"You got forty-five minutes," my father said, and he left the shop.
I waited in the chair. Mr. Bimbaum stared at my head. He bent down and looked up at it and stood on tiptoe and looked down at it and walked around it and placed his fingers on it and drew an imaginary replica of it in the air.
"Spherical," I whispered. "It's spherical, Mr. Bimbaum. Don't you remember?"
"I never forgot a head shape in my life," he said. "But sometimes, especially with the young, the head shape changes."
"Well, mine hasn't changed, Mr. Bimbaum. It's still spherical. Now will you hurry up."
He closed one eye and sighted along the part in my hair. Then he redrew the imaginary replica in the air and squinted at it. "Still spherical," he announced and he tucked the striped towel around my neck.
"Forty minutes," my father said, appearing suddenly in the doorway. "Forty minutes to go, Bimbaum," and he was gone again, pacing the sidewalk in front of the shop.
Mr. Bimbaum took out his scissors and blew on them, holding them up to the light. The room grew brighter. He snipped them together a few times.
"Come on, Mr. Bimbaum," I said. "Please."
"Shut up and sit still," he answered.
Grudgingly, I did what he said. He put his fingers against my head and snipped. A few scattered hairs fell into the towel. He walked slowly around me. Snip. A few more hairs fell. He stepped back and looked at me, his head tilted to one side.
"Hurry, Mr. Bimbaum," I said. "Please hurry."
"Thirty-two minutes," my father announced, again in the doorway. "Almost one-third gone, Bimbaum."
The scissors were in continuous motion now, and again the rhythms began. But this time the songs were different; these were softer songs, sadder songs. "The Minstrel Boy to the Way Is Gone" and "Red River Valley" and...
"Twenty-one minutes," my father said from the door.
"Come on, Mr. Bimbaum," I muttered. "Come on. Please come on."
"I should ruin a lifetime in twenty-one minutes?" he said.
Now it was "Shenandoah," and the sound of it poured in, filling the tiny shop. "Away, you rolling river. Oh Shenandoah, I long to see you. Away. I'm bound away..."
I closed my eyes; my father came in again but I did not bother opening them. The sound was too beautiful. I just sat there listening, listening to the distant chants of the boatmen, to the mighty rolling waves pounding steadily in against the shore. The sound swelled, grew richer, louder, even louder, louder still.
Then it stopped.
The alarm clock went off. My father was standing in the shop. "Time's up, Bimbaum," he said.
Mr. Bimbaum said nothing. He walked quickly to the alarm clock and with one swipe of his beautiful hand knocked it senseless to the floor. Then he turned to my father. "Get out, butcher," he said. "I'm cutting this boy's hair."
Meekly, my father left.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Bimbaum," I began.
"Shut up and sit still," he ordered.
I turned to face him. "I'm really sorry," I began again.
"I told you once already," he said, and he swatted me on top of the head with the flat of his hand.
"Anyway," I finished, sitting still, "it's my fault and I'm sorry."
"Fault!" he snorted, snipping away. "Why is it your fault? No time. Nobody's got no time. Whose fault is that?"
"What I meant..."
"Shut up," he repeated. He took another snip of hair. "The butchers. The butchers are taking over. You mark my words. By the time you grow up, the goddam butchers will own the world. You'll see. Goddam little brat anyway."
He snipped steadily. I closed my eyes. Snip. Snip. Then no more.
"There," Mr. Bimbaum said. "Done."
With that, he yanked the towel from around my neck, crumpled it in his hands and threw it on the floor. Holding his scissors to the light, he blew on them, one time. Then, without a word, he walked from the store.
He was gone by the time we got home that night. Bag and baggage, gone. We sat down to supper, the three of us. No one spoke. I cleared away the soup dishes and brought in the roast. My father cut the slices and put them on our plates. Still silence. Then my father turned to me.
"He was a fine barber, Willy. You understand that. No one ever said any different."
I nodded, "That's right. But he took too long."
