is looking to save his son’s feelings about his recent hurt, and probably
his own past hurts as well: he is not bidding to open a talk about the situ­
ation. He would rather avoid that, quite simply dumping Richard’s and his
problems on womankind in general; im plicit in this is a refusal to admit, if
not a downright denial of any level of personal responsibility for relationship
difficulties.

And when Richard snaps, ‘If you took the effort to sort them out properly
before sticking them in the wash it wouldn’t,’ he is clearly denying his deeper
feelings of disappointment and anger, and avoiding open conflict with his
father on that score by keeping the conversation all about socks.

W hen subtext is installed in a piece, there are two levels of meaning at work,
the apparent and the real. W hen both are grasped and combined, they
amount to an overall meaning. This springs from a combination of the
pretext or apparent level of meaning, and the subtext - what is really going
on. In addition, from studying the context of any given moment or scene, we
w ill also understand the reasons why a character is speaking or acting indi­
rectly, and this character m otivation also becomes a part of the overall
meaning.

The relationship of any given moment in a drama to the bigger picture, of the
parts to the whole, is something the sharp-witted dramatist w ill always pay
close attention to. Those parts all help to build the overall meaning and, in
turn, also derive some of their particular meaning from it.

A masterful example of how to weave both sense and imagery to create

potent subtext can be seen in Shooting The Past by Stephen Poliakoff. Here
the story concerns the fate of the Fallon picture library, a huge collection of
old photographs housed in an erstwhile stately home and run by a small
team of eccentrics passionately committed to their work. The library is sud­
denly threatened with imminent decim ation due to the building being
 Subtext 189

bought by Americans for conversion into the American School of Business

for the twenty-first century; immediately we can see that fundamental value
systems are being brought into conflict. When Christopher Anderson, C EO
of the new enterprise, arrives to supervise building work he is as shocked to
find the library carrying on as usual as Marilyn Trueman, its chief librarian,
is to realise that they are supposed to be out o f there within twenty-four
hours. W hat has happened is that her second in command, Oswald Bates,
determined to resist the take over and keep the library as it is, has inter­
cepted all the earlier correspondence from America, deluding the new
owners whilst hiding the news from his boss. After both sides have skir­
mished and adjusted to reality, Anderson reluctantly agrees to see the collec­
tion simply to appease Trueman who is adamant that she will not see the
collection broken up. He is equally adamant that the development work
must go ahead, with only the really valuable pictures in the collection being
salvaged before that happens.
However, Oswald has craftily dispersed these valuable pictures throughout
the collection, so against his will and in order to get his hands on those pic­
tures Anderson agrees to Trueman’s request to see the collection. Part o f the
way she prevails on Anderson to get more leeway and eventually be granted a
week to try and find a buyer for the entire collection is to get him to listen to
a story constructed using photographs from the collection. Reluctant at first
he is quickly then drawn in, fascinated and deeply moved by the story she
tells about the Katzmans, a Jewish family in Germany in the run up to the
Holocaust. T o escape persecution the family scatters, the parents going into
hiding, and the daughter extraordinarily finding safe refuge with a non-Jewish
family. Using photographs taken by Lily’s father, a doctor who was also an
amateur photographer, as well as Nazi archive shots brought together from all
over the collection to illustrate the facts, Trueman relates how the Katzman
family at great risk met up for the last time, Lily’s father meeting her in town
and shopping and then taking her on to a public park to see her mother. The
meeting is cut short, the parents leave and Lily is left aloiie. Returning home
her journey is held up by a Nazi parade, an image of Lily watching having
been caught by an official photographer. That very afternoon her adoptive
family is arrested and Lily taken too. Another Nazi archive shot shows her
being transported to the camps.
By this stage in the story Anderson is visibly moved and also clearly amazed
by Oswald’s acuity, expertise and commitment in scanning the library to
gather these additional photographs, which supplement the Katzman family’s
shots donated by Lily’s son-in-law, and complete the story. But the coup de
grace comes in the shape of a shot taken in modern-day London near the Ele­
phant and Castle showing the crazy, raddled old vagrant Lily was to become,
190 Subtext

her sanity shattered by the Holocaust experience. Working from a passport

photo supplied by Lily’s son-in-law, Oswald had scoured the collection of
contemporary London street life till he had found her. W ithout the rest of
her particular story being known, simply an anonymous vagrant; with it a
special someone in particular whose story then also has universal importance.
A t first Anderson refuses to believe it is Lily in the photograph. Trueman
tells him it has been confirmed.

This deeply affecting sequence in the drama generates resonant layers of

metaphorical subtext. Suddenly the existence of a collection of millions of
photographs is threatened, just as was true for the millions of European Jewry
with their ancient history and tradition in the face of the Nazis coming to
power. More than that, the story Trueman relates centres on the disinteg­
ration and destruction of one specific family, the Katzmans. The library team
at Fallon is shown to be very much a small, tightly bonded family also now-
threatened with dispersal and destruction. (In fact the unfolding drama is
occasionally narrated by one-man-memory-machine Oswald in his flat while,
ironically true to form, and feeling there is no purpose left in his continued
existence once the collection has gone, he tape-records and occasionally
photographs his own journey towards a serious attempt at suicide.) Moreover,
as with the ill-fated Jews, the members of the library team are guardians of a
rich and extensive historical resource, source of countless stories all holding
significance, particular, general or both. To destroy that ‘collective memory’
actually enshrined in and also symbolised by the library is, the drama argues,
neither a progressive nor an arbitrary act. Subtextually we are told it is as
criminal and barbaric as Nazism itself. After hearing the story Andersen offers
a compromise deal; Trueman can pick out whatever she wants in the very
brief time available. He is, in his way, also only following orders and urges her
to ‘save what really matters’. However ‘what really matters’ to Trueman is all
of it, the interdependent ‘community’ of images, every single one potentially
as important a part of the story as all the rest. The parallel with placing equal
value on all human life is clear.

That photograph of crazy old Lily Katzman speaks not only of the individual,
personal devastation wrought by the Holocaust but also symbolises the madness
of splitting up both this collection and its ‘family’ of keepers. Beyond that level
of meaning, as the well worn saying goes ‘those who ignore history are destined
to repeat the mistakes of the past’, and the challenge Trueman has in this story
is to get Anderson to live up to the implicit injunction in that maxim, keep the
collection together and - metaphorically speaking - not shoot the past.

Another, rather different example of subtext at work w ill also help illustrate
the point about disguised layers of meaning. It is taken from The English Patient
 Subtext 191

(A n th o n y M inghella from the novel by M ich ael O ndaatje) and is related to

the central spine of the piece, the burgeoning love affair between Alm asy and
Katharine. Here are the second and third in a run o f three scenes w hich are all
about the developing passion between the couple. In the film , these scenes are
not im m ediately adjacent, but do build directly on each other:

Int. Shepheard's Hotel. Night.

The ballroom. A dance finishes. ALMASY takes over from D'ACOSTINO to partner
KATHARINE. The others remain on the terrace, deep in conversation.

KATHERINE
(as they dance)
Why did you follow me yesterday?
ALMASY
What? I'm sorry?
KATHARINE
After the market, you followed me
to the hotel.
ALMASY
I was concerned. A woman in
that part of Cairo, a European woman,
I felt obliged to.
KATHARINE
You felt obliged to.

ALMASY
As the wife of one of our party.

KATHARINE
So why follow me? Escort me, by
all means. But following me is
predatory, isn't it?

ALMASY, by way o f answer, bears down on her. They dance, fierce, oblivious to
everything.

A n th o n y M inghella has created a b rilliantly appropriate and effective subtex-

tual scene. O n the surface, Katharine C lifto n ’s words suggest she is annoyed
w ith Alm asy. She accuses him o f improper behaviour, and he rebuts the accu­
sation by telling her he was only showing gentlem anly concern for her welfare.
T his is certainly an example o f a character disguising his real goal, and at the
same tim e the lie is perfectly in character and consistent w ith the level at
w hich Alm asy is in conflict between doing the right thing, and follow ing his
passion. Perhaps he also fears exposing his true m otive before he knows
w hether or not it’s safe to do so. W h a t is even more interesting is Katharine’s
192 Subtext

response to his answer. She could just tell him she thinks his behaviour after
their meeting was predatory and leave it at that. Instead she asks him whether
it’s predatory; it’s as though his answer has left her in doubt, and her question is
checking out what is not being openly expressed between them, but what she
clearly hopes is true. There’s almost an unspoken (‘I hope’) hanging in the air
after her question, a green light to Almasy which he is quick to obey. The
tension between them is not really about propriety or social niceties, it is the
sexual tension between would-be lovers.

ALMASY, b y w ay o f answer, bears d o w n on her. They dance, fierce, o b livio u s to

everything.

This scene is followed up with a superlative example of subtext at work when

Katharine’s husband is about to fly off to Cairo leaving Katharine behind.

Ext. Base Camp at Pottery Hill. Morning.

As CLIFTON prepares to leave in the Steerman, ALM ASY approaches.

a lm A sv
Clifton, safe journey.

