by Ben Brady
Not all the sample material we quote will consist only of one self-contained scene, as in Part One where we wanted to keep things as simple as possible. It is often convenient for the screenwriter to take advantage of the enormous flexibility of the camera to show brief sequences or miniscenes to give dramatic expression to material needed for major scenes. This is a significant difference from writing for the stage, in which the dependence on exposition within major scenes is necessarily greater and subjects a playwright to a constant pressure to justify yet more material emerging at each moment. The camera permits you to give a single shot of a troubled face, as in the start of Kramer vs. Kramer, or to offer brief snippets of action, as in the opening of Tootsie, to show literally in moments information or states of mind or emotion that would require considerably more effort to establish otherwise. Screenplays have an immediacy and a fluidity we do not wish you to forget as you work on your own scenes. While each assignment requires you to write a major, self-contained scene, you may also find it right to use a few quick images to establish your material.
Remember you must include a brief premise for every scene that you write. For example, we might write the premise of the scene we quoted from The Godfather in Part One this way:
PREMISE. A man is prepared to give up his reliance on conventional paths of justice in order to get revenge for the beating of his daughter by appealing to the Mafia. This scene will also introduce us to how the Mafia, in the person of the Godfather, works.
6. Establishing Character and Conflict
Openings
No doubt you found your first scene something of a struggle. Don’t worry: each effort will help you to grow closer to fulfilling your own potential.
Perhaps you were too novelistic in your descriptions in the business? Did you try to tell us rather than reveal things about your character’s life we had no way of knowing? Remember, all we know in a screenplay is not what we read, but what we actually see and hear. Or maybe you were too vague when you created a character called, say, the OLD WOMAN? What kind of old woman was she? How was she dressed? Why was she where she was? What about motivation? Was there a reason for what happened? Or is it possible that nothing really happened? Don’t be frustrated. Beginning something isn’t as hard—or as easy—as you imagined. Let’s start over.
How do you begin? How do you establish a character and a conflict so that the audience is drawn in, held, and believes the happening you have created? Look at how the scenes covered in Part One swiftly draw us in. Start by going back to the short opening scene from The Godfather. Our analysis there emphasized how quickly Bonasera draws us in with his demand for justice over his daughter’s beating and how quickly he runs up against an obstacle, Don Corleone. It’s a contest, as every dramatic story has been since drama’s beginnings in Greece. No time is lost getting to the contest. We saw how fast Adrian displays discomfort with Rocky and how quickly Les’s determined flow prevents Michael-Dorothy from letting him down gently. These are real issues joined with speed.
Let’s take a close look at the opening sequence from John Huston’s classic The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.
FADE IN:
CLOSE-UP: LOTTERY LIST
SHOWING the winning numbers drawn in the MEXICAN NATIONAL LOTTERY, AUGUST 5, 1924. CAMERA PULLS BACK to INCLUDE DOBBS.
EXT. STREET—MEXICO (EST) DAY
Dobbs is slowly tearing a lottery ticket into bits. CAMERA DOLLIES AHEAD of him as he turns away from the list. The tribes of bootblacks that people the streets do not pester Dobbs. He is too obviously on his uppers. His clothes are ragged and dirty and his shoes broken. He hasn’t had a haircut in months and there is several days’ growth of beard on his face. He stops a passing AMERICAN.
DOBBS
Can you spare a dime, brother?
The American growls, moves on.
CLOSE-UP: THE BURNING CIGARETTE
in the gutter.
CLOSE SHOT: DOBBS
He moves a step towards the gutter, then halts and looks right and left to make sure no one is watching. This brief delay costs him the cigarette. One of the swarm of bootblacks swoops down on it. Dobbs pulls his belt in a couple of notches and continues on up the street. PULL BACK.
THE STREET
as CAMERA DOLLIES AHEAD. Something Dobbs sees OUT OF SCENE causes him to increase his pace. He catches up with an AMERICAN who is dressed in a white suit.
DOBBS
Brother, can you spare a dime?