It was my father's turn to nod. Then my mother spoke.
"Hush and eat your dumplings," she commanded.
We obeyed.
Chapter Fifteen
Before We Begin Writing
In any adaptation--in any screenplay, really--the make or break work is done before the writing actually begins.
The writing is never what takes the most time. It's trying to figure what you're going to put down that fills the days. With anger at your own ineptitude, with frustration that nothing is happening inside your head, with panic that maybe nothing will ever happen inside your head, with blessed little moments that somehow knit together so that you can begin to visualize a scene.
Normally, to fill those terrible preparatory days, I tend to do a lot of research. Now, in the case of "Da Vinci," there isn't a whole lot of research I can do. But I've read and reread the story. (I haven't written the screenplay yet; as you read this, for all intents and purposes, I'm not really sure how it will begin or end. Or how long it will be; if I had to guess, it would be between thirty and forty pages, but if it comes out longer or shorter, it won't surprise me much.)
If I haven't actually written, I have made my marks in the margins of the book. On the first page, for example, the second longish paragraph is inked every time--that's where we learn Willie's old man owns the town barbershop, that he's bald, and that the kid is the guinea pig. That's basic plot, I think I'll need that.
And as well as making my marks, I've asked myself a bunch of questions, which I'll get to now. "Da Vinci," obviously, is not going to be a full-length screenplay--your eyes would glaze over if you had to read a book and then a screenplay of the book.
But these questions, the ones that follow, are what I ask myself before I begin. Always, always. And many times over. The answers change as the material shifts in your head. But not the questions.
They may seem obvious or irrelevant, and perhaps they are. But not to me. I must know what I am doing before I begin doing it. I must be able to give myself satisfactory answers or I'm nowhere.
With screenwriting, as with a gift, it's the thought that counts....
(1) WHAT'S THE STORY ABOUT?
There is no right answer for this question. No single right answer. Even though "Da Vinci" is not material of Dostoevskian complexity, there are still various legitimate opinions as to what it's about.
Maybe it's about a family that almost fragments. A visitor appears, causes troubles, tensions, problems. But in the end, the strength of the family endures. The story, after all, ends with the family together, happily following the orders of the mother, perhaps the true strength of the unit.
Or--
Maybe it's about a kid learning there is more to life than dreamed of in his philosophy. Bimbaum is clearly something unusual and different for a marble player to have to deal with.
Or--
--enough or's. I can put down half a dozen others I don't believe, just as I don't believe the two above. For me, the answer is simply this: "Da Vinci" is about a guy who loses a job.
You may not agree; fine. You may be correct. And if you wrote the screenplay, you would handle the material your way. But in my version, that's the story line I'm going to use.
Now, many times when you see a movie of a book you've read, you will find they have little or nothing to do with each other. The same can be true here. (Producers often acquire material for crazy reasons. They like a character, or they think if you tuck in a part for Bo Derek, it can be a blockbuster. There was one producer in the not so long ago who bought three books purely for their locations--he had never been to New Zealand, so that was one purchase. He wanted
to go around the world at the studio's expense.)
Okay. Let's make some changes--"Da Vinci" can be an action movie. Easy. Bimbaum is a spy, a spy on the run, and the Russian secret police find him and he has to enlist the family to survive. May make an okay picture.
It can be a story of passion: Make Bimbaum Burt Reynolds, the mother Jane Fonda, and let them have an affair seen through the eyes of the kid. Maybe the father finds out. Maybe only the kid knows his old man knows. May not make a bad picture.
It could be a Catcher in the Rye-type piece--a story of adolescent sensitivity and pain. Porky McKee dies, unfairly of some miserable disease, and the kid, Willy, has to deal with the existence of an unjust God. Make Willie older, sign Tim Hutton, watch the teenyboppers cry. May make a good picture.
None of this is meant to be facetious. Bigger changes than any of the above are made in adaptations every year.
But for any screenwriter, personally, I feel they are death.