CLIFTON
You too. Good luck!
a lm Asy
Clifton - it's probably none of my
business - but your wife, do you think
it's appropriate to leave her?
CLIFTON
Appropriate?
a lm As y
Well, the desert is - for a woman - it's
very tough, I wonder if it's not
too much for her.
CLIFTON
Are you mad? Katharine loves it here.
She told me yesterday.
a lm As y
All the same, were I you,
I would be concerned -
CLIFTON
I've known Katharine since she was three,
we were practically brother and sister before
we were man and wife. I think
I'd know what is and what isn't
 Subtext 193

too much for her. I think she'd

know herself.
a lm Asy
Very well.
CLIFTON
(laughing it off)
Why are you people so threatened
by a woman?!

ALMASY watches him walk toward the plane, then turns to see KATHARINE, a distant
figure watching. He doesn't move. She doesn't move.

T h is scene works off the banner headline ‘N one so blind as those who w ill
not see’. Alm asy cannot say w hat he really means by A l l the same, were I
you, I would be concerned’: he is at once avoiding the unpalatable truth and
so saving C lifto n ’s feelings, and at the same tim e trying to assuage his own
guilt: but this attem pt to do the right thing here, to put K atharine out of
harm ’s way, is a futile and ironic gesture. In the book o f gentlem anly conduct,
it amounts to Alm asy giving C lifto n a sporting chance. H e is also saddling
C lifto n w ith responsibility for his destructive behaviour, and is tantam ount to
telling him self, ‘W h a t could 1 do? I tried to w arn him ’. Except o f course, he
didn’t. H e portrays him self as m erely concerned about the welfare o f another
man’s wife, when, in fact, he’s anything but. G ive n that he knows full w ell
the decision is already made, and that C lifto n w ill have no qualms at all for
K atharine’s general well-being, there is only one person whose interests are
really being served here - and that’s A lm asy’s. H e is no gentlem an. H e is at
some level trying to m anipulate C lifto n into believing here, at least, is one
man w ho’ll be looking out for his wife: a cruel deception and one w hich only
serves to bolster C lifto n ’s delusions of m arital bliss and security. Bu t then,
as the saying goes, and this scene demonstrates so clearly, ‘A ll’s fair in love
and war’.

It is a scene dripping w ith irony. C lifto n declares he and Katharine

were practically brother and sister w hilst growing up (in itself a subtextual
give away about w hat kind o f passion may w ell be missing from their marriage
- a passion Alm asy is only too ready to supply), and then goes on to assert
how w ell he knows his wife, and even more iro n ically how w ell she knows
herself, when even now she’s in the midst o f discovering herself in ways she
couldn’t have imagined, w hilst her husband is blind to it all. There is a final
savage irony in that throwaway put-down at the end; only one man has got
reason to feel threatened here, and he’s about to get on the plane. A n d the
final action detailed at the very end of the scene makes that very clear.
K atharine has made no m ove to say her final farewells to her husband, but
194 Subtext

has hung back watching the two rivals for her love. The look between
Almasy and herself, exchanged behind her husband’s retreating back, says
it all.
So, in itself, the scene carries lots of subtext and works most effectively. It
does so partly because of what else we know that Clifton is not a party to. But
this scene also carries a subtext linking it to one of the most famous scenes in
cinema and derives a whole extra layer of irony from that reference. You must
remember this:

ILSA
(turns to Rick)
You're saying this only to make
me go.

RICK
I'm saying it because it's true. Inside
of us we both know you belong
with Victor. You're part of his work.
The thing that keeps him going.
If that plane leaves the ground and
you're not with him, you'll regret it.

ILSA
No.

RICK
Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow,
but soon, and for the rest of
your life.

It is, of course, from the scene in Casablanca {Julius and Philip Epstein,
Howard Koch), in which Rick selflessly ensures Victor Laszlo’s happiness by
letting go of I Isa. In The English Patient, Almasy does the opposite. Rick tells
Ilsa, i ’m not good at being noble’, whilst he shows us the exact opposite, that
given the chance of stealing lisa’s love away from her husband, in the end he
cannot do it, and ensures she does get on the plane. Part of the context we
are invited to put Minghella’s scene in includes its famous precursor. W hile
Rick’s famous ‘Here’s looking at you, kid,’ heralds the end of their affair,
Almasy’s look at Katharine heralds the beginning of theirs. And yet,
although the scenes present us with reverse sides of the same coin, there is a
fateful truth in the unspoken echo Minghella’s scene carries over from
Casablanca. If Clifton gets on the plane and Katharine is not with him,
they’re all going to regret it. And so it turns out; later in the film, after he has
discovered the truth, he dives that same plane {now with Katharine in it as
w ell) directly at Almasy, and in so doing crashes, killing himself and fatally
injuring Katharine.
 Subtext 195

The link with Casablanca is one of calculated intelligent irony and it serves
only to enrich the impact and meaning of The English Patient. Nowadays there
can be an almost epidemic tendency to drop cinematic references and parallels
into scripts in an attempt to pull off impressive feats of intertextuality. W here
quoting or nodding towards another film is neither intelligent homage nor
appropriate, crafty layering of resonant content, it most usually amounts to
nothing more than crass faddishness at work and provides an unwelcome level
of interference. A clear exception to this school of gratuitous ostentation
however is the comedy Spaced (Sim on Pegg, Jessica Stevenson).

Revolving around a curious mix of misfits lodging at 2.3 Meteor Street and
centred on Tim Bisley and Daisy Steiner, a pair of singles pretending to be a
couple so as to get the flat, the fourteen episodes of the two series made
simply burst at the seams with references to pop-culture. The house and
household itself summon faint memories of that 1960s series The Addams
Family, much more recent echoes of 28 Barbary Lane in M aupin’s Tales of The
City, and besides those there is also an amusingly dysfunctional nod towards
Friends as well. Beyond that, as the stories of each episode unfold, there are
numerous, clear cinem atic references to pertinent films all along the way. So,
for example, when Tim and Daisy are faking coupledom ( ‘Beginnings’, series
one) to become tenants in (the somewhat M orticia-like) Marsha K lein ’s

Figure 9.1 Spaced © Channel 4 Television Corporation

196 Subtext

house, Green Card is the film which gets referenced and entertainingly paro­
died. A list of all of the films and T V programmes referenced, parodied or
both would be very extensive, but they range from Fight Club, Close Encoun­
ters, Star Wars, The Matrix, An Officer and a Gentleman and One Flew Over the
Cuckoo’s Nest to the tv programmes Grange Hill, Doctor Who, Robot Wars and
Scrapheap Challenge...to name but a few. However, Spaced is stylistically
assured and the cinematic style it is shot in helps lend a fluency and fit to all
its borrowed inclusions. Moreover the fact that its essential aim is to be enter­
taining and funny also supports the magpie approach to its making. But above
all and crucially, it is Tim and Daisy’s characterisation which makes the
imaginative flights of fancy seem nothing more than natural: he a fanatical
video games playing science fiction devotee and would-be comic-book artist
(destined eventually to land his dream job as graphic artist with Dark Star
Com ics), and she an aspiring writer with a definite leaning towards self­
dramatisation. So when in ‘Mettle’ (episode three, series two) she is forced to
take a menial job in a fast-food outlet, it actually fits perfectly that feeling
oppressed she suddenly sees herself as McMurphy in One F lew Over The
Cuckoo’s Nest, casts her boss as the evil Nurse Ratched and other fellow
workers as vulnerable Billy and Chief. Spaced’s Director, Edgar Wright,
summed it up this way in the interview he gave in the documentary Skip To
The End - that title itself one of Tim Bisley’s catch phrases. Asked about the
references and homages he said it wasn’t just ‘a case of let’s do a five minute
riff on The Matrix...the characters’ lives are so governed by pop-culture they
can only think in those terms...so breaking up with a girl-friend is as enorm­
ous to Tim as The Empire Strikes Back’.

And as I’ve briefly illustrated that statement from Wright isn’t just special
pleading to excuse some severe bouts of self-indulgence; overwhelmingly the
fantasy element works subtextually, both informing as well as being supported
by the characters’ inner worlds.
From a simple one-liner, carefully loaded with an additional level of meaning,
to a whole scene carrying several additional layers of intent, right through to
the scene or the sequence doing the same whilst also resonating with other
moments or references lying completely outside the whole drama - subtext
can really enrich your writing. Observe its skilful use wherever and whenever
you can, and as and when you feel confident and ready to, have a go at creat­
ing some yourself.
 Subtext 197

Exercises

1 A long-standing, close friend is getting married and has invited you to the
wedding. You don't want to go. The real reason is that you also had a brief rela­
tionship with their fiance, and you know she (or he) has kept this a secret. You
care about your unsuspecting friend, and yet still harbour special feelings towards
their intended. Obviously you can't tell your friend this is the reason you don't
want to be at the wedding. So what do you tell them instead? Write a scene in
which you meet one or both of them by accident, not having got round yet to
responding to the invitation.
2 A teenager's mother (or father) discovers her son (or daughter) hasn't yet posted
their application for university. The deadline is in two days' time. The parent has
their real reason (which they cannot share) for wanting their teenager out of the
house and away - they want their lover to move in. The son (or daughter) is
reluctant to go to college, because they want to stay close to their girl (boy) friend.
Neither can tell the other the truth. Write a scene in which the parent is doing their
best to get that letter posted, and the son (or daughter) to resist.
 10
Pulling it all together

T h e first script example in this book was for a very short film . T h e last
example is from a considerably longer piece (over 100 times as lon g!) O ur
Friends in the North (Pete r Flannery) w hich started life as a stage play way
back in 1982 and was first commissioned by the B B C as a T V series in the
same year. Passing through its own saga o f changing fortunes, and in itia lly
projected to be 20 hours o f drama, O ur Friends in the North finally reached the
screen 15 years on, at just h alf that length, w inning awards as w ell as enorm ­
ous popular acclaim .

