by Jim Mercurio
Let’s say we have a scene between THE HIPPY and THE MAN. It consists mostly of a page of bureaucratic drivel in which The Man justifies why he can’t give The Hippy a raise. So right now, we have a certain amount of story or “dramatic value” in the scene, and it takes up an entire page. If you want it to be one page of the scene, set the current story density to 1.
Now, imagine that halfway through the rigmarole, The Hippy interrupts The Man by completing his sentence word-for-word, suggesting that this is not the first time he has heard this rant. I would challenge you to make a cut like this without losing any of the overall dramatic or comedic punch. If there is a line you can’t live without, squeeze it into the first half of the speech.
If you gain nothing else, just by reducing the scene to half of its length, you have doubled the story density. A corollary to this is that if all things are equal, always choose the shorter version.
However, what’s really exciting and promising is that here, I don’t think things are equal. The new approach adds a lot. The Hippy’s interruption makes him more active and smarter because he more quickly understands the gist of the conversation. It reveals that he has heard The Man’s spiel before, and to call him on it creates conflict. So, in half the space, we have one, two, or three times as much “good stuff,” i.e., story. Our story density is two, four, or six times greater.
In general, the length of your story, or any unit thereof (scene, sequence, act), will dictate the magnitude of change necessary to support it. Even a great romantic comedy doesn’t need to be as long as Lawrence of Arabia or The Godfather. Essentially the scope of change—epiphany of theme, character arc, emotional range of the story—should increase as the acts and page count of your story grow. At the scene level, this means that a longer scene should generally have higher stakes and cover more story than a shorter one.
Structure
You can prevent a long scene from becoming stagnant by paying a little more attention to the scene structure. Treat each scene as its own story. You can build in clear turning points—almost like mini-act-breaks, where the stakes rise, or where another drastic change, like a shift in point of view or perspective, occurs.
The 5.5-page scene from Good Will Hunting in which Sean meets Will has several “movements” that add visual variety. Notice that the number of characters in the scene changes four times during the scene’s several phases.
Location
The establishing shot of the campus at Bunker Hill gathers immediate meaning when bolstered by a quick shot of Will descending a tall flight of stairs to get to Sean’s office. A bunker is a safe place, but it’s also a place where you retreat to from traumatic danger.
Sean has relegated himself to the basement, which is a bunker of sorts. However, the image also subtly suggests depth and groundedness. In dreams, finding oneself underground suggests delving into the subconscious.
Setup
Lambeau (Stellan Skarsgard) warns Sean that Will is smart and will use any vulnerability against him. He gives advice to Sean, “Don’t let him see what you got.” Will comes in with the same sarcastic attitude (“Let the healing begin”), but Sean immediately contrasts himself with the other therapists. He protects his and Will’s privacy by clearing the room before he starts.
SEAN
Would you excuse us?
LAMBEAU
Tom.
SEAN
You too, Gerry.
Lambeau looks at Sean, surprised. Sean’s stare is unwavering.
After an awkward moment, Lambeau goes, leaving Sean and Will alone.
Brunt of Scene
Instead of abiding by Lambeau’s advice of secrecy and deception, Sean does the exact opposite. Sean’s disarms Will and connects with him with blunt honesty.
Although Lambeau’s insight about how Sean should approach the session was dead wrong, he was correct about how Will approached it. As Lambeau warned, Will does look for any vulnerability. Whenever he is uncomfortable, he gets up from the chair and roams around and uses the items in the room—the books, photos, and painting—to try, as the reframe allows us to understand, to find something to use against Sean.
Will stumbles upon what does eventually get under his skin when he insults his dead wife: “That’s it, you married the wrong woman.” Sean slams him against the wall. The two South Boston Townies bond in a way only they can. The character relationships change. Will quips, “Time’s up,” and leaves.