All I have, when I start an adaptation (and I don't think this can be repeated too often, which is why I'm going to repeat it too often), is my emotional connection with the source material. If I had been offered James Kirkwood's novel Some Kind of Hero with the proviso that, oh, yes, we're going to keep it just as it is with one teeny-weeny change--we're going to make the main character black so we can nab Richard Pryor--I couldn't have done it. Kirkwood is a fine writer and Pryor is a dazzling talent, but when commercial matters dictate a total subversion of the source material, we are in, as the French say, deep shit.
Not the happiest of habitations.
(2) WHAT'S THE STORY REALLY ABOUT?
"Da Vinci" says this: There is no place for the artist in the modern world.
I've got a leg up on this answer, since I wrote the story. But even if I hadn't, there are clues. For example, the title. It isn't called "New Guy in Town" or "The Filler of the Second Chair."
And the father calls Bimbaum an artist.
And everything about Bimbaum indicates that he takes his work with artistic passion.
But he takes too long. Even when his job is on the line, he takes too long. So he's canned. You don't tell Michelangelo, "Hey, I need the ceiling done by Saturday."
Look, none of this "artist" talk is meant to be pretentious. We're dealing with a little story. But it wasn't written about a starving sculptor or the tragedy of Schubert getting canned and dying, his songs unsung. Part of the hoped for charm of the piece was the fact that the character's occupation was the reverse of what you might have expected.
(3) WHAT ABOUT TIME?
There are really two "times" involved here--the time of the story (the period) and the time in the story (the duration).
Taking the period first--I don't think this screenplay should be set in the past. Since it's about the fact that there's no place for the artist in the modern world, it's a cheat if we don't set it in the modern world.
Now, with the duration, we start getting into potential alterations. "Da Vinci" takes place over three haircuts for Willie: the test; the second, where he double-crosses his father; and the last, when Bimbaum gets fired.
Do we need three haircuts?
Movies are compression.
Can we get by with two? If we do, what do we gain and what do we lose?
Think about that.
(4) WHO TELLS THE STORY?
Now things are really getting sticky. Because "Da Vinci" is told in the first person. The kid narrates the story. Perfectly fine for fiction.
Not so good for movies.
Characters talking directly to the camera are, for many reasons, off-putting. Alfie got away with it successfully. Maybe a few others. But very few. Maybe we're one of those few. If we were to open with the marble scene, it might go like this.
FADE IN ON
A SCHOOLYARD. Spring. TWO KIDS are playing Little Pot, a marble game where you lag a great distance toward a small chalked circle with marbles inside. Whoever lags closest gets to shoot first. Now one kid--his name is PORKY McKEE--lags. As he runs along following his marble toward the chalked circle, the second kid, WILLIE, looks at the camera, starts to talk.
WILLIE
I was playing Little Pot with Porky McKee when Mr. Bimbaum butted into my life.
(he turns away from the camera, concentrates on making his lag, when we--)
CUT TO
A BALD MAN, moving across the schoolyard. It's MORRIS, WILLIE'S father.
MORRIS
Go take a haircut--
WILLIE
(looks up)
Now? This is for the championship,
MORRIS
(in no mood to mess around)
Go.
WILLIE
(he sighs, looks at his father)
Okay.
(he turns toward Porky)
Back in a little.
(now he looks at the camera again)
My father never understood the importance of marbles.
(as he starts to run across the schoolyard--)
CUT TO
Cut to whatever you want, I'm not crazy about it. It would work, probably, but there's something as I write even this fragment that's bothersome. Forget the specifics of the dialog or the event. Talking directly to the camera presents problems in a movie. You can do it in the theatre--Our Town, for example--and I can do it here. But in a movie you don't tell people things, you show people things. And writing Da Vinci with a ten-year-old kid talking to us throughout doesn't fill me with a whole lot of enthusiasm.
But--
--how's if we got a little stylish? Let's keep the first-person narration, and let's keep Willie as the narrator, but let's make it material recollected in tranquillity. I'll show you what I mean.
