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Chapter 2

SCREENPLAYS ARE NOT WRITTEN — THEY’RE BUILT

Stories Are Energy Machines

Stories — especially screenplays — are energy machines. All of the energy, time, effort, and passion you have written into your script is just sitting there on the page waiting to be unleashed on the world. All those hours and days and months and years you’ve spent working and worrying, all the frustration and thought that came out of your psyche has now been condensed into this code known as writing. With any luck, it will be interpreted by a whole group of other artists and craftspeople.

Hopefully, a studio, network, or company in the form of an executive producer will take up the project. They will plan to make money with your script. They will hire others — a vast creative team — who will translate your script into a photographed product.

Now even more energy is being expended on your story.

So it all gets reduced into this little frame — and wham — it all comes out for the audience, who then translate all of that invisible energy of thought and craft into some kind of experience.

That’s a movie!

Your story is like one of those rubber-band-powered toy airplanes. Over the time of your story, you’re going to wind that rubber band so tight that when you let it go — the climax of your story — it’s going to go zoom! (More on this later!)

But how do you do that on paper using a format so ugly and without the freedom of a novelist?

How do we create this energy?

We already understand that we are creating a system of “values.” The beliefs and truths that we find to be universal for all sentient beings. Anyone who can experience a complex story can experience and share these fundamental human values.

But how do we take these towering values and translate them into drama? How do we get this stuff on the page?

There Are No Rules in Screenwriting — But You Have to Obey Every Single One!

You’ll probably read other books on screenwriting. I actually know some of those writers and teachers. I can call them at home!

So, going under the premise that “Nobody knows anything” we can further extrapolate, “Everybody knows something.” You can credit that to me. Probably one of the stupidest things I’ve ever said. But I feel it opens the door to the very thing that scares or thwarts people when they sit down to write a script: “What am I supposed to do now?”

It’s funny, Robert McKee hates to call them “rules.” He prefers the term principles. It is satirized so wonderfully in Charlie Kaufman’s script Adaptation. Fundamentally, rather than follow a bunch of rules — like laws — let’s obey certain concepts because they’ve been shown to work. I like that.

But I would much rather be able to stop somebody on the street for spitting because it’s a rule rather than expect them to obey the “spirit” of the law and the principles of decency. Who’s kidding whom? You must have a minimum set of elements in a story or it’s not a story. That may have been based on the spirit of principles at one time, but I really accept it as a rule now. So here are some really fundamental rules that you must follow or you go to screenwriting jail:

1. “I will begin a story only with a single main character.”

That’s a rule. I obey that rule. I think you should too.

2. This character will take a journey or experience an ordeal that will deliver him/her to a new idea of him/herself and his/her life.

I obey that rule too.

3. I believe you should not place anything in the story that isn’t put there without careful thought and consideration and is a chosen part of the design of that story.

These are my primary rules. I believe if you simply obey — and never break — these rules, you will be well on your way to telling a good solid story that works. So shoot me — there actually is some minimum of rules you have to obey. If you treat them as “principles” I believe you’ll cut yourself too much slack. These are the deal-breakers.

Screenplays Are Like Good Watches: The “Moving Parts” of a Screenplay

When we look at a watch, we only see the time. But, no matter what kind of watch you use, digital or analog, old or new, accurate or not, you depend on that watch to tell you the time. You don’t actually care how. You only care that it’s giving you what you want when you want it. But behind that face or LED is a complex, interdependent system that makes that thing work. But it’s hidden by the actual product that we get from this machine. It looks like one thing — but it’s really a bunch of moving parts.

Most importantly, I believe that no watchmaker worth his weight puts anything inside a watch that isn’t there for a damn good reason. No part goes unused; no unnecessary part is ever included — there simply isn’t room!

It’s the same with a story or a screenplay — all of it. If you follow the rules that govern the making of a watch, I don’t think you can go wrong.

The beauty of a screenplay is that all that structural material, all those tricks, all that stuff is actually invisible. The thing that you get from a movie is the experience. The thrills. The laughter. The tears. If you’re a typical moviegoer (i.e., not working in show business), you don’t see any of that stuff that we’re talking about here.

But any audience will react to something that doesn’t work. Just as they would recognize that a clock was broken. Or they couldn’t read the dial. Audiences intuitively and subliminally know what’s going on in a movie because they are involved in the experience.