Final Story Question
One last question remains. Alone, a sullen Sean contemplates his reaction. After the downward dip in the scene and relationship resulting from their violent confrontation, there is an upswing as Sean’s surprising choice answers the final story question. Lambeau reenters the scene:
A pause, Sean is staring at his painting.
LAMBEAU
I’ll understand if you don’t want to meet with him again.
SEAN
Thursday, four o’clock. Make sure the kid is here.
In the long and audacious interrogation from True Romance, written by Quentin Tarantino and directed by Tony Scott, which we explored in Chapter 1, “The Story of a Scene,” the scene provides a midpoint just like one you would find in the middle of your screenplay. When Cliff asks for a Chesterfield, it’s a dying man’s last wish, whose prominence is accentuated by the “holy” light and angelic music. This momentary respite allows us to get our bearings as Cliff makes the tragic shift from wanting to live to fighting to die.
Tarantino does something similar in a movie that he both wrote and directed, Inglourious Basterds. In the opening scene, Landa the Jew Hunter interrogates French farmer Perrier (Denis Menochet) about whether he is harboring Jews. The scene allows a casual back-and-forth that does not seem to be concerned with the time constraints of commercial cinema.
About halfway through the interrogation, Tarantino shows Shosanna’s family hiding under the floorboards. This revelation completely transforms the viewer’s experience of the rest of the scene.
You can create suspense or anticipation by allowing the viewer to get slightly ahead of some or all of the characters. We call it dramatic irony when the audience knows something that some characters do not.
Dramatic Irony
A simple example of dramatic irony can be seen in the climactic chase scene of Mission: Impossible. Jim Phelps (Jon Voight) is on the roof of a train climbing toward the back to rendezvous with a helicopter to make his escape. For a short stint, we know that Jim is being chased by Ethan Hunt (Tom Cruise), but Jim does not. The dramatic irony plays out for a moment, but then the filmmakers cleverly use the details of the physical environment to create a new sense of urgency. Ethan’s tie blows off and whips away from him and past Jim, causing him to discover what the audience already knows, that he is being pursued.
Alfred Hitchcock, the master of suspense, put forth a classic example of dramatic irony. In his scene, characters are sitting at a table having a dull chat about baseball. He said, however, that if you were to show the audience that a bomb is under the table, set to detonate in five minutes, you would significantly change their experience of the otherwise dull conversation.
After the midpoint reveal of the hidden family in the opening of Inglourious Basterds, we then experience the scene from the privilege of dramatic irony, anxious that Landa might either discover the presence of the family or that the farmer might decide to give them up to protect his own family. Although this moment seems like a textbook example of the scenario Hitchcock described, the scene has a few tricks up its sleeve.
First, Landa approaches the interaction with a quiet and surprisingly polite manner. Despite his overly polite demeanor, Landa reveals himself to be a cunning adversary as he destroys the farmer’s will.
Early in the scene, Landa asks Perrier if he can speak English, and it seems like merely a silly character quirk. However, its payoff displays a sadistic predator who enjoys toying with his prey and opponents. They are speaking English here and noti
ce that the only word from the farmer’s mouth is yes.
COL LANDA
You are sheltering enemies of the state, are you not?
PERRIER
Yes.
COL LANDA
You’re sheltering them underneath your floorboards, aren’t you?
PERRIER
Yes.
COL LANDA
Point out to me the areas where they’re hiding.
The farmer points out the areas on the floor where the Dreyfuses are underneath.
COL LANDA
Since I haven’t heard any disturbance, I assume that while they are listening, they don’t speak English.
PERRIER
Yes.
COL LANDA
I’m going to switch back to French now, and I want you to follow my masquerade -- is that clear?
PERRIER
Yes.
Landa’s silly insistence on speaking English had a sinister motivation, and his actions were carefully orchestrated all along. The filmmaker pulls the rug out from under us by revealing that Landa knew all along that the family was there. The dramatic irony we experienced was an illusion, created by the filmmaker’s sleight of hand. However, we can’t “unfeel” its effect on us.