T h e story o f four friends from N ew castle unfolds over three decades, mid-
1960s to mid-1990s, against a background o f m ajor p o litica l and social
upheaval. It weaves the m icrocosm ic and m acrocosm ic together, follow ing
the friends’ in d ivid u al and co llective stories and o u tlin in g the context in
w h ich they play out th eir hopes and fears in such a way that we can see
how the socio-political pressures im pinge on and shape th eir personal des­
tinies, and how those in turn contribute to the broader sweep o f history in
its m aking. It ’s an enorm ously am bitious piece whose success is a measure of
its creator’s sk ill and com m itm ent. Pick in g up on that idea quoted early on
from Robert M cK e e, that w riters need to find th eir natural address on the
story tellers’ map, it’s clear Peter Flannery never deserted his natural lean­
ings as a p o litica lly and m orally aware w riter, and displayed every ounce of
tenacity required to get that project through to com pletion.

I find Peter Flannery’s integrity inspiring, and in an increasingly hard-nosed

w orld w hich often sees dram atists’ work, especially screenw riting, as a com ­
m odity geared to m aking big profits, the fact that he and the B B C did see it
through, I also find quite reassuring. T h a t isn’t just because the story delivers
p o litical punch, or because it’s a big and expensive project; it’s because it
grew out o f a w riter’s personal background, experience and vision, clearly
speaks w ith his voice, and is w ritten and crafted to the highest standards.
 Pulling it all together 199

Figure 10.1 Daniel Craig in Our Friends in the North © BBC

W rite rs aim ing to w ork for film or televisio n , if they succeed, w ill often find
them selves creating w ork to pre-existing ideas, or in lin e w ith m any pre­
conceived notions o f w hat w ill hold mass appeal, and are ever more subject to
the widespread practice o f draconian and sometimes seem ingly endless re v i­
sions dictated by a com m ercially d riven ed ito rial m achine. Room for in d i­
vid u al authorship has dim inished considerably, and despite the fact that there
are lots more hours o f popular dram a series on m any more channels needing
to be filled, for the m ajority o f w riters looking to get th e ir in d ivid u al voices
heard, a ll this ‘m ore’ has most d efin itely ended up m eaning ‘m uch less’.

So w hy bother doing an yth in g oth er than learning how to be a w rite r w ho

can copy the m odel — w h atever it happens to be at the tim e - and then just
slot in as a sm oothly-running cog? W e ll, I ’m going to suggest several good
reasons. F irstly, in my o p in io n , you w ill n ever w rite dram a to the best o f
your a b ilitie s u n til yo u’ve discovered your ow n vo ice - th a t’s to say in the
p a rticu la r w ay you n a tu ra lly have o f te llin g stories, based on those passions
200 Pulling it all together

which drive you and the strengths which you can bring to the craft. S e c ­
ondly, again in my personal opin ion , there has never been more o f a crying
need than there is now for writers who are ready and able to hold the line
against a flood o f m ediocre m elodram a, and at least offer a better alter­
native. Thirdly, despite everything I’ve said to the contrary, if you equip
yourself to write well and believe in what you’re doing, there’s a ch ance
th at good, individually authored work will get through and be picked up for
production. In any case, if you’ve discovered what you’re about as an indi­
vidual writer, if you are invited to write form ulaic or form atted dram a, and
should you choose to take up that in vitation , you will be able to deliver sa t­
isfactorily, and yet still produce work o f distinction.

T he extract from O u r Friends in the North concerns itself with G eordie’s

story. Geordie has fled an unhappy history in N ew castle to try his luck
in London. W e have seen the difficult relationship with his alcoholic
father back in N ew castle and how that has brought them to blows and
the way he also abandoned his pregnant girlfriend. N ow he is living in a
tiny flat in Soh o and working for pom -king Benny Barratt, who grateful for
a warning from G eordie about im m inent betrayal, has made him his
right-hand man.

INT. GEORDIE'S FLAT. DAY.

GEORDIE SITS IN TROUSERS. NO SHIRT YET,
WATCHING RACING ON TELEVISION. HE HAS A
CUP OF TEA AND IS READING A LETTER WHICH
HAS ATTACHED TO IT A PHOTOGRAPH OF
ANTHONY COX. HE LAUGHS AT PART OF THE
LETTER. HE GETS UP, REALISING THE TIME.

13. EXT. SOHO STREETS. DAY.

GEORDIE WALKING BRISKLY THROUGH BUSY
SOHO STREETS. HE KEEPS A KEEN EYE OUT FOR
SIGNS OF POLICE. SMART SUIT. NICE WATCH.
GOOD SHOES. WELL GROOMED. A BRIEFCASE
HANDCUFFED TO HIS WRIST.

14. SOHO PORN SHOP. DAY.

TWO CUSTOMERS ARE BROWSING IN THE
RACKS OF WHACKING MATERIAL, WATCHED
IDLY BY THE MANAGER MICHAEL FRISCH.
THE DOOR OPENS.
FRISCH AND THE CUSTOMERS LOOK UP.
GEORDIE ENTERS.
 Pulling it all together 201

GEORDIE TAKES IN THE SCENE AS HE GOES TO

FRISCH'S COUNTER.
FRISCH: Hello, Mr Peacock.
GEORDIE: Hello, Michael. Everything okay?
FRISCH: Yes, if you like being bored out of your
skull.
GEORDIE: Quiet again?
FRISCH: Well who wants to get arrested in his
lunch hour?
GEORDIE OPENS HIS BRIEFCASE AND FRISCH
PUTS HIS MEAGRE TAKINGS INTO IT.
A CUSTOMER ENTERS.
THEY BOTH LOOK UP TO CHECK THAT IT'S NOT
POLICE.
GEORDIE: Yeh. Well. Is that it?
FRISCH: Hardly worth opening. When's Barratt
going to do something about it?
GEORDIE: I'll pass on your comments, Michael.
He'll also be interested in where you were last
night. I called in here at eight o'clock and it was
shut.
HE CLOSES THE BRIEFCASE.
FRISCH: Yeh, I had to sort something out. Sorry.
GEORDIE: Sorry?
FRISCH: I’ve got a few problems.
GEORDIE STARTS TO GO. SHAKING HIS HEAD.
Geordie?
GEORDIE LOOKS AT HIM, EYEBROWS UP.
Mr Peacock. You couldn't lend me 50 quid could
you?
GEORDIE: What?
FRISCH: Bit desperate, actually. I'll pay you back.
GEORDIE HESITATES BUT GIVES HIM MONEY.
GEORDIE: You better. There's twenty.
GEORDIE ATTACHES THE BRIEFCASE TO HIS
WRIST AND HEADS FOR THE DOOR VIA A
CUSTOMER IN THE CORNER.
202 Pulling it all together

GEORDIE: (DISCREETLY) Put it back.

THE MAN HESITATES THEN TAKES A PACKET OF
PHOTOGRAPHS FROM HIS POCKET AND PUTS IT
BACK ON THE RACK.
On your way.
THE MAN GOES.
GEORDIE LOOKS AT FRISCH, WHO SHRUGS AND
LOOKS EMBARRASSED.
GEORDIE LEAVES.

15. INT. FLAMINGO CLUB. SOHO. DAY.

THIS IS THE CLUB WHICH IS TO SUPERSEDE THE
KING CLUB AS THE CENTREPIECE IN BARRATT'S
EMPIRE.
IT IS A LARGE CLUB CREATED OUT OF A CELLAR.
ABOVE IT ARE OFFICES AND AN APARTMENT.
BOTH ARE ALREADY IN USE. THE CLUB IS
ALMOST READY TO OPEN. DECORATION WORK
IS IN PROGRESS.
A BABY GRAND PIANO IS BEING DELIVERED.
GEORDIE PASSES THROUGH THE CLUB, CASTING
AN EYE OVER WORK IN PROGRESS. HE GOES
THROUGH A DOOR AT THE SIDE AND UP SOME
STAIRS TO THE OFFICES. THERE IS A LARGE
OFFICE AND A SMALL OFFICE WITH A
CONNECTING DOOR. IN THE SMALL OFFICE,
WITH THE CONNECTING DOOR WIDE OPEN,
SITS BARRATT'S SECRETARY, BRENDA, TYPING.
GEORDIE ENTERS.
GEORDIE: Hello, Brenda.
HE GOES THROUGH INTO THE LARGE OFFICE.
NOBODY THERE. HE GOES BACK INTO BRENDA'S
OFFICE.
Is Mr Barratt upstairs?
BRENDA INDICATING LETTERS TO BE SIGNED.
BRENDA: Haven't seen him. Miss Allen's there. She
came in an hour ago.
GEORDIE: Any idea when he's coming back?
BRENDA SHRUGS.
GEORDIE PONDERS FOR A MOMENT HIS NEXT
MOVE. HE HANDCUFFS THE BRIEFCASE TO A
 Pulling it all together 203

FILING CABINET IN THE LARGE OFFICE AND

LEAVES- HE GOES UP A FLIGHT OF STAIRS TO
THE APARTMENT. HE LETS HIMSELF IN WITH A
LATCH KEY. HE GOES INTO THE LIVING-ROOM.
THERE IS A LARGE OIL-PAINTING OF BENNY
BARRATT ON ONE WALL.
(CALLING OUT) Benny?
HE GOES INTO CORRIDOR. HE HEARS THE
SOUND OF A SHOWER FROM DOWN THE WAY.
THE SHOWER IS TURNED OFF. HE WALKS DOWN
THE CORRIDOR TO THE MASTER BEDROOM
WHICH HAS AN ENSUITE BATHROOM.
THE BEDROOM DOOR IS AJAR. HE LOOKS IN
AND SEES RUSTY. SHE HAS JUST COME FROM
THE SHOWER AND IS ABOUT TO DRESS. SHE
STANDS FACING A LARGE WALL MIRROR.
GEORDIE GLIDES INTO THE ROOM BEHIND HER
AND GRABS HER BREASTS. SHE SEES HIM IN THE
MIRROR AND LOOKS PANICKY.
BARRATT: (FROM THE BATHROOM)
Towel. Where's the towel?

