by Jim Mercurio
In The Interpreter, after finding out that Silvia Broome’s (Nicole Kidman) brother has been killed, FBI agent Tobin Keller (Sean Penn) breaks the news to her. He delivers her brother’s belongings, including a letter addressed to her. Assuming the filmmakers want the audience to know what’s in the letter and to experience her response, what are the pros and cons of the different ways to reveal the letter’s content?
It would be unmotivated to have her read it aloud. Even watching her read it to herself and discovering the content later would be better. A thirty-second insert shot of the letter is glaringly wrong. There would be two problems with having her brother read it in a voice-over. Not only do we not know his character, we leave one of the greatest actors of a generation (Penn) stranded with nothing to do.
The laconic Keller recently experienced a great loss himself, the death of his wife. It makes perfect sense to pull him into the fray. Broome asks him to read it to her, which is justified by her vulnerable state and the friendship that has grown between the two. This gives us the luxury of watching her pure, unadulterated reaction.
The filmmakers use his backstory to avoid a trite and overly familiar line such as, “I am sorry for your loss.” While reading the letter, he gets upset and almost breaks down. He rushes to finish and his final words run together: “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”
His emotional state becomes an obstacle that prevents him from communicating the simple sentiment. A moment later, he follows up with, “The second time was me,” meaning he read “I’m sorry” and then he himself said it, too. Not only do we find a way to create conflict, but we incorporate a surprising subtext. When in the history of cinema has a character expressed empathy for a grieving friend with “The second time was me”?
Talk as Action
In Frost/Nixon, journalist David Frost (Michael Sheen) has put his entire fortune on the line for a series of interviews with President Richard Nixon (Frank Langella). Although he and Nixon have agreed to spend only a small and predetermined amount of time discussing Watergate, in the first interview, Frost brings it up to surprise Nixon to try to catch him unprepared.
Nixon answers with a wordy story about the history of taping in the White House. Can answering with a long-winded story be dramatic? And is the information in the story necessary? And if not, does that make it dull exposition or, even worse, flat and static information that isn’t even integral to the context of the film? Here’s an excerpt from the scene:
Nixon and Frost focus in anticipation, two athletes waiting for the gun, then Davis cues Frost… “Go!”
FROST
Mr. President, we are going to be covering a lot of subjects in a great detail over the course of these interviews, but I’d like to begin completely out of context, by asking you one question, more than any other, almost every American and people all over the world want me to ask: “Why didn’t you burn the tapes?”
Nixon stiffens, as if he’d received an electric shock.
INT. NIXON TEAM OBSERVATION ROOM - DAY - (1977)
Brennan looks up. Under his breath…
BRENNAN
Sonofabitch…
INT. FROST TEAM OBSERVATION ROOM - DAY - (1977)
ZELNICK
(Under his breath)
God-damn-it…
The reaction shots of Brennan (Kevin Bacon) and Zelnick (Oliver Platt) clarify the context and intention. You should avoid writing scenes that feel like a Q&A; however, this scene is anything but. The question is powerful and dangerous.
Frost has limited time to spend on the topic, and if this surprise tactic doesn’t work, it’s more likely the show will become a failure. However, with millions of dollars and his career at risk, Frost has little to lose when compared to Nixon. The stakes for this former president extend beyond his mortal existence, to his figurative eternal life: his historical legacy. If he answers poorly or looks guilty, he taints the way every American, and every person in the world, remembers him for decades and centuries to come.
The two lines of action description that begin this next excerpt capture the sharp reversal from Nixon being momentarily stunned until he begins to take charge.
INT. SET - MONARCH BAY - DAY - (1977)
Nixon perceptibly flinches. Stares at Frost. Then, a barely perceptible flicker behind his eyes.
NIXON
Mr. Frost, I’m surprised by your question, since we have an agreement, a contractual agreement, I believe that we would cover Watergate in our last taping session. But if your viewers really do have a “major concern,” then perhaps I should briefly respond to it now.
Nixon crosses his legs. Sits back.
Nixon begins with what appears to be a fairly muted defense. He brings up the contract as a dig, but that is not going to be his overall tack. Ironically, he then states that he will give Frost “what he wants” but, of course, this is the setup for another surprise—that he is going to, in fact, give him exactly what he does not want, exhausting half the time preallotted to the subject while evading the question.
The action of Nixon crossing his legs and sitting back is a sign that he is comfortable, similar to the pauses taken by Cliff in the True Romance interrogation scene. We have the sense that Nixon is drawing Frost in and taking complete control of the situation.
NIXON
What probably very few people realize is that the taping system in the White House was set up by my predecessor President Johnson -- partly to avoid the necessity of having a secretary in every meeting, and partly to ensure there was a record kept of every verbal agreement -- no matter how off-the-cuff or casual. Initially on coming into the White House, I insisted on dismantling the system…
The meaning of this moment becomes clarified for the audience later in the scene when Reston (Sam Rockwell), watching on, provides a gentle reframe, “C’mon, David, shut him up! Change the line of attack.” In fact, the next part of the scene or short sequence is a great reframe that brings in an apt metaphor.
