GOLDMAN
Why should we study poetry? Or art? Or music or ballet? Because each hour spent examining the other disciplines makes us better screenwrit-ers. Here is one of my favorite quatrains:
“She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!”
Why should we be aware of those words by William Wordsworth? Listen now with great care, as I recite it to you again. And pay complete attention to the simple word “oh.” I should tell you this: it comes at the end of the third line, and it is entirely surrounded by commas, one follows the preceding word, “grave,” the next following the crucial “oh” itself.
“She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!”
Did you hear? It is not possible to read or hear that poem without giving particular emphasis to that simple two-letter word. You have to land on it hard. Now think. What is Wordsworth doing? First, of course, he is making us aware of the depth of his pain. And oh. And oh…!
(beat)
But what else is he doing that relates to screenwriting? Class?
CUT TO
THE STUDENTS. And it’s clear they revere him, want to please him so much, but right now, no one seems to want to raise a hand. They are, by the way, a good-looking bunch of twenty-year-olds. Silence from the assembled.
CUT TO
GOLDMAN, looking at each of them in turn. Waiting silently.
CUT TO
THE PRETTIEST OF THE PRETTY GIRLS. Her name is Susan and she has a wonderful mind, but she’s a Marilyn Monroe type, so who would know? She raises a hand nervously.
GOLDMAN
(indicating she should speak)
Go ahead, Sarah.
SUSAN
(correcting)
Susan.
GOLDMAN
Sorry, close only counts in horseshoes. What is Wordsworth doing?
SUSAN
(hesitantly)
Is he … controlling the reader?
CUT TO
GOLDMAN, all smiles
GOLDMAN
In the words of Marv, yesss.
CUT TO
GOLDMAN. CLOSE UP.
GOLDMAN
When we write our screenplays--more than anything else this is what we want--to control the reader’s eye.
(intently now)
We use all our tricks to make that happen. We space a laugh on the page differently than we space a shock-- all in an attempt to make the reader hear our voice.
(louder)
--do we understand this?
(before they can all answer, the bell rings)
More on this anon.
CUT TO
THE STUDENTS, rising slowly, heading out.
Except for SUSAN. She grabs her books, waves to the others, goes to GOLDMAN’s desk. One final glance around--they’re alone. And you can tell that even though she is twenty and he is pushing seventy, they are more than student and teacher.
SUSAN
Why the Sarah?
GOLDMAN
So no one would suspect us.
SUSAN
Gonna be hard to do that now.
(beat)
I’m pregnant.
HOLD ON THE TWO OF THEM. He sits down hard at his desk. We can see some photos there now--snapshots of his family, his smiling wife, their four smiling little kids.
BLACKOUT.
I tried very hard to make that as interesting for you to read as I could. I put in stuff about how I’m handsomer than Cary Grant, how I’m so charming you want to throw up, all to keep you going. And I believe entirely in the central notion that Wordsworth did control our eye, which is what screenwriters want to do.
I said at the start it was reality, and I tried to make that as true as I could. It might be a college class somewhere. When I write a movie, I see every cut. I think we all do, and if we don’t, I think we all should. When I wrote “fade in on” a classroom, I didn’t describe it, but I could have, I kept a couple from my past in my head. I see the desk and me standing there and the students.
And I try to imagine that I am sitting there in the theater, watching.
Do you know what you would have done if you had, in reality, sat through a scene like that? Do you realize the pain you would feel? You would have been groaning. You would have thought some terrible trick was being played on you. That scene runs three and a half minutes.
I was at the Mount Kenya Safari Club years ago, late afternoon, gorgeous sunset, perfect beauty and silence, which is what you go there for—
—when suddenly this awful drumming began and I looked out to see the next cabin, where twenty Africans in native costume were banging away and chanting—and I realized some asshole must have paid them to do that, and maybe the people in the next cabin enjoyed it—
—me, I thought it was the worst practical joke ever. That’s what you would have thought if you’d been in a theater and this awful droning about Wordsworth went on. You might have thought someone was trying to drive you mad.
I hope we understand this by now: movies have nothing to do with reality.
But that scene has enough dramatic material to make a valid movie scene. Here is how you would do it:
FADE IN ON
A COLLEGE SCREENWRITING CLASS
A DOZEN STUDENTS sit listening in various states of disinterest.
Their lecturer is a man in his mid-60’s. Knowledgeable, stiff.
LECTURER
Wordsworth has many lessons for us as screenwriters--
(the bell rings)
--we’ll start here next time.
CUT TO
THE CLASS, getting up, heading out.
One student, SUSAN, twenty and very sexy, goes to the desk, glances around, sees they are alone.
LECTURER
Yes, Susan?
SUSAN
I’m pregnant.
HOLD ON THE TWO OF THEM. He sits down hard at his desk. We can see some photos there now--snapshots of his family, his smiling wife, their four smiling little kids.
BLACKOUT.