16. INT. APARTMENT. DAY.

LIVING ROOM.
RUSTY SITS UNDERNEATH THE PAINTING WITH
A DRINK. SHE IS IN A DRESSING-GOWN AND
HER HAIR IS WRAPPED IN A TOWEL.
GEORDIE SITS ACROSS THE ROOM WITH A
DRINK.
SILENCE.
ENTER BARRATT CARRYING HIS SHOES AND
TRYING TO DO UP HIS TIE.
BARRATT: What fettle, bonny lad?
GEORDIE: Canny fettle, Benny.
BARRATT: How's business?
GEORDIE: Bad.
BARRATT: Oh, why is my life full of problems?
HE DOES UP HIS TIE IN A MIRROR.
GEORDIE: One of Winters' shops got done on
Tuesday apparently. That's the first actual bust
anybody's had since March.
204 Pulling it all together

BARRATT: Did it? What happened?

GEORDIE: They confiscated the Danish stuff. No
arrests.
BARRATT: The filth don't know where they are, do
they? A load of arrests one day. Then nothing for
months. Then one. Then nothing. I think they'd go
away and leave us in peace if these bloody Maltesers
like Winters would stop putting hard stuff in the
windows. It's provocative, isn't it?
HE'S PUTTING ON HIS SHOES.
Old Bill's got to stop that, hasn't he? Can't turn a
blind eye to bloody nuns and dogs. I've tried to tell
them. But will they listen? Greedy foreign bastards.
HE PUTS ON HIS JACKET.
I've got to go. I'm taking Terri to a dinner party.
Bloody neighbours. (TO RUSTY) Behave yourself,
you.
RUSTY: I'll see you later.
BARRATT: No, I'll have to stay the night. It'll be
expected.
BARRATT GRIMACES. HE KISSES RUSTY.
I'll see you both tomorrow.
HE PAUSES AND LOOKS AT GEORDIE.
What are we going to do, eh?
GEORDIE LOOKS AT HIM.
BARRATT: Let's talk tomorrow, yeh?
HE GOES.
SILENCE.
RUSTY AND GEORDIE LOOK AT EACH OTHER.
GEORDIE: Did he see?
SHE BURSTS OUT LAUGHING.
RUSTY: Your face!
THEY LAUGH. THEY STOP.
Come and do it again.
SHE OPENS HER DRESSING GOWN. HE JOINS
HERON THE SOFA.
SHE LEADS HIM INTO THE BEDROOM. THEY
FALL ONTO THE BED, BECOMING PASSIONATE.
 Pulling it all together 205

I love you, Geordie. I love you.

RUSTY STARTS TO REM O VE GEORDIE'S

CLOTHES.

IN THE LIVING R O O M : BARRATT RETURNS

SILENTLY. HE LISTENS. HE FINDS GEORDIE'S TIE
ON THE SOFA, UNDER THE PORTRAIT. HE
HOLDS THE TIE AND LO O KS INTO HIS LIKENESS
ON THE WALL.

IN THE BED RO O M : THEIR PASSION CONTINUES.

That first scene, brief though it is, sets up a couple of important elements.
The letter links him back to the close friends he has left behind in the North-
East, the photo being of Tosker’s and M ary’s son Anthony. That difficult past
he has left behind reverberates when we see him at the end of the sequence
on the bed w ith Rusty. She passionately declares she loves him, and he point­
edly is unwilling to say anything in return. Also in that first scene the racing
is on the T V , at the literal level completely in character for Geordie and also
a reminder that in a broader sense he is a chancer, an opportunist not afraid
to take a gamble, or even play things dangerously; and let’s face it, gambles
don’t come much bigger than to mess around with a psychopath’s mistress
right under his nose.

The central section of the sequence shows Geordie visiting one of Barratt’s
sex shops to collect the takings. W e find out three things of importance in
this scene: business is under pressure because potential customers are in fear
of the police; Frisch is quite subservient to Geordie who is very much
in control now, a complete turn-around of their first encounter, since
when Geordie did Barratt the big favour; and finally, in the way he spots the
pilfering, we see that not much escapes Geordie’s eagle eye - ironically, the
same is true of Barratt as Geordie w ill shortly discover.

The background which this smaller drama is played out against is referred to
in the conversation Geordie and Barratt have about ‘business’; the ‘Swinging
Sixties’ in London was a time when the pom trade was booming, its success
shored up by corruption amongst officers in the Metropolitan Police, who
were taking a slice of the action in return for turning a blind eye. So Barratt’s
disapproval aimed at those ‘greedy foreign bastards’ who were leaving the
police no alternative but to act is richly ironic. Seizing the moral high
ground, in an activity which just hasn’t got any, w ittily points up the danger­
ous level of delusion Barratt and company are prey to: peddling sleaze could
never be a respectable business, and yet that oil painting tells us a different
story about how Barratt sees himself. W here is he off to now but back home
to take his wife to a dinner party? He is aiming to remake himself in the
206 Pulling it all together

image of a ‘successful man of the world’ entrepreneur, a pillar of club-land.

The grand piano and the refurbishment going on down below is another
reminder of the entertainment empire Barratt is aiming to build and rule
over.

Then there is also a very interesting tension between the theme of sexual
exploitation as a business, and what is going on between these three charac­
ters right here and now. Benny is cheating on his wife. Rusty is about to
cheat on him, though we know she has only just been in bed with him, and
from that ‘I ’ll see you later’ she offers him, we can guess she’d have been quite
happy to fall back into his arms again later. Geordie is betraying Benny and
using Rusty. It’s altogether not a very nice picture. It is, in fact, a picture of
use, abuse and unfeeling self-interest. That last shot of Barratt looking at his
likeness is carefully calculated, as is the reference to the large wall mirror in
the bedroom. It conjures not just voyeurism but also narcissism. These men
of the world who can see no further than themselves, and that is a fatal
lim itation.

In fact when this episode was screened, several changes had been made from
the final draft - a reminder as 1 pointed out early on in this book that the
script is and is not a finished product. Rehearsal and pre-production periods
offer opportunities for second thoughts. The first scene had Geordie adjusting
his appearance before going out, looking in a mirror as he did so and then
handcuffing him self to the case. The racing was on the T V in the back­
ground. You can see how that image of him looking at himself neatly book-
ends the scene with the moment when Barratt looks at him self in the
painting, both moments underlining this idea of self-absorption. That preen­
ing in the mirror helped emphasise Geordie’s smart appearance. And once
the director and designers got their hands on this sequence, they really did
capitalise on this aspect of image. Geordie was given a smart suit and expen­
sive coat, Rusty a fetching kimono and Barratt an expensive Italian suit.
Success and worldliness were to the fore. Rusty’s drink was an exotic liqueur,
blue Curasao, and in the recorded version Barratt’s parting shot to them both
is the Japanese ‘sayonara’. These embellishments built on the parody of inter­
national businessmen’s chatter we have in Barratt’s slighting reference to
Danish material and ‘bloody Maltesers’. The portrait is deliberately tacky and,
to my mind, works very well at several levels; beyond the ostentatious narcis­
sism, it’s also ‘lord of the manor’ material, pointing out graphically just who’s
in charge, and when we see Rusty sitting beneath it the image is ironically
proprietorial too - she belongs to him, except, of course, she doesn’t.

Visually underpinning the thematic concerns of the drama in this way raises
the question of how far a production team can go before they overplay their
 Pulling it all together 207

hand. As the earlier chapter on metaphor suggests, that really is quite a long
way, and the writer does well to realise this too. Just as the writer in this case
ends with that great moment of Barratt gazing at himself ominously fingering
Geordie’s tie, so the addition of Geordie checking the look of that same tie in
the mirror does nothing but extend and enhance the writer’s idea. Geordie is
aiming to fly high, his smart, new appearance essential to playing the part;
but, just as in the Greek myth, where Icarus flew too close to the sun and
melted the wax in his wings, so Geordie’s flight is about to end in disaster.
The intimations of a ‘hanging’ yet to come are clear enough in that final
gesture of Barratt holding his tie.

Dram atically Geordie’s kept journeying. There’s a reminder of his roots in

that first scene and, in any case, is ever present in the guise of his name. A
character busily on the make, we see the city businessman he is intent on
becoming. And finally, through a deliciously dangerous moment of dramatic
irony, the self-destructive chancer is seen to put everything at risk.