Mystery versus Suspense
Hitchcock described the difference between mystery and suspense. In mystery, we are aligned with the point of view of a character or characters. Our knowledge of a situation is incomplete. If a character is hunting a killer and has six doors to open to explore, the mystery to the audience is which door will reveal the surprise.
Alternatively, the audience could be shown the room in which the killer hides. This new information privileges the audience and creates suspense. The audience experiences suspense and anticipation while waiting for what they know is going to happen.
In Prometheus, when Shaw (Noomi Rapace) realizes an alien form is growing inside of her, she runs to the Med-Pod to have it extracted. The filmmakers make a clear decision to clarify what is about to happen by forcing the character to spell out the procedure step-by-step. They choose suspense and allow the audience time to conjure the image in their head of what they are about to see.
Its screen fills with MENU ITEMS. Too long to LIST. Shaw finds and touches a RED BUTTON labeled EMERGENCY.
Now, the AUTOMATED VOICE OF THE MED POD CALMLY RESPONDS --
AUTOMATED VOICE
Emergency procedures initiated. Please verbally state the nature of your injury.
SHAW
I… need a Caesarean.
AUTOMATED VOICE
Error. This Med-Pod is calibrated for male patients only and does not offer the procedure you have requested. Please seek medical assistance elsewh
SHAW
DAMMIT!!!
The contrast of the “calm” voice of the Med-Pod accentuates her frenzied state. The filmmakers are making it hard for her. In the heat of the moment, the fact that the machine treats only men actually slips in some exposition and foreshadowing as conflict. A moment later in the scene:
Shaw doubles over -- one hand clutching her stomach, the other TAPPING OPTIONS ON THE MENU -- we see them SCROLL BY AS SHE SELECTS:
SURGERY… EXPLORATORY… ABDOMINAL… PENETRATING INJURIES… FOREIGN BODY… INITIATE
The instructions themselves tell a story. Strung together, they start with mystery and end with clarity. The filmmakers dole out the information in a way that continuously engages the audience.
Narrative Point of View
Playing with narrative point of view can create variety or escalation, allowing a scene to sustain ongoing interest. Let’s apply this to our scene with The Hippy and the Man. One way to navigate through the scene would be to consider shifting, at some point in the scene, from an objective point of view to a subjective one.
An objective point of view is where the camera seems to capture the scene from the perspective of a neutral observer. The image isn’t weighted emotionally toward the experience of one character over another.
A subjective point of view does not refer to a point-of-view shot in which the camera represents the literal vision of the character but rather an approach in which the scene elicits the same emotion in the audience that the character is feeling, such as writing a fight scene in staccato and violent bursts of action description.
In our scene, somewhere during The Man’s long-winded diatribe, there could be close-ups or a series of them that show, say, The Hippy’s face turning red, beads of sweat on his brow, the flaring of his nostrils, or him clenching his fist.
Even if the duration of the scene stays the same, you have increased the story density. You could even increase it more if you eliminate words by describing how they wane in the distance or with an elliptical and cryptic style:
THE MAN
Do you know what’s happening at the company right now? Three times a week I have to redo your report in triplicate…
A DRONING SOUND begins to drown out The Man’s words. Hippy bites his lip, his face flushes.
THE MAN
… the work of three people… cutting back in Sacramento, Fargo, Tucson… Monkey on my back, too…
Hippy clenches his fist. The DRONE SOUND takes over. Bureaucrat gesticulates and his mouth flaps… without sound.
This gives the audience a more specific emotional experience and aligns the reader or viewer with The Hippy, and it’s also more visual.
If you character is under the influence of alcohol, drugs, or medicine, once again, you can use a point-of-view shot that shows what it feels like to see the world while in a drunken stupor. However, you can also have fun by using prose and images that mirror a character’s disorientation.