Fifteen seconds. Do you have the requisite information? Think so. Were you bored? Shouldn’t have been. We are, at this moment, at something I have written about before and you know all about anyway, but since it is one of the crucial facts of our work, I’m going to put it in very large type.
This has been about entering late.
We must enter all scenes as late as possible.
We must enter our story as late as possible.
Why?
Because of the camera.
Because of the speed.
I cannot think of exceptions. Not in proper screenwriting.
The story I used here could make, in the hands of a skilled novelist, an engrossing piece of work. It could be comic—the silly old fart forgetting his years. It could be heartbreaking—that’s so easy I won’t even bother.
And this could be the first page of a novel. Or it could come fifty pages in or a hundred and fifty. That is the decision the novelist must make. He does not have the camera literally looking over his shoulder. He is the camera.
You could do endless stuff on the professor, his coming to grips with a failed life, his loveless, or glorious, marriage, doesn’t matter, he could still feel failed. You could do endless stuff with the girl. Maybe she has always been a hunk, maybe her father could not keep his hands off her, maybe her father was a saint who protected her from the potential evils of the world so when she saw this Cary Grant of a professor, she couldn’t help falling for him.
Maybe she’s a young Glenn Close, nutty as hell, who has hated the wife for years and has set out to destroy her and she ain’t pregnant at all. Or maybe she is pregnant, but it’s not the professor’s child.
Any way you want to take this, feel free. And feel free to take all t
he time you want to develop whatever story you decide to tell.
But not in a screenplay.
There is no time in a screenplay.
Do you want to read a piece of great screenwriting? Not mine, alas. It comes from the mind of Raymond Chandler.
FADE IN ON
A married couple in an elevator. They stand silently. The man wears a hat.
The elevator stops.
A pretty young woman gets in.
The man takes off his hat.
Do you understand that? You must understand why that is great. With that shot, you know everything. You know it’s a crappy marriage, you know he wants better, you know there is sexual energy in that rising room now.
And you can do that in what, ten seconds?
That scene could be entered a minute before, with the married couple in the lobby, either bickering or staring daggers at each other.
Or a day or a month later.
Don’t need it. Let Chandler show you the way.
Enuf, for the nonce, on this. (See “viz.”)
You know all the nutty stuff people find on the Net? Here are two that were sent to me yesterday, one related to what we’re doing, one not, but I love the “not” so much I have to tell you. Also, I’m getting carried away on this point, never the best thing to do.
Okay. This is from a supposed U.S. Government Peace Corps manual. It is given to volunteers who work in the Amazon jungle. It tells what to do if an anaconda attacks you. In case you don’t know much about them, maybe this will help: they are the largest snakes in the world, they can grow to thirty-five feet, can weigh four hundred pounds.
This is what the manual said:
1. If you are attacked by an anaconda, do not run. The snake is faster than you are.
2. Lie flat on the ground. Put your arms tight against your sides, your legs tight against one another.
3. Tuck your chin in.
4. The snake will come and begin to nudge and climb over your body.
5. Do not panic.
6. After the snake has examined you, it will begin to swallow you from the feet. Permit the snake to swallow your feet and ankles. Do not panic!
7. The snake will now begin to suck your legs into its body. You must lie perfectly still. This will take a long time.
8. When the snake has reached your knees, slowly and with as little movement as possible, reach down, take your knife and very gently slide it into the snake’s mouth between the edge of its mouth and your leg. Then suddenly rip upwards, severing the snake’s head.
9. Be sure you have your knife.
10. Be sure your knife is sharp.
I guess I could relate this to screenwriting. My question would be this: How do you do that and not make it a comedy scene? I mean, do you have the volunteers reading it aloud? How, without laughing?
When you’ve got the answer, I’d sure like to know about it.
The next e-mail is just for us. Pay close attention.
Ten Things We’d Never Know Without the Movies
1. It is always possible to park opposite the building you are visiting.
2. When paying for a taxi, don’t look at your wallet as you take out a bill—just grab one at random and hand it over, it will always be the exact fare.
3. Television news bulletins usually contain a story that affects you personally at the precise moment that it’s aired.
4. It is not necessary to say hello or goodbye when beginning or ending a telephone conversation.
5. Any lock can be picked by a credit card or a paperclip in seconds—unless it’s the door to a burning building with a child inside.
6. The ventilating system of any building is the perfect hiding place no one will ever think of finding you in and you can travel to any other part of the building undetected.
7. All bombs are fitted with electronic timing devices with large red readouts so you know exactly when they are going to go off.
8. Should you want to pass yourself off as a German officer, it will not be necessary to speak the language—a German accent will do.
9. Once applied, lipstick will never rub off—even while scuba diving.
And my favorite
10. You can always find a chainsaw when you need one.
Pretty neat, I thought, And there is one crucial point about all ten, and while you are pondering just what it might be, a story. Concerning number 3, about TV news always affecting you personally.