There’s a way in which the sequence also operates at three or four levels, all
of them bouncing off each other. There’s the level of social corruption being
pointed up in the shape of the porn racket. Then there’s the level of interper­
sonal corruption and vice in what we see going on between these three. After
that we are invited to look at the intra-personal level of what these people
are doing to their souls, and in particular Geordie. He may feel he’s in
seventh heaven right now, but we know that hell is just around the corner.
Finally, and related to this, there’s a way in which this sequence carries over­
tones of a morality tale, very much in the spirit of the medieval plays 1 men­
tioned earlier in Chapter 4- In those plays the virtues and vices were
explicitly named. Here we have a character called George ‘Geordie’ Peacock.
Pride is a deadly sin and comes before what we all know is just round the
comer for our hero. His hubris (the classical tragic flaw of overweening pride)
w ill be Geordie’s undoing and eventually we w ill see him end up (quite liter­
ally) down and out in the gutter.

The whole sweep of Our Friends in the North demonstrates quite clearly that
the playwright has a moral standpoint, picking the major examples of real life
cormption as the models for episodes in his drama, through which he can put
his central characters to the test. Along the way he gives them a universality
with which we can thoroughly empathise. W hen Geordie handcuffs himself
to that money we are being shown a moment which is about not just this
character, but the potential we all have to be bought.

As 1 suggested earlier on, the ability to constmct effective and moving

sequences is key in the business of writing drama for the screen. Here we are
offered an example of a brilliant piece of writing, creating a powerful,
208 Pulling it all together

self-contained sequence which entertains and enthrals us at the level of

simple story, whilst carrying verbal and visual images and subtext which allow
the deeper meaning to work on us and so see ourselves in relation to the
drama.

There are dramas which show us ‘the world as it is not’; many soap operas fall
into this category. Then there are dramas which try to show us ‘the world as
it is’; they convey a level of realism aimed at copying life w ith the intention
that we w ill believe what it’s about all the more. In fact, since drama is an
artifice, a way of distilling truths and making metaphors out of life, then
perhaps the most powerful way a script can operate is by showing us ‘the
world as it is, seen through drama’. And that, I think, is precisely what Peter
Flannery has done here. It looks deceptively like a slice of life, yet in fact has
the carefully crafted substance to reach out beyond its immediate context and
carry deeper meaning and impact.

S O M E FIN AL TIPS
In learning to develop any art, there is great value in studying the work of
accomplished practitioners. Screenwriting is no exception to that rule. I have
tried to include excerpts from some work I admire in this book, and which I
feel rewards close attention. I strongly recommend that you watch lots of
screen dramas and then watch again those you have liked and really admired
several times. (In fact try stage plays and radio plays as well, and don’t over­
look the importance of actually reading screenplays and scripts; this allows
you to take time for reflection in a way you may not if you’re wrapped up in
just watching.) If you are on a relevant course of study and have co-students
interested in developing their writing, or if you have informally formed a
group to support your writing practice, then make viewing and discussion of
what you’ve seen a regular part of your activity together. The ability to
analyse and express what you think and feel about others’ and your own work
is an essential part of honing your critical abilities, and these, in turn, can
really support your writing. Learn to be specific in what you say to each other,
and get into the habit of offering the reasons for why you think and feel what
you do. Feedback can be a really invaluable aid to your development. Some­
times what people have noticed in your work may surprise and please you: at
other times the group’s response to what you may have felt certain you were
conveying w ith clarity can usefully make you think again; what’s more there
may be helpful suggestions from them as to how you might make changes.

Another important reason for taking part in discussion is that, in looking at a

variety of work, you can’t help but discover what it is you really do and do not
have a passion for, and that too w ill help clarify what you want to try writing.
 Pulling it all together 209

So don’t hang back. However, do make a ground-rule in the group that any­
thing anyone says about each other’s work is offered in a supportive and con­
structive manner. There’s no point in being part of a demolition team.
Confidence plays an enormously important part in developing as a writer, and
if you’ve not gathered people around you who are interested in nurturing that
vital asset (and I don’t mean just flattering each other) then I suggest you go
elsewhere until you do find what you need. If it’s just a rogue individual who
enjoys throwing bricks, then perhaps he’s the one who should go.

If not a group then finding a person whom you trust and who is genuinely
interested in looking at your work, can also be a great support mechanism
from time to time. Also consider doing some courses. A dult education
centres, local education authorities, and organisations like the A rvon Foun­
dation all offer courses in writing, and with increasing frequency scriptwriting
in particular. These vary in length from day-schools to week-long, residential
intensive courses. A benefit of finding a course or two to go on, above and
beyond the experience itself, w ill be the opportunity to come into contact
with other enthusiasts and perhaps become mutually supportive to each in
the future.

Experiment with different kinds of writing. Don’t just see yourself as a screen­
writer. In writing poems or short stories, you may discover an activity you
really love, and one which w ill complement and feed your drama writing.

Read widely. Both as a means of experiencing different ways with the pen, and
also as a source of ideas and inspiration. Our Friends in the North, as I mentioned,
had its basis in police and planning corruption cases. But don’t confine yourself
to looking at news stories which feel like they’d make a good drama. Perhaps
you’ll be inspired by a setting, or a character w ill be born out of reading some­
thing: maybe you have a leaning towards historical events, maybe you enjoy the
fantastic. The knack is to keep interested in everything, and as I suggested in
Chapter 1, learn to recognise those moments that are telling you they want you
to write them. Keep practising your day-dreaming. W hen sequences of pictures
start to roll in your imagination, let that happen. The more you practise visualis­
ing your stories unfolding, the easier it becomes.

If you give your favourite screenwriters particular attention don’t neglect

to watch more widely. Educate yourself about comedy, soap-opera, drama-
documentary, short films; watch anything and everything with a keen eye as
to how it has been put together and discuss these thoughts with others.

In particular, start noticing the broad differences between T V drama and

film. Notice how cinema uses the soundtrack as a far more intrinsic part of
the process, how very often a film can and does take its time to unwind,
210 Pulling it all together

letting the pictures lead and using far less dialogue to supplement and support
the story telling. N otice the fact that T V works better in close up and see
what that means. Listen to radio plays and see what pictures these conjure in
your mind. T ry writing examples of each kind of drama. T ry a bit of radio
drama and see how well you can use sound. T ry writing a short T V drama
with the emphasis on dialogue and the focus thrown heavily on the charac­
ters’ relationships to one another. T ry writing short films. M ove to and fro
between the different forms, always concentrating on making images, verbal
and visual, work for the audience.

T ry your hand at different forms and styles you might not feel immediately
drawn to. Perhaps you’ve never thought of yourself as a comedy writer. Have
a go; and that doesn’t necessarily mean sitting down to try and produce a
half-hour sitcom. Maybe you have an idea for a funny short film script, or
perhaps a poem. Explore your ability to be funny, is what I ’m saying, then
think about how that untapped ability might find its way into your scripts.

If you should want to try placing your work professionally, then do make sure
that you have studied the demands and constraints the industry makes on
writers, in regard to different areas of drama writing and the consequent
expectations they w ill have on would-be writers in particular areas. There is
nothing to say your work couldn’t be different from the norm, or that it might
even be found all the more interesting, but a sound knowledge of the general
field w ill help you to know what to get in line w ith if you choose to do so,
and just what you’re taking leave of if you choose to do that.

If you are intent on originating material, then an established soap with its
own in-house storyliners is unlikely to offer you all the elbow room you’re
looking for. However, writing an original radio drama w ill do just that, and
many a good screenplay started life as a piece written for and broadcast on
radio. Don’t be afraid to branch out and experiment. The only way writers
ever got better is by practising and trying out different ideas. Always keep
looking to author your work. Listen out for your voice and whenever you get
the feeling that your writing is going really well, nurture it and try to notice
specifically what in your writing is exciting that sensation.

Be a writer for yourself first and foremost. Don’t set about consciously copying
others or offering them what you think they want. Please yourself with your
work, safeguarding your individual abilities; alongside this process, develop
your craft and your critical skills, and understand why different conventions
have evolved and exactly how they work.

