Why Does the Screenwriter Cross the Road?. Joe Gilford
where does this so-called “story” come from? Here’s my answer:
Character = Story
That’s what this book is about. After years of writing and teaching I have come upon an approach that I feel works for many writers, including me. It has also served me well as a teacher of hundreds of students including those at NYU’s Undergraduate Film Program.
Create a central character who plays in great scenes and has a lot of problems to face — actively — and you’ve got yourself a movie.
These principles are the launching pad for your story. What your character does or doesn’t do moves the story. Your story doesn’t do anything without your main character being affected. But remember, you’re not writing material to be read or enjoyed in people’s minds while they’re curled up on the sofa. You’re writing material that is created to be performed.
If great scripts and stories were plentiful, then you wouldn’t be reading this and there would be one hundred contenders for the Best Picture Oscar every year, not just nine. In fact, if things were different, we would almost never complain about seeing bad movies, sitting through boring plays, or reading lousy novels.
You wouldn’t struggle for months or years writing a script, it would just tumble out of your brain like your grocery list. In fact, there would be no need for story departments, script development, and no one would need to read a script before it gets produced — there would be no rewrites! What a world that would be! We could get out the crew and the equipment and just make a movie.
But that’s not the way it is.
The great Hungarian émigré producer Alexander Korda fled Nazi Germany penniless (with his Duesenberg limo, a chauffeur, and a valet), landed in England, and single-handedly created the British film industry. He had a famous sign hanging behind his desk that read: “It is not enough to be Hungarian — one must also have a good Second Act!”
Even Lars von Trier uses traditional structure in his films, as do David Lynch and Jim Jarmusch. They just do it in their own special ways.
Let’s remember, a script is a naked, unadorned blueprint of a filmed screen story. It will be looked at, combed over, debated, hated, loved, and microscopically analyzed by about a hundred people before it gets produced and that’s if you’re on the fast track.
Unlike a novel or a ballet, it will enjoy the comments of these hundred people; their whims and opinions. And because they are paid to do it, they will make you change it. And if you can’t (or won’t) change it, they will hire somebody else who will. Let’s not forget the generic name of your beloved script, the yield of years of labor, blood, sweat, and tears; your “baby.” Industry big shots traditionally call it “The Property.” And just like a piece of real estate, once it’s got a new owner, that person can do anything they want from repainting the bedroom to gutting the kitchen. But I’m not saying you shouldn’t be attached to it. Just know what’s ahead of you.
You can’t hide anything in a script like you can in a novel. Everything in your script is liable to cost some money. It’s like the plans for a house, with each separate contractor asking, “What’s this?” A movie script is scrutinized for quality, clarity, and cost as much as a fast-breaking news story is scanned for its accuracy. You can run, but you can’t hide.
If there’s something flimsy or questionable in your story, you will inevitably be exposed. If you’re lucky, it happens before you start shooting. If you’re not lucky, the audience will let you know in their own wonderfully ruthless way. If the owner — the studio, the network, or any producer — chooses to ignore a flaw in your story, don’t think you’ve gotten away with something. They will pay in the end and they will blame the writer.
Ultimately, the audience will catch you and that’ll be that. “I didn’t believe he would go out with her, did you?” “How was he able to get that job so easily?” or “Can you actually obtain explosives by regular mail?” and hundreds of other comments that can doom a movie’s credibility.
Movies, despite their belonging to what we call “popular culture,” are thoughtful, deliberate, carefully arranged works of art. But they aren’t like opera or classical music. They’re more like good rock’n’roll; a folk art, but they are still important to our cultural and spiritual nourishment. Everybody loves the movies.
Your script will be read by an agent, sent to the story person at a film company, looked at by producers, directors, production designers, financiers, insurance actuaries, actors’ managers, actors’ personal story staff, the director’s spouse — the list is very long. But the people I prefer to sell to, the people who I believe are the ones who decide if a picture gets made, are not the producer, the director, or the development person. I am writing my script for the person whose face gets blown up to the size of a billboard and is the last person to handle it as an artist. This person is the one whose face is up there and whose ass is on the playing field: the actor.
Along the way I will familiarize you with what we’ll call the moving parts of your story. These parts are the things you cannot do without if you want to tell a good story.
If you were building a car, you’d need wheels, an engine, and a strong frame. If you were building a chair, it must be something people can sit in. However, isn’t it amazing how many different kinds of chairs there are in this world? So you can be original. But these moving parts cannot be excluded. People need to be comfortable sitting in your chair.
I will make another promise:
You get to keep everything in your story. Every crazy idea and wonderful quirky moment you want —
. . . but it has to work.
I call this putting it in the box. Don’t get turned off. You will get to keep everything you’ve imagined in your script — but you have to “put it in the box.” This script still has to turn out to be a recognizable story. It’s a chair we can comfortably sit in or a car we can dependably and safely drive. I hope to give you an understanding of the true function of the characters, acts, scenes and scene structure, action, the beats (quanta of action), types of characters, the climax, what goes where — all that stuff.
Imagine your script as a wristwatch. It’s a collection of all these unique moving parts, yet they are all working together to create a single experience — to tell the time. Your screenplay will be made up of different parts all unified in a single purpose — to tell the story.
My writing methods are pretty simple:
• Write everything . . .
• Write a lot . . .
• Make it into something . . .
• . . . and then rewrite it!
I want you to throw your clay onto the wheel and get going. I don’t want you to justify yourself. That can get very depressing. It’s the process of self-judging that’s stopped many a story from being told.
You’re going to stop sucking the wind out of your sails by pitching your idea at Starbuck’s to your best friend who has no intention of supporting your effort. You’re going to be discreet, professional, and, yes, thoughtful about your project. You’re going to give yourself and your work the respect you both deserve.
You’re most likely going to wind up stifling yourself if you sit down and ask yourself, “What’s my story about?” That’s a real buzz kill. Rather than interrogate yourself, I want you to tell yourself what you already know:
“There’s this guy/gal and he/she is walking along one day and then — they are thrust into something that is really different and necessitates some kind of change.” That’s your idea; your pitch.
The rest is not so easy — but now, at least, you’ve opened the door. You with me? Let’s get to it.
Chapter 1
FILM IS NOT A VISUAL MEDIUM
So