That actually happened once. To someone I know. Here it is:
Almost thirty years ago now, two young actors were in their twenties. Their names were Penny Marshall and Rob Reiner and they were both on TV shows. Huge hit TV shows. (Think Seinfeld and Friends today.) Rob was Meathead on All in the Family, she Laverne in Laverne and Shirley.
They met. And the Gods smiled down. They fell in love. And got married. And were just so happy. But the home they were living in was not to their liking, nothing ever got finished, the place was a mess.
They went to New York to star in a TV movie Rob wrote, More Than Friends. They would be gone little more than a week.
And in that week, the decorator promised, everything would be made right. Their home would be exactly as they wanted it to be.
Back they come after the shoot. Together, suitcases in hand, they go to their Dream House. They unlock the front door and, very nervous now, enter. They peek into their living room.
As in their dreams.
The dining room.
Yes again.
The kitchen.
Ideal.
Now slowly, up the stairs they go to their bedroom. They put their suitcases down in silence. It’s beyond belief perfect.
Like schoolchildren they sit on the end of their bed, turn on the TV and the instant they do, what they see is Jean Dixon saying these words: “Jeane Dixon predicts: Penny and Rob will split.”
See, life can imitate art. (The marriage did not last.)
Enough. Did you think about the ten things? Fine. Then tell me the one crucial thing about them all—
—I’m waiting.—
—Want a hint?—
—Forget hints, here’s the answer:
They’re all the same.
They’re all about what the camera does.
They’re all about speed.
To show you what I mean, I’ll talk about the first couple. Here’s numero uno—
1. It is always possible to park opposite the building you are visiting.
Well, we’ve all sure seen that baby. (Or its corollary: the star raises his hand in New York and a cab stops instantly.) Here’s how you might write it:
FADE IN ON
Wall Street. High noon. MEL GIBSON tools along in his Ferrari, spots a parking place across from City Hall, and as he heads toward it--
CUT TO
MEL, hurrying up the steps of that ornate building.
Maybe the entire enterprise takes, what, twenty seconds at the outside? Fine. Now let’s try it another way. Same set-up.
CUT TO
Wall Street. High noon. MEL GIBSON tools along in his Ferrari, looking for a place to park.
CUT TO
THE STREET. Jammed. Cars wedged in right beside one another.
CUT TO
MEL. Hmm. He glances at his watch, bites his fingernail for a moment--then, as his face lights up--
CUT TO
An empty spot--just up ahead around the corner and
CUT TO
MEL, doing his best to maneuver in heavy traffic that seems to thicken and--
MEL
Son of a bitch!
CUT TO
A CLUNKER driven by a heavyset woman with a mustache has snared the empty spot, starts to park.
CUT TO
MEL, glancing at his watch again as he turns the corner--up ahead now is the woman, trying to maneuver her car into the spot. Clearly she’ll never be able to make it fit. MEL pulls up, stops, waits.
CUT TO
THE WOMAN WITH THE MUSTAC
HE, trying like hell to make her clunker fit the small spot. No way.
CUT TO
MEL, biting his fingernail again, watching, waiting.
CUT TO
THE WOMAN WITH THE MUSTACHE. She is now backing her clunker into the car behind her, trying to make space. The brakes are on in the rear car, and she has no success. Now she stops, sits there frustrated, her car half-in half-out of the space.
MEL
(calling out to her)
Doesn’t look like it’s going to fit.
WOMAN WITH THE MUSTACHE
Thanks for sharing, you Australian asshole--
-- and as she gets out of the car, leaving it just as it is, gives him a final finger--
CUT TO
A SIGN WITH AN ARROW INDICATING A GARAGE.
CUT TO
MEL, a little rattled now, seeing the sign, driving up to it--
CUT TO
A GARAGE ATTENDANT shaking his head sharply.
PULL BACK TO REVEAL
MEL in his Ferrari, trying to drive into the garage. THE ATTENDANT points to a sign: No Space.
CUT TO
MEL, driving ever more slowly around the block--it’s clear now--he will never find a parking space.
2. When paying for a taxi, don’t look at your wallet as you take out a bill—just grab one at random and hand it over, it will always be the exact fare.
FADE IN ON
Wall Street. High noon. MEL GIBSON sits in a taxi as it pulls up in front of City Hall. He pulls out a bill, hands it over, and as he starts to get out--
CUT TO
MEL, hurrying up the steps to that ornate building.
That takes even less time than finding a parking space did. Terrific. Mel is on his way inside to where the real scene is about to begin. In other words, just as the earlier sequence was more than likely not a movie about Mel Gibson finding a parking space, this one is not about Mel Gibson getting out of a cab. But let’s try it again.
FADE IN ON
Wall Street. High noon. MEL GIBSON sits in a taxi as it pulls up in front of City Hall. He pulls out a bill, hands it over to the CAB DRIVER, and as he starts to get out--
CAB DRIVER
This is a single.
MEL
What?
CAB DRIVER
You gave me a single--I brought you in from JFK, it’s thirty-two bucks, plus tolls.
MEL
Sorry.
Which Lie Did I Tell? Page 20