Every book on screenwriting w ill tell you to believe in yourself, so I don’t see
why I should be left out. W ritin g is an important means of self-expression. In
 Pulling it all together 211

itself that can be a joyful and creative process, even though it may feel like
hard work - and sometimes most definitely will! In choosing to write, you are
honouring a valuable, creative part of yourself and I believe that can be a
most important, fundamentally life-enhancing activity. G ive yourself credit
for doing this, take care of yourself in this process as well as your work, and
remember to celebrate your progress. Best of luck.
 Bibliography and
suggested reading

Aristotle, Poetics (Translation by Malcolm Heath), Penguin 1996

Ball, Alan, Am erican Beauty, FilmFour Books 2000
Bennett, Alan, The Com plete Talking Heads, BBC Consumer Publishing (Books) 1998
Blum, Richard A., Television an d Screen W ritin g , Butterworth Heineman 1995
Boal, Augusto, Games For Actors an d N on-Actors, Routledge 1992
Booker, Christopher, The Seven Basic Plots, Continuum 2004
Brady, John, The C raft o f the Screenwriter, Touchstone 1982
Campbell, Joseph, The Hero w ith a Thousand Faces, Paladin 1988
Chayefsky, Paddy, Collected Works, the Screenplays, Applause Books 1981
Connaughton, Shane and Sheridan, Jim, M y Left Foot, Faber and Faber 1989
Cooper, Pat and Dancyger, Ken, W ritin g the Short Film , Focal Press 1994
Egri, Lajos The A rt o f D ram atic W riting, Touchstone Books 1960
George, Terry and Sheridan, Jim, Some M o th e r's Son, Grove Press 1996
Goldman, William, Adventures in the Screen Trade, Warner Books 1983
Hodge, John, Shallow Grave, Faber and Faber 1996
Horton, Andrew, W ritin g the Character Centred Screenplay, University of California 1994
Johnston, Chris, House o f Games, Nick Hern Books 1998
Johnstone, Keith, Im pro, Methuen 1981
Johnstone, Keith, Im pro fo r Storytellers, Faber and Faber 1999
Kubler-Ross, Elizabeth, O n Death an d Dying, Macmillan 1969
LaGravenese, Richard, The Fisher King, Applause Books 1991
Lucey, Paul, Story Sense: W ritin g Story a n d Script fo r Feature Films an d Television,
Mcgraw Hill 1996
Mamet, David, O n D irecting Film, Penguin 1992
McKee, Robert, Story, Methuen 1999
Minghella, Anthony, The English Patient, Methuen 1997
Parker, Philip, The A rt and Science o f Screenwriting, Intellect Books 1999
Proulx, Annie, McMurtry, Larry and Ossana, Diana, Brokeback M ou n ta in , Story to
Screenplay, Harper Perennial 2006
Seger, Linda, M a kin g a G ood Script Great, Hollywood: Samuel French 1987
Shakespeare, William, H am let, New Penguin Shakespeare
Swain, Dwight V. and Swain, Joye R., Scripting fo r the N ew A V Technologies, Focal Press
1991
Vogler, Christopher, The W riter's Journey, Pan Books 1988
Watts, Harris, O n Camera, Aavo 1997
 Index

References to figures/photographs are shown in italic

About Schmidt (Payne and Taylor) 70, 71, The An and Science of Writing for the Screen
72-73 (Parker) 10
Achilles theme 27 The Art of Dramatic Writing (Egri) 34
action: characters 18; emotion 70; excessive atmosphere: ideas/action 44, 45; metaphor
62; identical 131; images 51; improvisation 128; settings 119; see also mood
80-81; pointers in 115; scriptwriting 41; audience: and ambiguous material 26; clarity
similar 131; soap operas 119-20; stories 3; requirement 25, 93; and dialogue 103; and
thought 43; typographical conventions 40; emotion 22; identification, emotional 16;
unity of 2, 3; visualising 48-65 and irony 16-17; and metaphor 168;
actors: availability 128; drama 3; exercises screen/stage 90; of soap operas 108; and
done by 58; rehearsal time 115 subtext 182; thoughts of characters,
adaptation 141-58; contrasts 143—44; interpreting 62
faithfulness to source 141, 144-45; images Augeries of Innocence (Blake) 17
157; rights, acquiring 157-58; scrutiny Austen, Jane 143, 144
requirement 145; short stories 145 authenticity 84, 110
Adaptation (Kaufman from Orlean) 144 avoidance: novelisation 43-44, 47; subterfuge
Adventures in the Screen Trade (Goldman) 182; writing look of a scene 63—65
33
Ali, Sherif 149 Ball, Alan 18, 172^75
Alice in Wonderland (Carroll) 181 Bass, Ronald 16
Allen, Jim 84 Bauer, Jack 2
Allen, Woody 43 beginnings/endings 109, 130-31; see also
Ally M cBeal (Kelley) 19, 102, 133 endings
alternatives: commitment to choices made Bennett, Alan 78
117, 120; endings 35-37; improvisation 80; Bernice see Eric/Bernice plot
planning 31-32, 35-36; plots 31-32, The Bill 107-8
35—37; scenes 116-20 biography 74-76, 90
ambiguity 25, 26, 117 The Birds (Hunter, from du Maurier) 141 43,
American Beauty (Ball) 18, 172-75, 173 142, 145
animation, drawn 42 Blake, William 17
antagonism: conflict 16; dialogue 105; soap Bleasdale, Alan 102
operas 110; stories within stories 130 Bloom, Richard A. 39
arc of performance 46 Boal, Augusto 80
archetypes: character 69-70, 82, 84; and Booker, Christopher 27
naturalism 69-70; stories 10 Brassed Off (Herman) 136
Aristotle 66; Poetics 2, 57-58, 159 Brideshead Revisited (Mortimer) 43
214 Index

Brokeback Mountain (Proulx) 170 climax: film 9; plots 13-14; soap operas 110
Brokeback Mountain, Story to Screenplay close-ups 45, 53, 58, 64, 210
(McMurtry, Ossana, Proulx) 143, 170 coincidences 23—25
Brookside 108, 127 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 24
Brown, Christy 16, 54-56 comedy: catchphrases 102; Coronation Street
Bryant, Chris 22, 152, 153 125; melodrama 20; repetition 25; slapstick
Bunuel, Luis 19 24; tone 102; writers 210
comparisons: see also similarity
Cameron, James 21, 36 complication of plot 13
Campbell, Joseph 82 conflict: antagonism 16; arenas of 9;
Cam pion, Jane 92 contradiction 87-88; drama 8, 16;
C andide theme 27 escalating 115; inner/outer 8; of interests
The Canterbury Tales (Chaucer) 12 182; plot possibilities 31-32; and settings
caricature 61, 69, 70, 82, 84, 101-2 8-10; soap operas 110; withholding
Carrifere, Jean-Claude 19 information 93, 182
Carroll, Lewis 181 Connaughton, Shane 54
cartoon characters 61, 69, 70, 82 contradiction: characters 85-88; conflict
Casablanca (Epstein and Koch) 194-95 87-88; emotion 110
Catch 22 (Henry) 25 contrasts: adaptation 143—44;
catchphrases 102 intention/subsequent behaviour 134; shots
Cathy Come Home (Allen) 84 53; tone 102
character compass 81-85, 83 Coppela, Francis Ford 43
characters: action 18; archetypes 69-70, 82, Coronation Street: action 119-20; alternatives
84; attitudes, conveying 55—56; 117-20; characters 117-18; clarification in
authenticity 84; biography, building 74-76, scripts 115; comedy and pathos, mixing
90; caricature 61, 69, 70, 82, 84; change 125; emotional journeys 111-16;
curve 69; charting journeys of 67-74; individual run of scenes, building 122-27;
contradiction 85-88; cycle of grief and metaphor 171; settings 118—19;
mourning 68; dialogue 89-90; drama 83; Smallacombe episode 39, 111-16; stories
dynamics 58; emotional journeys of 67-68; within stories 130; storylines 109-10,
empathising with 15-16, 126, 207; 122-24, 128-29
envisaging 75; failure to define 99; hot- costume drama 133
seating 76-77, 79; individual definition 76; coups de cinema 63-64
intent 115; interactions 58, 61-62, 78-80; courses, scriptwriting 209
monologues 78; names 39, 40, 41, 74, 85, Cousins, Mark 92
99; notes 74, 75, 76, 79; persona 82-83; Crash (Haggis, Moresco) 176-77
physicality 75-76; and plots 66-67; rhythm creative block 8
103; role 82, 85; scenes 117-18, 128; crisis points see climax
stereotypes 82; stooges 96-97; stories 64, critical thinking 208
66; upper case, names in 40, 41
chart of character development 70, 71 dances 58, 61-62
Chase, David 133 Davies, Andrew 143, 144
Chaucer, Geoffrey 12 Days of Heaven (Malick) 43
Chayefsky, Paddy 135 Dearden, James 14-15
choreography 61 defence, subterfuge 182
chronological order, drama told in 21 delusions 23
Cinderella theme 27 DeNeck, Didier 22
cinema see film denial, subterfuge 182
Circe theme 27 descriptions, scriptwriting 44-45, 56-57
Clancy, Tom 8-9 designers 45
clarity 25, 93, 115 deviser-directors 67
Clarke, Arthur C. 20 dialogue 89-105; carried over 133—34;
Classic Unities 2, 3, 20 catchphrases 102; characters 90; drama
cliff-hangers 13, 14 57-60; and everyday speech 103; failings in
 Index 215