FADE IN ON
A SCHOOLYARD IN SPRING. TWO KIDS are deeply involved in a fierce game of marbles.
CUT TO
A NICE-LOOKING, WELL-DRESSED GUY OF THIRTY. He walks toward the competitors. As he comes closer, we can hear the rat-tat-tat of their talk. 'Quit fudging--' 'I'm not--' '--are, are--' '--shut up, you're just trying to make me miss--' '--you'll miss anyway, now quit fudging--'
THE NICE-LOOKING GUY is right up near them now, but they pay him no attention. He stops, looks at them a moment, then stares around at his surroundings.
NICE-LOOKING GUY
(shaking his head, bemused)
The battles this schoolyard has seen.
CUT TO
ONE OF THE KIDS--WILLIE--kneeling by the chalked circle, concentrating hard, getting ready to shoot.
NOW THE NICE-LOOKING GUY kneels alongside him, assumes the same position. He tries to make his hand mime the proper form for marble shooting. His fingers are clumsy.
NICE-LOOKING GUY
I've even forgotten how to hold a shooter.
WILLIE keeps concentrating, as if he hasn't heard the NICE-LOOKING GUY speak. And of course he hasn't heard him--because as we look at them, now we see the resemblance of the two: The guy talking is WILLIE grown up.
NICE-LOOKING GUY
It took something of earth-shaking import to break up our games.
(and now he points off--)
CUT TO
A BALD MAN hurrying across the schoolyard.
NICE-LOOKING GUY
(indicating the bald man)
Now he was of earth-shaking import.
BALD MAN
Go take a haircut.
WILLIE
(looking up)
Now? This is for the championship.
BALD MAN
Go.
WILLIE
But Daddy, I'm winning--
(the bald man points sternly back in the direction he came)
CUT TO
THE NICE-LOOKING GUY. As WILLIE sighs, stands, he stands, too, at the same time.
WILLIE
Back in a little, Porky.
(and as he starts to hurry away--)
CUT TO
OUTSIDE A BARBERSHOP IN A SMALL TOWN. The NICE-LOOKING GUY stands casua
lly on the sidewalk, watching as WILLIE rounds the corner up ahead, runs toward the shop.
NICE-LOOKING GUY
My father ran the only barbershop in town. Whenever he hired a helper, I was the guinea pig, since my father, bald from his twenties, couldn't fulfill the function.
WILLIE has reached the shop now, and as he throws the door open, rushes inside--
CUT TO
THE NICE-LOOKING GUY. He sits in a corner, watching as WILLIE comes to a stop, eyes the new barber.
NICE-LOOKING GUY
I was not in the best of moods when I met Mr. Bimbaum. I didn't know it then, but Mr. Bimbaum was never in the best of moods.
And now we would cut to Bimbaum and describe him and like that.
Well?
Those two pages wrote easily enough. (Remember, I haven't written the screenplay yet. And there is a very good reason for that--I'm not sure how. Believe that. What I am doing now is the one thing all writers are masters of: putting off doomsday.)
I think it is more stylish than having Willie tell the story as a kid. And one of the reasons that a narrator would be a huge help in this material is this: It's not just a first person story, a great deal of what happens is interior. There's not that much dialog to lift.
One of the things that drives you mad, if you are lucky enough to have a novel bought for a movie, is people are constantly asking you which you wrote first, the book or the screenplay? (Curses on Erich Segal.) Marathon Man, for example, was difficult to turn into a screenplay, because only one scene--Olivier in the diamond district--was a totally exterior scene. You could just lift it almost shot for shot.
Okay, back to the problem of the narrator in Da Vinci. Another way of doing it would be simply to use the technique of voice-over. We would see the scenes, but the bridging material of interior stuff would be told us by a voice, maybe Willie the kid, or just an unnamed person who would serve as storyteller.
Adventures in the Screen Trade Page 32