If it gets too slow, they stop getting excited. If the story is not being delivered in a certain way, they get mad! If things go radically counter to expectations, or worse, if they go exactly as expected, they will hate the movie! Audiences may excuse a corrupt politician or drug-addicted movie star, but any movie that doesn’t deliver — fugeddaboudit! An audience will dismiss it like yesterday’s cheesecloth. They will even tell their friends, “Whatever you do — don’t see this movie! It stinks!”

Merciless!

But when they’re right, they’re right.

This is because just as we can tell when a watch is broken, most people can see that a movie doesn’t work. They couldn’t tell you exactly why. But that doesn’t matter. If your watch doesn’t work, they’re gonna find one that does.

Same with producers, directors, actors, and other industry professionals.

What I propose is that you see your script like a watch. Precise. Designed. Composed of interlocking moving parts that all contribute to the illusion of one thing — unity, as Aristotle would call it.

Unity means everything’s working like a team toward a common goal. It means that each part is used for its specialty. No part is unused. No part is unnecessary or gratuitous. Pay really special attention to that last statement. Keep these words ringing in your head (like the dream sequence in Vertigo; words echoing deep in the dark limbo of your brain):

“Unnecessary . . . Gratuitous . . . Unnecessary . . . Gratuitous . . .”

We will look at a screenplay and its underlying story as we would a well-tooled machine. It must fulfill a certain output. It is built well. It functions beyond expectations. Those who put it to use, enjoy the way it feels — balanced, well-shaped, familiar . . . yet different.

But here’s why screenplays are the weirdest document ever created.

A writer must take an enormous philosophical impact and a profound emotional experience and reduce it to:

“INT. LIVING ROOM – NIGHT”.

Isn’t that weird? Why is that?

Money.

That’s right. The only reason we use this highly specialized format that looks more like an engineering document than writing, is so that time, location, and labor can be systematically distilled for about two hundred people who will be involved in the actual manufacture of the final product.

From the story department to the studio exec, to the director, to the actors, to the crew, to the postproduction crew, to the mixer, to the distributor — they all have to look at something that tells what, where, when, who, and how. Then they can determine “how long” and “how much.” Then the movie goes into production.

“Art,” right?

Yes. It is art. It’s a hybrid art that involves writing, acting, photography, audio, design, painting, clothing, military logistics, transportation, financing, and marketing. But have no doubt it is art. And without the artists, it’s nothing.

Because it uses visual tools to tell its story, those visual elements in screenplays have actually decreased over the years. You don’t even see “CUT TO:” in most screenplays anymore. So your story is told with language. But being a “great” writer may not matter. However, you really do need to know how to write. More importantly, what you really need to know is how to put things together. You need to know how to build a good story. Like a good watch, your script is useful, meaningful, beautiful, and it works.

So your great idea ends up like a good watch. That’s the first elementary step in putting your thoughts down on paper and “gettin’ this thing on the hump!” (Major King Kong, Dr. Strangelove . . . ).

CHECKLIST The Moving Parts of Screen Story

A SINGLE MAIN CHARACTER who is the primary point of view of the story. We start with this person. We end with this person. It is the experience of this character that gives the story action and meaning.

A BEGINNING, MIDDLE, AND END (or Act I, II, and III). These three sections, unequal in length, represent three escalating stages of the story.

• In Act I: A main character, with certain problematic traits (a character deficit), has a difficult task ahead of him/her that must be resolved. This sends the character on an ordeal or a journey.

• Act II is the journey and the ordeal leading to a moment when “all is lost” (sound familiar?), where it appears that the character cannot (or will not) resolve the problem.

• Act III is the time when the character must make a choice to a) resolve the problem and change, or b) to arrive at a point of recognition about life and his/her problems or c) be defeated by the problem.

INCITING INCIDENT: (in Act I) A seemingly ordinary, everyday act that brings the character into the stream of the story: a job interview; a phone call; meeting someone at a bus stop. In Chinatown it’s when the phony Mrs. Mulwray comes to Gittes’ office. This is an ordinary, everyday thing for Gittes. In Being John Malkovich it’s when Craig Schwartz (John Cusack) goes for the job interview at LesterCorp, which is on the 7 ½ floor of an office building. This happens on the top of page 8—the 7 ½ page, which is 7 ½ minutes into the movie — which is Charlie Kaufman’s way of messing with our heads! It’s an in-joke about the fact that we screenwriters are pestered by mythical rules that say: “You have to have this on page 8!” Thanks, Charlie Kaufman.