White Suit fishes in his pocket, takes out a tostón and gives it to Dobbs who is so surprised by this act of generosity that he doesn’t even say thanks. For several moments he stands rooted looking at the coin in his palm. Then he closes his hand around it, making a fist. Putting the fist in his pocket, he cuts across the street. CAMERA PANS with him to a tobacco stand where he stops to buy a package of cigarettes, then hurries along. CAMERA PANS him to a sidewalk restaurant.
FADE OUT1
We see a ragged, dirty man beg, miss a chance to pick up a cigarette, and beg again. No one needs to tell us that Dobbs is down and out—we see that—and how when he gets some money he instantly spends it. Dobbs will never be able to keep what he gets. He’ll get a fortune in gold and lose that, his friends, and his life. If Dobbs wasn’t a born loser, would he be where he is here at the start? We experience his life with him. Everything is clearly described, economically enacted, immediate.
Go back and look at the opening shot of the ticket for the lottery that Dobbs didn’t win. He is going to be persuaded to take another chance, which will pay off and fund his prospecting expedition to the mountains, the meat of the film. There are no wasted details: what we are given is used. Nothing else!
Turn now to something equally effective but a little more sophisticated, the opening from Tootsie.
FADE IN:
MACRO SHOT: LIKE AN ABSTRACT PAINTING
Only one area is in focus. It is an actor’s CHARACTER BOX. We SLOWLY PAN to SEE: a MONOCLE, different pairs of EYEGLASSES, rubber APPLIANCES, various MAKEUPS, a collection of DENTAL APPLICATIONS, an assortment of brushes. A HAND COMES INTO THE FRAME and removes a small bottle. WE FOLLOW to see it is SPIRIT GUM. The OTHER HAND ENTERS FRAME and uncaps the bottle. FOLLOW on hand as it applies the spirit gum to a cheek. WE SEE ONLY A PORTION OF THE CHEEK. Now the hands apply spirit gum to a rubber scar. Again we FOLLOW the hands as they place the scar upon the actor’s cheek. The ritual continues as we watch a mustache being applied. The hands then search out the dental appliances and pick one. We study the movement as the appliance is inserted into the actor’s mouth. Throughout the above we HEAR someone MUMBLING, but we cannot make out the words. Suddenly we HEAR:
A VOICE
Next!
A BLACK SCREEN: OR SO IT SEEMS
REALLY A DARKENED THEATER. We’re looking out toward the auditorium.
[INT. THEATRE DAY]
VOICE (CONT’D)
Michael . . . Dorsey, is it?
PULL BACK to HOLD ON MICHAEL in foreground, looking out toward the darkened auditorium. He is an actor, forty years old. He holds a script.
MICHAEL
That’s right.
CAMERA CIRCLES to reveal Michael’s face. The scar is present, as is the moustache. He also has perfect teeth.
VOICE
Top of twenty-three . . .
MICHAEL
(with feeling)
“Do you know what it was like waking up in Paris that morning? Seeing the empty pillow where . . . wait a minute, cover your breasts! Kevin is downstairs! My God—what are you?”
PAN to reveal a BURLY STAGE MANAGER, cigar butt in mouth.
STAGE MANAGER
“I’m a woman. Not anyone’s mother. Not Kevin’s wife . . .”
VOICE
Thank you. That’s fine. We’re looking for someone a little older.
[INT.] ANOTHER BARE STAGE—MICHAEL WITH ANOTHER STAGE MANAGER [DAY]
Michael is dressed in cut-offs, a T-shirt and sneakers. He plays wit
h a yo-yo.
MICHAEL
“Mom! Dad! Uncle Pete! Something’s wrong with Biscuit! I think he’s dead!”
VOICE
(from the darkness)
Thank you. Thank you. We’re looking for someone a little younger.
[INT.] A THIRD BARE STAGE—MICHAEL WITH ANOTHER STAGE MANAGER [DAY]
Michael has dark makeup on, his hair slicked back, wears a zoot suit, another moustache. He has a “Walkman” stereo hanging from his neck, and wears earphones.