91-105; formalities, unnecessary 93; hot- episodes, endings 108, 124

seating 89, 90; identical 131; improvisation Epstein, Julius and Philip 194-95
80-81; names 99; naturalism 89; Eric/Bernice plot 49-50, 58-62, 182-84
obscenities 94; pointers in 115; radio plays Evans, Bruce A. 43
91; relentless 91-92; repetition 95; rhythm exposition of plot 13
103-5; screenplays 48; scripts 41, 48; stage eye-contact 62
plays 90; stooges 96-97; subject matter 93;
television drama 40; tone 102; verbal fable 24
gestures 97-98; visual impact 57-60 fade in/out 41
diary-keeping 28 fantasy 19, 23, 25
differences: definite 134-35; juxtaposition farce 24
135-36; pace 139; similarity 134; tone Fatal Attraction (Dearden) 14-15
136-39 Faust theme 27
directors: adaptation 141; deviser-directors feature film 39, 67; short film contrasted 107;
67; interpretation of script 45, 56; rehearsal structure 108
time 115; shots 45, 57; writers 63, 64 feedback 94, 208-9; ambiguity 26; hot-
disbelief, suspension of 24 seating 77-78
The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie (Bunel feel 132-33
and Carriere) 19 fighting 93
Docter, Pete 87 film: climax 9; early cinema 48; form and
documentary format 39 content, balance between 64; horror 143;
Don't Look Now (Scott and Brvant) 22, 152, screenplay formats 41; short 107, 198;
153 soundtrack 133; and stage plays 3, 91; and
Dormael, Jaco van 22 television drama 133, 209-10; visual
Dr. Strangebve (Kubrick, Southern and impact 48; see also feature film; specific
George) 102 films
drama: characters 83; conflict 8, 16; Fine, Morton 21, 92
conventionally-told 21; costume 133; The Fisher King (LaGravenese) 12, 23, 24, 33,
dialogue 57-60; feature-length 68; multi- 41; metaphor 177-80
plotted 20; novel, adapting for 143; and Fitzgerald, F. Scott 43
prose 43, 44; realism 208; story form 11; Flamberg, James 136-39
straight 102; sub-plots 14; terminology 3; Flannery, Peter 39, 198
time 20; see also screenplays flash-backs 21-22, 25, 133, 172
dramatic ironies 17 flash-forward 20, 22-23
dreaming 53, 209; screenplays 48; stories 11, flashes out of time 23
30-31 folk-tales 82
Driving Miss Daisy (Uhry) 169-70 formats, screenplays 38-39
Du Maurier, Daphne 22, 143 Forrest Gump (Groom) 16
dynamics, characters 61-62 Friedkin, David 21, 92
Frost, Mark 133
Egri, Lajos 34, 66
emotion: action and pursuit of objective 70; Galton, Ray 102
audience 22; common cycles, emotional Games for Actors and Non-Actors (Boal) 80
journeys of characters 67-68; contradiction Garnett, Tony 84
110; identification 16; juxtaposition 55; G .B .H . (Bleasdale) 102
scripts 47; soap operas 108 genres 10, 28
empathy with characters 15-16, 126, 207 George, Peter 102
emphasis 25 George, Terry 51-53, 65, 132-33
‘Encounter’ (Jacobsen) 145-57, 175 gestures, verbal 97-98
endings: alternatives 35-37; and ambiguity Gibson, William 16
26; open 14; scenes 109; similarity 130-31; Gideon, Raynold 43
stories 26; types 36 gods 82
The English Patient (Minghella) 39; dialogue Goldman, William 33
103; subtext 190-94 The Great Gatsby (Coppela) 43
216 Index

Green Card 196 irony: audience 16-17; stories 16-17; see

‘The Greenhouse Effect’ (Sm ith) 160-66, also dramatic ironies
180 The Italian Job (Martin) 13
Gronli. Martin 156
Groom, Winston 16 Jacobsen, Roy 145-57, 175
Groundhog Day (Robin and Ramis) 25 Johnston, Chris 80
Johnstone. Keith 80
Haggis, Paul 176-77 juxtaposition: action and images 51;
Hallstrom, Lasse 21,168-69, 172 differences 135-36; emotion 55; scenes
Hamlet (Shakespeare) 10 134
headlines of scenes 39^10,42; soap operas
109, 110; subtext 193 Kaufman, Charlie 144
Heller. Joseph 25 Keller, Helen 16
Herman, Mark 136 Kelley, David E. 19, 102, 133
hero, wounded 16; see also protagonisms Kent, Clark 86
Heroes (Kring) 86 key moments: scenes 109, 134; soap operas
The Hero With a Thousand Faces (Campbell) 108, 114, 127; see also climax
82 King, Stephen 43
Hitchcock, Alfred 80. 141, 143. 145 Koch. Howard 194-95
Hodge, John 12,41, 103-5 Kring, Tim 86
Horton, Andrew 36 Kiibler-Ross, Elizabeth 68
hot-seating: characters 76-77.79; dialogue Kubrick, Stanley 20, 102
89,90; feedback 77-78
House of Games (Johnstone) 80 LaGravenese, Richard 12, 23, 24, 33,35;
house-styles 38-39. 115 metaphor 177-80
Hunt, Bonnie 24 Lake, Don 24
Land and Freedom (Allen) 84
ideas 3; nuclear 29, 81; stories 29-31; unclear language 94
81 Lasseter, John 87
identification 94, 102, 171; emotional 16 Lawrence of Arabia (Bolt and Wilson) 149
lliff.W . Peter 8-9, 10, 17 Lee. Ang 170
image banking 30-31 legends 82
images: adaptation 157; carried-over sound Leigh, Mike 67, 73-74
effects/dialogue 133; fishing 175; lighting 40, 42
innocence 53; inter-cutting 50, 51; Lightyear, Buzz 87
metaphor 171-80; mind-mapping 29; lists 13, 32-33
montage 40; mood and setting 55; persona Lonhey, Pascal 22
82-83; running imagery 171-80; similar or Luhrman, Baz 91
identical 132; stories 28; subtext 188-90; Lynch, David 133
symbolism 172; Two Sharp 31,48
imagination 42,48, 80 MacRury, Malcolm 16
Impro (Johnstone) 80 magical elements 24, 33
Impro for Storytellers (Johnstone) 80 Malick. Terence 43
improvisation 67, 80-81 Mamet, David 46. 90
index cards 33, 35 manipulation, subterfuge 182
Inspector Morse 102 mannerisms 101-2
inspiration 74, 209 The Man Without A Face (MacRury) 16
instinct, writer’s 37 Martin, Troy Kennedy 13
intent, conveying 115; scenes 133 The Matrix 196
inter-cutting 40-41, 50, 51 Mayor. Ian 184-88
interactions 58, 61-62, 78-80 McKee, Robert 10-11, 27-28, 198
interior processes 43-44 McKellen, Ian 91
intuition 36 McMurtry, Larry 170
invention 141 McQuarrie, Christopher 23
 Index 217

meaning: deeper level of 37-38: proverbial Nurse Betty (Richards and Flamberg) 136-39
27; stories 26, 27: subtext 190, 196:
symbolism 166; and theme 26-28; Two obscenities 94
Sharp 37 On Camera (Watts) 39
melodrama 20, 61 On Death and Dying (Kiibler-Ross) 68
Melville, Herman 153, 155, 175 On Directing Film (Mamet) 46, 90
Meresco. Robert 176-77 Ondaatje, Michael 103, 190-94
metaphor 159-80: and audience 168: One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest 196
Brokeback Mountain, Storv to Screenplay One Foot in the Crave (Renvvick) 102
170-71; Crash 176-77; defined 160; Only Fools and Horses (Sullivan) 84
Driving Miss Daisy 169-70; 'The The Orchid Thief ('Orlean) 144
Greenhouse Effect' 160-66; images originality 11; drive to be original 12-13:
171-80; literal/symbolic level 166. 168; radio plays 210; striving too hard for 18
M y Life As A Dog 168-69. 172; and subtext Orlean, Susan 144
181,184-86 Orpheus theme 27
mind-mapping 29,30, 32 Ossana, Diana 143, 170
Minghella, Anthony 70. 103. 190-94 Our Friends in the North (Flannery) 199;
The Miracle Worker (Gibson) 16 format 39; inspiration for 209; moral
Moby Dick (Melville) 153,155, 175 standpoint 206: storyline 198, 200-205
moments 26.107; see also key moments outlines, planning 33
monologues 78 over-explaining 94-95
montage 40, 46, 57
mood 53-60: adaptation 154; building 53-60; pace 132-33, 139
scenes 133; visual impact 53; writers 44; Parker, Philip 10, 27
see also atmosphere parody 84
moral standpoint, scriptwriting 207 pathos/comedy 125
morality plays 88 Patriot Games (Iliff and Stewart) 8-9, 10, 17
Moritz, Charlie see Two Sharp (Moritz) The Pawnbroker (Friedkin and Fine) 21, 92
Morrow, Barry 16 Pearce, Craig 91
Mortimer, John 43 persona, characters 82-83
motivation 184, 188 The Piano (Campion) 92
multi-camera recording 38, 62 Pinnochio image 180
Murray, Rebecca 144 place, unity of 2; see also settings
music 53, 133 planning: alternatives 31-32, 35-37; changes
My Left Fool (Sheridan) 16. 54-56,55 made 121; originality 18; plots 13: scene-
My Life Av A Dog (I lallstrom) 21,168-69, by-scene breakdown 34—35; scriptwriting
172 116; step-outline 34-35; stories 33-34.
mythic elements 27, 167 130; synopsis 33-34; see also stories;
subtext
names: characters 39, 40,41, 74, 85: dialogue plots: alternatives 35-37; and characters
99 66-67; coincidences 24: conflict 31-32;
narcissism 206 multiple 50; predetermined, character
narrative see stories manipulation 66: scenes 107; seven basic
narrative framing 22. 36 27; story telling 13-14
naturalism 19, 20, 24; and archetypical Poetics (Aristotle) 2, 57-58, 150
69-70: dialogue 89: see also realism poetry 209
Neighbours 133 Polanski, Roman 18
Network (Chayefsky) 135 Poliakoff, Stephen 188-90
newsheet scenes, dialogue 95-96 ‘Polonius syndrome* 10
Nobbs, David 19-20 predictability 17-18
notes: characters 74, 75, 76, 79; scriptwriting present tense, screenwriting 42, 47
32-33 Pride and Prejudice (Davies) 143
novelisation. avoiding 43^14,47 probability 18-19
numbering of scenes 42 prose, and drama 43,44
218 Index

