Alan Watt's Blog - Posts Tagged "90-day-screenplay"
Hold the Story Loosely
“Film is a dramatized reality and it is the director’s job to make it appear real . . . an audience should not be conscious of technique.”
- David Lean
Our idea of the story is never the whole story. The act of writing a screenplay is a way of developing a coherent narrative for something that began as a simple idea or image. We are piecing together a series of emotional experiences that lead to a transformation. The plot, the “stuff that happens,” grows out of these experiences. It’s sort of like climbing a mountain and then looking back and wondering “How did I get here?” We write to retrace our steps as a document or emotional map for others to follow.
Think about any well-told story, from Casablanca to The 40-Year Old Virgin. Underneath the plot lies an emotional arc for the protagonist. Whether it is his journey from fear to love, or from ignorance to wisdom, what we create as artists is often a byproduct of our own individual growth. At the heart of our creation is a search for meaning.
It is important as we write the first draft that we continue to hold our story loosely. This means that we are always open to new and more specific ways of expressing what wants to be channeled through us. For example, I might be certain that a particular scene must occur in order to move my story forward, yet as I begin to write it I discover that it does not want to be written as I had imagined it. It is important that I don’t force it, but rather, that I become curious about the essence of what I want to express.
By holding my ideas loosely, the truth can emerge. I used to be amazed as I watched a story reveal itself to me on the page. I would revel at the infinite number of ways I could get the story wrong. It felt like I was walking a tight rope and all I had to do was make one wrong choice and my story would collapse. It seemed so precarious, impossible even.
When our first draft is approached from this analytical perspective, it is impossible. Yet, haven’t we all had the experience of losing a piece of writing and having to rewrite it? Then later, we find the original, only to discover how much of it we had actually retained? It is alarming. The story was not residing in our brain. It sprang from a much deeper place. We were not required to remember it, as we may have fretted. Our stories are stored somewhere in our DNA. They live fully and completely within us. When we relax and hold it loosely, it is revealed to us.
- David Lean
Our idea of the story is never the whole story. The act of writing a screenplay is a way of developing a coherent narrative for something that began as a simple idea or image. We are piecing together a series of emotional experiences that lead to a transformation. The plot, the “stuff that happens,” grows out of these experiences. It’s sort of like climbing a mountain and then looking back and wondering “How did I get here?” We write to retrace our steps as a document or emotional map for others to follow.
Think about any well-told story, from Casablanca to The 40-Year Old Virgin. Underneath the plot lies an emotional arc for the protagonist. Whether it is his journey from fear to love, or from ignorance to wisdom, what we create as artists is often a byproduct of our own individual growth. At the heart of our creation is a search for meaning.
It is important as we write the first draft that we continue to hold our story loosely. This means that we are always open to new and more specific ways of expressing what wants to be channeled through us. For example, I might be certain that a particular scene must occur in order to move my story forward, yet as I begin to write it I discover that it does not want to be written as I had imagined it. It is important that I don’t force it, but rather, that I become curious about the essence of what I want to express.
By holding my ideas loosely, the truth can emerge. I used to be amazed as I watched a story reveal itself to me on the page. I would revel at the infinite number of ways I could get the story wrong. It felt like I was walking a tight rope and all I had to do was make one wrong choice and my story would collapse. It seemed so precarious, impossible even.
When our first draft is approached from this analytical perspective, it is impossible. Yet, haven’t we all had the experience of losing a piece of writing and having to rewrite it? Then later, we find the original, only to discover how much of it we had actually retained? It is alarming. The story was not residing in our brain. It sprang from a much deeper place. We were not required to remember it, as we may have fretted. Our stories are stored somewhere in our DNA. They live fully and completely within us. When we relax and hold it loosely, it is revealed to us.
Setting Up the Argument
Story is an argument. The theme (or dramatic question) is the thesis statement, and the story is the argument played out. Any argument requires opposing forces. These forces manifest as our antagonists. Antagonists are any characters that stand in the way of our hero getting what he wants. Antagonists are not necessarily villains. In the movie Big, Josh Baskin’s parents inhibit his idea of independence by insisting he take out the garbage. They embarrass him by taking his picture at the fairgrounds when he tries to impress the pretty girl. Josh wishes he were big. That would solve everything . . . or so he thinks.
Big is a story we have seen countless times. It’s a story of wish-fulfillment. “If I were bigger, my life would be perfect.” To explore this argument, we must create a situation for the question to get played out, and we must have antagonists to illustrate the fallacy.
Becoming big is a metaphor. We all understand the feeling of being not enough, of wanting to be different in order to feel OK. In Act One, Josh is an average 13-year-old kid. What he struggles with is universal: he wants to be a grown up. On page ten, he gets his wish with a Zoltar machine . . . and he is terrified! His mother doesn’t know who he is – believing he is an intruder, she chases him out of the house with a butcher knife. This is the setup of the argument. Frightened and lonely, Josh goes into the city to find the Zoltar machine so he can return home. Was this wish worth it, he wonders? What has he gotten himself into? Complications ensue. It is going to take four to six weeks for the paperwork to get processed so that the city can tell him where the Zoltar machine is. Now what? He makes a decision to get a job. He is going to stay in the city and adapt to his new situation. End of Act One.
Act One is the setup of the argument leading to the hero’s decision. At the end of Act One, Josh is going to accept his wish and learn how to live in the “big” world.
Let’s be curious about the argument we are setting up. The argument is presented early on (around page three to five) as a dramatic question. This is done through action. We see Josh’s predicament and we understand his wish. We feel for him as we watch him struggle with his embarrassment at not being allowed on the ride because of his size. Following the inciting incident, we watch our hero respond to his new situation. What is he going to do? How is he going to make his situation workable? This is the second half of our first act. Let’s be curious about how we can show our hero dealing with this new situation.
Your fellow writer,
Al
Big is a story we have seen countless times. It’s a story of wish-fulfillment. “If I were bigger, my life would be perfect.” To explore this argument, we must create a situation for the question to get played out, and we must have antagonists to illustrate the fallacy.
Becoming big is a metaphor. We all understand the feeling of being not enough, of wanting to be different in order to feel OK. In Act One, Josh is an average 13-year-old kid. What he struggles with is universal: he wants to be a grown up. On page ten, he gets his wish with a Zoltar machine . . . and he is terrified! His mother doesn’t know who he is – believing he is an intruder, she chases him out of the house with a butcher knife. This is the setup of the argument. Frightened and lonely, Josh goes into the city to find the Zoltar machine so he can return home. Was this wish worth it, he wonders? What has he gotten himself into? Complications ensue. It is going to take four to six weeks for the paperwork to get processed so that the city can tell him where the Zoltar machine is. Now what? He makes a decision to get a job. He is going to stay in the city and adapt to his new situation. End of Act One.
Act One is the setup of the argument leading to the hero’s decision. At the end of Act One, Josh is going to accept his wish and learn how to live in the “big” world.
Let’s be curious about the argument we are setting up. The argument is presented early on (around page three to five) as a dramatic question. This is done through action. We see Josh’s predicament and we understand his wish. We feel for him as we watch him struggle with his embarrassment at not being allowed on the ride because of his size. Following the inciting incident, we watch our hero respond to his new situation. What is he going to do? How is he going to make his situation workable? This is the second half of our first act. Let’s be curious about how we can show our hero dealing with this new situation.
Your fellow writer,
Al