INT. BRENNAN’S OFFICE - SAN CLEMENTE - DAY - (1982)
Jack Brennan smiles in satisfaction…
BRENNAN
In boxing, there’s always the moment you see it in the challenger’s faces. The instant they feel the power of the champ’s first jab. A sickening moment when they realize all the pep talks, and the hype and the months of psyching themselves up has been delusional all along. You could see it in Frost’s face. If he hadn’t known the caliber of the man he was up against before the interview started, he knew it half way through that first answer.
This couches the scene in terms of a boxing match. The story of the scene plays out in clear-cut beats: Frost sucker punches, Nixon is stunned and evades, then he suddenly retaliates with a knockdown blow.
The brief history of taping is somewhat interesting, and it seems like an organic and on-point response to the question. But notice how the importance and subtext eliminate any concern that this is talky or static exposition. By staying “on topic” and cutting into the short time allotted for it, Nixon is crushing Frost at his own game.
Although the rhetoric here is incredibly integrated and focused, Nixon’s nonresponsive response tactic is a common situation that affords a writer the opportunity to deftly integrate even tangential information. In True Romance, Cliff used what he had learned about Coccotti—his Sicilian pride—to craft a story with racial epithets, which got under Coccotti’s skin, but that might not have been the only story he could have told that would have accomplished the same goal.
When the nature of the talk or the talk itself actually becomes the overall action, you have the luxury of leeway with the actual words. In these situations, you have an opportunity to plant almost any type of information as dialogue without the sense or feeling that you have strayed off-topic. This is your “get out of exposition free” card.
Get Out of Exposition Free
Annie Hall has a great moment in which Alvy (Woody Allen) neurotically avoids having sex with Allison (Carol Kane) by obsessi
ng over the Kennedy assassination. Here’s the first part of the scene before she calls him on it:
INT. APARTMENT BEDROOM.
Allison and Alvy are on the bed, kissing. There are books all over the room; a fireplace, unlit, along one of the walls. Alvy suddenly breaks away and sits on the edge of the bed. Allison looks at him.
ALVY
I’m, I’m sorry, I can’t go through with this, because it -- I can’t get it off my mind, Allison… it’s obsessing me!
ALLISON
Well, I’m getting tired of it. I need your attention.
Alvy gets up from the bed and starts walking restlessly around the room, gesturing with his hands.
ALVY
It -- but it -- it… doesn’t make any sense. He drove past the book depository and the police said conclusively that it was an exit wound. So -- how is it possible for Oswald to have fired from two angles at once? It doesn’t make sense.
Although Woody Allen made a really specific choice with the Kennedy assassination conspiracy, the details are not functioning as exposition in the story. The fact that he is talking at all in the moment is the real action. You could plug in almost any neurotic rant topic—his mother’s sciatica, his retirement fund, his hypochondria, or the price of their romantic dinner—and it would serve the beat of avoiding intimacy and sabotaging the moment.
Do you see how the Kennedy assassination discussion functions like a placeholder? The structure of the moment, of a character talking about a tangential topic to distract himself, gives you a free pass to wedge in whatever information you need. The beat is served and the conflict is already there, so we can fill the cartoon dialogue bubble with whatever we like.
Division of Information
A scene’s beats, the shifting choices characters make to pursue their immediate goal, are its primary source of momentum. However, by revealing or withholding information, or by changing the narrative point of view you, can drastically shift the tension and audience experience. Divvy out information carefully. Decide who knows what, and when (this applies to both your characters and the audience), and you can create conflict, variety, and surprise, which are the antithesis of exposition.
In the breakout box below, A-List Actor Clichés, you will see that it is often better to privilege a character with more information to decrease the amount of time spent passively receiving potentially dull facts in the scene.
That said, withholding information can also be used strategically to create conflict or to motivate a character. Earlier, we looked at the penultimate scene in How to Train Your Dragon, which created suspense by denying Hiccup several pieces of information. He doesn’t know about his injury or about the current state of relationship between his clan and dragons. The overriding factor in Hiccup’s perspective is his lack of information, which motivates him to struggle to orient himself.
Here is the beginning of the scene:
HICCUP, asleep, his head on a pillow. Healing scars on his face show that maybe a week or two have passed.
Toothless hovers over him, WHINING and GRUMBLING impatiently. Hiccup stirs. Opens his eyes.
In general, I like the way they reveal the information in stages. Without literally directing on the page, you get the sense of starting in a close-up and pulling back, gradually revealing more details. In addition to the visual clues that time has passed, they eventually clarify it with a bit of dialogue:
Toothless steps on his groin, causing Hiccup to sit BOLT UPRIGHT with a YELP.
He looks around, confounded. He’s in his bed, moved beside the fire pit on the main floor of his house.
HICCUP
I’m in my house.
(re: Toothless, leaning over him, excited)
You’re in my house.
Toothless TEARS around the room, knocking things over, far too big for the space.
HICCUP
Uh… does my dad know you’re in here?!
“I’m in my house.”