STAGE MANAGER
(eyes on script)
“No, Julio, no. Get out of the Barrio while you can.”
MICHAEL
“I don’ go wi’ out Esthella . . .”
He suddenly whips out a knife and flicks it open under the Stage Manager’s chin. The Stage Manager looks up from the script in terror.
MICHAEL
“. . . an I wan’ you to look at me when I walk, mon. Look at me!”
VOICE
Thank you, that was very good, but we’re looking for someone less ethnic.
MUSIC UP: (A LA “ON BROADWAY”)
CLOSE SCRAPBOOK PAGES MAIN TITLES BEGIN
The early years.
A) A six-year-old Michael in a school play. “My first play,” scrawled beneath the picture.
B) A high school newspaper article about Michael Dorsey.
C) In another costume, older now . . . a high school play.
VOICE OVER
Next!
[INT.] ANOTHER BARE STAGE—MICHAEL [DAY]
Deeply moved, in tears, reading from Henry IV
MICHAEL
“Old men forget
Yet all shall be forgot,
But we’ll remember with advantages
What fears we did that day.
Then shall their names . . .”
He suddenly breaks off as we and he HEAR MUMBLING from out in the dark house.
MICHAEL
Is it my acting interfering with your talking? . . . because I can keep this down. I mean, I wouldn’t want to disturb you. Just tell me if I’m interfering.
CLOSE THE SCRAPBOOK MUSIC AND TITLES
A) A parchment award. “The John Barrymore Award.”
B) A moustache encased in cellophane.
C) A piece of a program from Cyrano De Bergerac.
EXT. A RUN-DOWN STORE FRONT NIGHT
A run-down storefront converted into a theatre showing Richard III. Beneath the title is Michael’s name. We [HEAR DIALOGUE] from inside.
INT. A CONVERTED STORE—THEATRE NIGHT
Michael as Richard, finishes a speech, moves off stage.
The audience, consisting of about TWELVE PEOPLE, applaud. The most enthusiastic response comes from a thirty-four–year–old endearing blonde named SANDY.
BACKSTAGE
such as it is, the DIRECTOR grabs Michael.
DIRECTOR
Dammit, Michael, I told you to sit on the edge of the stage and talk to the audience!
MICHAEL
(pulling away)
I’m supposed to be Richard, the third, not Judy Garland!
INT. THEATRE-IN-THE-ROUND A REHEARSAL NIGHT
Michael as an old man, wrinkled skin, bald head, lies on one side of the stage. Several ACTORS hover over him.
1ST ACTOR
Quick! Get a priest!
MICHAEL
No! No priest.
2ND ACTOR
But you’re dying, Count Tolstoy.
A “PRIEST” runs up to Michael, who strikes out feebly.
PRIEST
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost . . . I commit your soul to God.”
From the house:
DIRECTOR
That was super, Michael luv, but I wonder if you could cross to the center stage on the last speech and then die. The left side of the house can’t see you.
MICHAEL
(slowly)
You want me to . . . stand up during my death speech and walk??
DIRECTOR
I know it’s awkward but we’ll have to do it.
MICHAEL
Not with me as Tolstoy.
SCRAPBOOK—MUSIC AND TITLES
A) A telegram wishing Michael “Good luck in New York!”
B) A good review in an “Off-Off” Broadway play.
C) A Mailgram notifying him of an Obie nomination.
D) A wedding photo of Michael and a pretty girl.
E) A clipping in “Variety”: “Due to creative differences Michael Dorsey has been replaced by Terry Bishop in Petrified Forest at the Dy Lys.”
[INT.] ANOTHER BARE STAGE—MICHAEL AND ANOTHER STAGE MANAGER DAY
Michael angrily slaps the script against his thigh.
MICHAEL
Just a second, now, could I start again? I just didn’t start it right.
VOICE
(from darkness)
No, no, it was very good. Really, it was fine: you’re just the wrong height.