CALL TO ACTION: This is the action that the character must take in order to start the journey. In most movies the character is forced into this action by the circumstances built up in those previous beats, but directly attributable to the inciting incident. In Chinatown it’s when Gittes gets his nose slashed by “the midget” (director Roman Polanski). Now Gittes must take action! And it’s because he’s been led to go there at the behest of the phony Mrs. Mulwray. Now the real ordeal begins. In Malkovich it’s when Craig meets Maxine (Catherine Keener). No — it’s not when he gets sucked into Malkovich’s head! That’s also Kaufman’s way of messing with us. Craig’s story goal is to get Maxine in bed. The Malkovich thing is just a cool way of luring her.

OBSTACLES, PROBLEMS, AND NEW RELATIONSHIPS: This is Act II. These will be consistent with your character’s journey. In mythology, Jason has to go get the Golden Fleece. He’s beset by all sorts of disasters and tests to his character and his skills. Same with your movie. In Chinatown Gittes gets involved with the real Mrs. Mulwray, first as an adversary, then as a lover. He meets and goes up against her father, Noah Cross, the most powerful man in Los Angeles. Additionally, there are a variety of characters and situations that bring Gittes into a crisis, make him face his past, and, in the end, bring him face-to-face with his worst human problem.

CLIMAX: The biggest, most important moment in the story that releases the character from the journey and the struggle. However, this character must still move on to one more step . . .

THE RESOLUTION: The character either resolves to change or recognizes the need to do so. In a tragedy the protagonist is left with either the folly or horror of his/her deeds. Oedipus plucks out his eyes he’s so pissed off at himself !

These elements will cause an engagement in your audience and will result in an emotional reaction to your story. This is known as the catharsis, a meaningful emotional response. I believe it’s not so much a purging as it is a movement within a person’s psyche.

Finally, you need to set up two key questions for your story:

1. What is your character’s “path to satisfaction”? In Chinatown it is Jake Gittes’ drive to bring down Noah Cross and expose the land-grab scheme that will steal the city’s water supply. This “Path to Satisfaction” is a lousy idea for the protagonist, but he/she doesn’t know that. It’s the thing they must do to get satisfaction. It’s not until the end of the story that they understand what they should have done in the first place!

2. What is the real change your character experiences? Jake Gittes learns that he’s cursed with a good heart and a lousy head. He’s done this before; he’s tried to do good, but it ends up hurting someone close to him. And now, once again, tragedy. “Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown,” as one of his associates tells him. It’s you (the main character) . . . and you can’t do a damn thing about it.

And here is what I call the screenwriter’s mission. This will make the conflict in your story continuous and create the tension you need to keep the energy level going. Put this somewhere visible or get a brass plaque made and hang it near your workspace (I would recommend tattooing it to the backs of each hand, a la Night of the Hunter):

Your protagonist struggles for satisfaction (the “plot”)

but . . .

the writer is going to

teach this character a lesson that will last (the “story”).

“Putting It in the Box”: A Screenplay Is Like a Chair — You Gotta Be Able to Sit in It!

Everybody knows how a movie works. There’s a beginning, a middle, and an end. A good story. Humor me and forget about watches. Let’s talk about furniture. A good story is like a good chair. It has legs. It has a seat and a back; sometimes it has arms. But fundamentally, anybody who uses it needs to sit in it. Some are more comfortable in your chair than in others. That’s the way it goes sometimes. But when you’re looking for a good chair, you really know what you’re looking for. You’re not looking for something you cannot sit in! You will choose the one that’s as comfortable as you can find and/or fits in with your home or office.

Same with your story. It needs to be identifiable as a story. It must adhere to the ages-old requirements that have worked for over two thousand years.

It also has to be different enough for people to say, for example: “I’m excited at this new approach to Romeo and Juliet. How’s this sound: New York’s Hell’s Kitchen, the 1950s, Puerto Rican and white teenage gangs killing each other for supremacy in a run-down urban neighborhood. But the love affair between two of them causes tragedy.” Or, “I like this bank robbery movie about a guy who just needs one last score and then he’ll marry the neighborhood girl he’s been in love with since grade school.”

Sure, we’ve seen them before. Yet, we can create variations on these stories ad infinitum. A chair is a chair, yet there are so many different kinds of chairs!

So, don’t not make any old chair. But make your chair and make a chair that works.

This is something I call “Putting It in the Box.” It means you must create a recognizable story. The script must have the traditional elements that all stories are made up of. Like a chair: legs, a seat, and a back. When someone reads your script he/she will say, “It’s a script. There are problems we need to fix, but on the whole, this is a sound story with recognizable elements.”