protagonism: reactions 66; serial drama 108; Scott. Allen 22. 152.153
shared 15; transferred 15-16 screenplays: commencing writing of 3^t, 7;
Proulx, E. Annie 170 dialogue 48; dreaming 48; formats 38-39;
proverbial meanings 27, 167 limitations 42^3; from radio plays 91;
Psycho (Stefano) 14, 142 reading 208; shots 57; structure 33; visual
impact 89; watching/studying 139, 208;
radio plays 91; originality 210; see also film; soap operas; stage plays;
watching/studying 208 television drama
Rain Man (Bass and Morrow) 16 screenwriting: form and content, balance
Ramis, Harold 25 between 64; present tense 42,47; stage
reaction 66. 79,95, 117 plays 90-91, 109; style 38—39; see also
realism; in drama 208; metaphor 180; social scriptwriting
84,103; see also naturalism Scripting for the New A V Technologies
Red Alert (George) 102 (Swain, Dwight and Joye) 39
rehearsal time 115. 206 scripts: clarity 25; director 45; directors 56;
Renwick. David 102 interpretation 45, 56; page numbers 42;
repetition 25. 95 working documents 40
resolution of plot 13 scriptwriting: action 41; colour and precision
resonance 132. 167 47; courses 209; description 44-45, 56-57;
Return to Me (Hunt and Lake) 24 dialogue 41,48; first principles 1-28; lists
reversals 17-18 13, 32-33; notes 32-33; stories 1-2;
revision 105, 206 treatment 34; upper case, characters’ names
rhythm: characters 103; dialogue. 103-5; in 40, 41; see also screenwriting
sequences 128 Secrets and Lies (Leigh) 73-74
Richard III (Shakespeare) 91 self-criticism 7. 18, 26, 105, 120-21
Richards. John C. 136-39 self-expression 210
The Rise and Fall of Reginald Perrin (Nobbs) Sellers, Peter 102
19-20 sequences: rhythm 128; scenes 67, 107,
Robin. Danny 25 121-27
Roeg. Nicolas 153 settings: availability 128; conflict 8-10; and
role, character 82,85 design 44; mood 53-60
Romeo and Juliet (Shakespeare) 91 The Seven Basic Plots (Booker) 27
Romeo and Juliet theme 27 Shackleford, Frankie 145-52
Rose. Reginald 3 Shaffer, Anthony 3
Rule of the Three Unities 2. 3, 20 Shakespeare, William 103; Hamlet 10;
Richard III 91; Romeo and Juliet 91
Saxon, Edward 144 Shallow Grave (Hodge) 12.41,103-5
scene-by-scene breakdown 34-35; Sheridan, Jim 16, 51-53, 54-56, 132-33
complexity 18 Shooting the Past (Poliakoff) 188-90
Scene by Scene interview 92 shots: assembling 50; close-up 45, 53, 58. 64;
scenes: abbreviations used 39-40; adaptation contrasts 53; conventions 57; directors 45,
see adaptation; alternatives 116-20; 57; montage 46; paragraphing 57;
avoiding writing look of 63-65; screenplays 57; script conventions 40;
beginnings/endings 109,130; building uninflected 46
109-10; changes 116-17; characters si lence 79, 91, 92; in soap operas 114
117-18, 128; cuts between 109; headlines similarity 130-39; action 131; dialogue 131;
39^0,42. 109. 110; heart of 109; differences 134; images 132; pace 132-33;
individual run of 122-27; key moments resonance 132; subject matter 132
109, 134; location 118; logistics 42; Simpson, Alan 102
newssheet 95-96; numbering 42; planning single-camera shooting 38, 39
34-35; plots 107; sequences 67, 107, Skip To The End (Wright) 196
121-27; similarity 130-39; in soap operas slapstick comedy 24
see soap operas; storylines 116; structure Sleuth (Shaffer) 3
108-9; subtext 190-94 slow-motion 23, 53
 Index 219

Smallacombe. Patrea 39. 111-16 level of skill 28; visualising 141; weaving
Smith, Joanna 160-66. 180 of strands 121, 122. 127-30; see also
soap operas: action 119-20; authenticity 110; plots; storylines; subtext
characters 117-18; climax 110; emotion story-logic 18-19
108; episodes 107. 108. 109-10, 124; key Story (McKee) 10-11
moments 108, 114, 127; newssheet scenes, storylines: logistics 128; scenes 116; soap
dialogue 95-96; and originality 210; operas 109-10
realism, lack of 208; settings 118-19; studio recording 62
visual impact 116; weaving of strands 121, sub-genres 10, 28
122, 127-30; see also Brookside\ sub-plots 14, 107
Coronation Street subject matter 93; similarity 132
social realism 84, 103 subterfuge 182
Some Mother's Son (George and Sheridan) subtext 181-96; images 188-90; meaning
51-53.65, 132-33, 139 190, 196; and metaphor 181. 184-86;
The Sopranos (Chase) 133 scenes 190-94
sound effects 133-34 support groups, screenwriting 80. 209
soundtrack 133 surprise 17-18, 25
Southern, Terry 102 surrealism 18
Spaced (Pegg and Stevenson) 195, 196 suspense 14-15. 143
speech/action 89; see also dialogue Swain, Dwight V. 39
split-page television drama format 39 symbolism: coincidences 24; images 172;
stage plays: audience 90; films from 3.91; metaphor 166, 168
screenwriting 90-91, 109; synopsis 33-34
watching/studying 208; see also television
drama Talking Heads (Bennett) 78
Stand By Me (Gideon and Evans) 43 television drama: close-up shots 45, 53, 58,
Star Wars 82 64. 210; dialogue 40; feelings of characters
Stefano, Joseph 14, 142 115; and lilm 133, 209-10; formats 38-39.
Steiger. Rod 92 40,41; schedules 115; soundtrack 133; and
step editing 23 stage plays 91; visual impact 48; see also
step-outline 34-35 drama: soap operas
Steptoe and Son (Galton and Simpson) 102 tension: narrative 14-15, 110; Some Mother's
stereotypes, characters 82 Son 53
Stewart, Donald 8-9, 10, 17 theatre see stage plays
stillness 79,92 theme 26-28, 53, 133, 206-7
stooges, characters 96-97 Thomson, David 141
stories 1-2; action 3; adaptation see thought/action 43
adaptation; alternatives 31-32; ambiguity thoughts, voiced-over 134
25; antagonism 16; archetypes 10; cause time 20-23; disrupted 22; drama 20; linear
and effect, story telling 64; characters 64. 22; scenes 20—21; speeding up/slowing
66; circularity 36; coincidences 23; down 23, 53; unity of 2, 20
component parts 12, 29-31, 32,48, 108; time-travelling see flash-backs; flash-forward
drama 11; dreaming 11, 30-31; endings 26, Titanic (Cameron) 21, 36
35-37; ideas 29-31; irony 16-17; leap tone: comedy 102; dialogue 102; differences
frogging 50; logicality 18-19; meaning 26, 136-39; similarity 132-33
37-38; news 209; planning 33-34, 130; Topel. Fred 144
plot 13-14; probability 18-19; protagonism Toto The Hero (van Dormael,
15-16,66, 108; repetition 25; reversals Vankeerberghen, I .onhey and DeNeck) 22
17-18; self-interrogation, story telling 26; Toy Story 2 (Lasseter) 87
short 209; soap operas 107; within stories treatment 34
130; story triangle 11; sub-plots 14; Tristan theme 27
surprise 17-18; suspense 14—15, 25; theme Truly, Madly, Deeply (Minghella) 68-69, 72
26-28; time 20-23; turning points 17-18. Tucker, Joe: adaptations by 149-52, 153, 154,
115; types 10-12, 26-27; unconscious 157, 175; Brokehack Mountain 170
220 Index

turning points 17-18. 115 Vogler. Christopher 69. 82

Twelve Angry Men (Rose) 3 voice for scriptwriting 105
24 (television drama) 2. 3 voice-over 40.43, 95; thoughts 134
Twin Peaks (Frost and Lynch) 133 vulnerability 16
Two Men and a Wardrobe (Polanski) 18
Two Sharp (Moritz) 4—7, 9-10, 13: dialogue Wallant, Edward 21
89: format and writing style 39: images 31, Watts, Harris 39
48: imaginative impulse 159; impulse 28: Waugh, Evelyn 43
mind-mapping 29; title 37 ‘what-if’-ness 26. 31-32,36
2001 (Kubrick and Clarke) 20 wish-fulfilment 24
typographical conventions 40-41 withholding information 93, 182
wounded hero 16
Uhry, Alfred 169-70 Wright, Edgar 196
unities of time, place and action 2, 3. 20 writers: comedy 210: confidence, developing
The Usual Suspects (McQuarrie) 23 209; directors 63. 64; emotion, conveying
115; gaps and problems, attending to 70; as
Vankeerberghen, Laurette 22 individuals 115—16; instincts 37;
visual impact: dialogue 57-60; film 48; responsibility of 26; story tellers 11,63-64;
improvisation 80-81; screenplays 89; soap visual impact 64; see also screenwriting;
operas 116; stories 31; television drama 48: scriptwriting
writers 64 The Writer’s Journey (Vogler) 69, 82
visualisation 48-65; building mood and Writing the Character Centred Screenplay
setting 53-60; drama, dialogue-heavy (Horton) 36
57-60; look of scene 63-65; overall
dynamic 61-62; shots 57