This could seem like on-the-nose writing, but it’s not. He is expressing concern while trying to orient himself.
“You’re in my house.”
He further tries to orient himself and is surprised because he doesn’t know the status of the relationship between dragons and his clan, and more specifically, Toothless and his father. Even if the audience doesn’t know it yet, and this line causes a moment of curiosity, the next line clarifies it.
“Uh… does my dad know you’re in here?!”
This is the setup for the big surprise at the end that the dragons are living harmoniously among the humans. It also establishes that he has been unconscious for a while, that he is unaware of the new equilibrium in the world, and that he now has a prosthetic foot, the discovery of which is the next beat in the scene.
Perspective
Whereas information was the most important factor in Hiccup’s perspective, a character’s perspective will oftentimes go beyond that, into character and characterization.
You can create tension, suspense, and conflict by creating clear contrast and distinction among the attitudes of the characters. Emphasize the variety in their perspectives, and push them to be more active in expressing them.
Avoid giving characters the exact same perspective in a scene, because it eliminates conflict. Let’s say you have a scene in which a teenager’s date arrives to pick her up. It alarms me when I read a line like this in a script that clumps together two separate reactions:
Her parents give a stern look of disapproval.
If they have the exact same reaction, why have them both in the scene? Is one of the characters redundant? This is probably lazy screenwriting. Even if the mother merely flashes a nasty look, causing the dad to look away passively, unwilling to cross her, we’ve learned something about their relationship.
Here is a quick excerpt from a scene in Die Hard, which efficiently distinguishes four separate points of view by systematically showing their reactions to the same event, in this case, an explosion:
ON HOSTAGE FLOOR
The hostages are shaken and the terrorists guarding them aren’t too sure of themselves either.
Only Hans is relatively calm.
ANGLE ON HOLLY - SHE COMFORTS GINNY.
The hostages’ fearfulness contrasts with Hans’s calmness, and Holly has her own unique perspective that straddles theirs: heroically comforting her coworkers.
To clump the hostages together as a single perspective is a conscious strategy. However, if you make this choice, you relegate the “clumped together” characters essentially to one role. If you introduce them as one entity, you probably shouldn’t later try to establish individual hostages with distinct personalities.
You control how and when you parcel out information to the characters. Sometimes, two characters begin with the same information but one character subsequently learns more or is smarter and figures out some key detail. That can facilitate a change in the dynamic of the scene, allowing for more variety, conflict, and/or suspense.
Scene Analysis:
Tin Cup
In Tin Cup, the protagonist, Roy McAvoy, whose nickname is “Tin Cup” (Kevin Costner), makes a $1,000 bet with Simms (Don Johnson) to see who can hit a golf ball farther. Simms is a rival on the golf course and in the romance subplot, in which Tin Cup is pursuing his girlfriend, Molly (Rene Russo). Tin Cup and Simms are both confident about the competition for different reasons, as we will see.
The filmmakers use the conscious strategy of making the group of “Regulars” behave as a singular entity, not unlike the hostages in the Die Hard example, whose unwavering support of Tin Cup contrasts with Molly, who thinks both men are behaving immaturely. A reliable way to build and sustain conflict in your scene is to explore each character’s perspective and highlight how their points of view differ.
Too often, scenes that contain more than three or four characters will let a character fall by the wayside, with nothing for them to do through long parts of the scene. Once Molly has expressed her
complete lack of interest in the competition, the filmmakers make a smart choice. After her perspective is played out, she exits, stomping off in frustration.
Eventually, Tin Cup hits a long drive onto the practice range. The Regulars continue their support for him:
REGULARS
Nearly 230 with a seven! Pureed it, baby, he pureed it!
Tin Cup hands Simms the seven iron.
TIN CUP
Take a minute to limber up, fine with me --
SIMMS
Don’t need to.
Simms is still in a sport jacket, slacks, no golf shoes.
TIN CUP
Take your jacket off?
Notice that the last beat provides exposition to the audience about the physical prowess of golf, and it sets up the expectation that this contest will be determined by athleticism.
Tin Cup’s arrogance is what ironically allows him to promote a fair game. When Simms chooses to ignore the practical advice, foreshadowing that something is up, Tin Cup is concerned. He tries to steer things back toward the expectation of a fair fight:
TIN CUP
(cockily)
You’re gonna need to muscle up, big guy -- give it the old steroid jerk…
Simms is cool as ice.
He smiles, then moves around to the other side of the ball, suddenly facing away from the course. This baffles everyone.
The purpose of his action is not immediately clear. It creates suspense and intrigue before the ensuing surprise.
REGULARS
What the hell you doin’? Wha’s this?
Up until this point, everyone—Tin Cup, the audience, and the Regulars—all have the same amount of information and are confused. However, in the film itself, an important shift occurs. When Simms turns, Tin Cup’s body language changes as he begins to understand that something is amiss. Tin Cup figures out the con and hangs his head in defeat before Simms even swings. His epiphany is a form of discovery, a way to bring in new information when we need it.
And David Simms hits an effortless seven iron out toward the desert, onto the lonely highway…