In the adaptation of Requiem for a Dream, Sara (Ellen Burstyn) overdoses on her weight-loss amphetamines, inducing amphetamine psychosis. Without any camera techniques, transitions, or explanation, the film allows us to see the world through her eyes:
INT. SARA’S APARTMENT
Sara sits in her chair trying to watch TV.
But she can’t concentrate. The kitchen clock ticks terribly slowly. So does her Timex.
Everywhere she looks in the room steaming hot food appears.
Over there, by her plants, is a bacon double cheeseburger.
Then over there, by the lamp, is a chocolate-covered eclair.
She grabs a glass of water and downs it.
She turns to the fridge. It shudders at her. She screams at it:
SARA
Shut up!
Rule #2: Avoid Overly Talky Scenes
The challenge with dialogue-heavy scenes, especially long ones, is that you don’t want your talk to be just talk. Remember, words are not just words. They are one of the potential means through which a scene’s conflict can play out. In the opening scene of The Social Network, Mark declares that it’s an objective fact that his girlfriend, Erica, goes to Boston University. Later in the scene, these same words become an attack:
ERICA
I have to go study.
MARK
You don’t have to study.
ERICA
Why do you keep saying I don’t have to study?!
MARK
Because you go to B.U.!
ERICA stares at him…
Notice how his last line, supposedly a simple statement of fact, becomes a bludgeoning weapon.
Don’t fall in love with your words just because they are words. Make sure they are in service of your story.
Let’s look at a few common features of dialogue-heavy scenes.
Rhetoric
One of the most common types of long scenes is when characters use rhetoric or storytelling in their dialogue. Many monologues and diatribes incorporate a self-contained story such as Quint’s (Robert Shaw) Indianapolis speech in Jaws or in Good Will Hunting, when Will quotes a textbook to show up the Harvard snob Clark as unoriginal.
In The Edge, written by David Mamet, Morse (Anthony Hopkins), a detached billionaire, becomes stranded in t
he wilderness with a photographer, Green (Alec Baldwin), who is not only having an affair with his wife but is planning to kill him. However, when a Kodiak bear kills one of their companions and gets a taste for humans, it begins to stalk them, which forces them to, at least for the moment, ally with each other.
In a nice reversal of expectations, the stuffy bookworm Morse becomes a man of action, and his nemesis, Green, who had planned to murder him, devolves into a character whose specific flaw is inaction. Morse determines that, together, they can kill the bear. But when Green wallows in self-pity, Morse challenges him to think about how to make fire from ice.
MORSE
Did you know you can make Fire from ice…?
Green shakes his head, dejected, meaning “Not now…”
MORSE
You can make fire from ice. Hello? I’m talking to you… Do you know how that would be done? (PAUSE) Robert? (PAUSE) Robert. Can you think?
GREEN
You Yankees. Isn’t it…? Isn’t it?
MORSE
Fire from ice, can you think how?
GREEN
Sit up there… drinks and golf. Screwing the maid (PAUSE) but get you in an emergency…
MORSE
… that’s right.
GREEN
N’you bloom. You make me sick. You make me sick, d’you know that…?
MORSE
I’m sure that I do.
GREEN
You make me sick. What the hell puts you off… Jews and Public Speaking, I’d bet.
MORSE
Fire from ice. Can you think how? Can you think how?
GREEN
I don’t care how, Charles.
MORSE
Do you want to die?
Here, Mamet’s words themselves aren’t the point. Although the story might be interesting, ultimately, its details are irrelevant. The relentless and repetitive barrage of antagonism becomes the beat itself. He challenges Green to step up and fight for his life. Morse’s demand for an answer is the “push.” This might be one of the reasons actors often deliver Mamet’s lines in a staccato rhythmic fashion. The saying of the words, not the words themselves, is the action.
Telling Jokes
Rhetoric includes telling jokes, which has its own set of challenges. Screenwriters must be cautious when including a quotation or joke in a story that is not their own. It’s not an issue of copyright but rather creativity.