FADE OUT2
Starting with Michael’s character box is a colorful, unexpected way of driving home immediately that he is an actor: Michael will make his fortune by a really unexpected piece of impersonation. That and the short takes with Michael in different roles make us wonder, Who is Michael?—a question that will end up involving gender confusion, too. The contrast of the miniscenes with scrapbook shots is an excellent use of the camera to make the past something immediate. Instead of enduring a character’s tedious exposition, we see and feel the development of Michael’s career and its contrast with his present frustrated situation just as he experiences these. He is too tall or short; too young or old; not ethnic enough; and always too abrasive. He offends the directors he needs to give him a job! He’s his own worst enemy.
When later his agent tells him no one wants to hire him because he is impossible, we buy it. We have lived something of the crisis he finds himself in. We’re ready for him to strike out in some novel, desperate way. The scenes that have shown his frustration have also shown him to be both determined and nearly too bright for his own good.
Everything is clearly described, economically enacted, immediate.
Everything is visual, contrasting, conflicting, specific.
Everything is emotionally involving, realistic, believable.
Emotional Realism
The importance of emotional realism in a story has already been stressed in Part One. The emotional realism of drama is not a matter of the surface realism of what we, the viewers, witness in any given scene, but the reality of the emotional give-and-take between characters.
Effective writing makes us believe its reality despite all the training to rational disbelief in the imagination that has been inflicted on us. A child or a primitive doesn’t analytically separate fact from fancy. They have to be restrained from getting involved in a movie’s action or reassured that nothing is happening: faith is our natural franchise. But even as we see the first images flow across the screen, we find ourselves ready to believe in the story’s world, suspending our matured disbelief.
How is our belief confirmed? We will believe in your story to the extent you make us feel for your characters. You must arouse our emotions through your characters’ necessary attempts to resolve their conflict by overcoming their obstacles. Then we will feel empathy and sympathy or, it may be, antipathy toward them as they react to their dilemma in a credible way, that is, as their emotions fit their situation. Their situation on the surface may be fantastic, perhaps a long time ago in another galaxy, but your characters make their dramatic situation real to us by the credibility and force of their response. That is emotional realism in drama. Once we feel for and with the characters, feel sympathy and empathy or even antipathy for them, we believe this is real.
Look at Bonasera. We hear that he is under stress: his voice is strained. We know something is wrong before we know what happened to his daughter. It’s impossible not to feel immediate sympathy for him. Wouldn’t we be tempted to go for such
help if our daughter or wife or girlfriend had been beaten and we knew where to go? Vengeance tastes sweet when you hunger for it. So our empathy—our ability to feel for and live through another—is aroused. Bonasera, though frustrated and vengeful, makes sense. His willingness to pay the Godfather’s price is the essential token of his desperation. In fact, it is the Godfather who behaves more conventionally, who tempers the vengeance to fit the crime. He rouses our interest and empathy in turn: the reasonable man, willing to do a favor for a friend, but not for money. He is not a hired gun. His is a world that makes sense, one into which Bonasera has not fallen, but moved. It all hangs together, far from our own situation as it seems at the beginning, because of the emotional realism these characters show in response to their problems.
Turn to Dobbs. He is a beggar. He is unshaven, unwashed, ragged. His eyes follow the flight of a cigarette. He’s desperate. He hesitates too long to pick up the butt and loses it. He moves on, begging.
Who would want to be in that situation? Poor guy! We don’t have to like him to feel for him. Every detail hangs together: his appearance, his behavior, even the lottery ticket he throws away at the beginning. He is a born loser.
Dramatic reality is emotional reality. It is not the setting an action takes place in, but the action itself. Even the most realistic of settings is not real: it is a set or a picture of something. Character in action makes for reality, just as people in action make their own lives real to themselves. Drama—fiction—imitates actions. When we can follow the characters through their actions, any setting becomes real, as long as it stays consistent with itself. This is why we emphasize the view of plot structure (Act 1, BEGINNING: establishment of problem and conflict; Act 2, MIDDLE: effort to solve the problem failing—crisis; Act 3, END: final effort to solve problem—climax) as a way of thinking about action, behavior, instead of an arbitrary structure to be imposed on your story. It is the skeleton of its essence.
