14
Genetics
► Story Problems Inherent in the Screenplay
Inherited Traits
When it comes to human ailments, scientists remind us that many maladies are caused by bad habits, such as smoking, overeating, and lack of exercise. But a significant percentage of all disease has nothing to do with lifestyle issues. Unfortunately, some people can eat a vegan diet, run five miles a day, and never smoke, yet still contract heart disease, cancer, or other afflictions, often the same as their parents or grandparents. These hereditary ills are passed down through the genes, encoded with defective chromosomal structures that tick like a clock waiting for the moment when they will burst onto the scene. Where do these come from? It is hard to say; maybe back in the dark recesses of one’s ancestry. We all, to a greater or lesser extent, benefit and suffer the influence of genetic traits. In terms of filmmaking, the screenplay is the heritage for all narrative motion pictures.
In the chromosome-like words dispersed across the screenplay page, the structure of the future living film is determined. If something goes amiss here, it will eventually have repercussions somewhere else. That is why it is crucial to have a well worked out screenplay before the cameras roll. It is also why the shooting script often looks different from the original script, which had good characters, a unique premise, compelling action, and a satisfying ending. It worked well enough to be sold and to convince producers and distributors that it was worth investing immense amounts of money and time. Then, as other creative people became involved—the actors, director, cinematographer, production designer, and so on—new ideas began to emerge. These ideas became colored pages, first blue, then pink, then yellow, and so on until, many revisions and perhaps a writer or two later, the final shooting script appears, complete with numbered scenes and a production company’s name stamped on it. At this point the script has evolved into as near a perfect document as possible. Through countless hours of writing and rewriting, with input from other sources, it has acquired a kind of god-like grandeur that, at times, appears more than human. How could one person sit down and write such a marvel? Even if the credit rightfully remains solely with the original writer, he has had the advantage and disadvantage of countless ideas and revisions. Yet this is only the beginning.
Unlike a novel, poem, or short story, which are ends in themselves, a screenplay is an outline for something larger. In fact, producers and directors often scoff at screenplays that offer too vivid and literary descriptions or that seek to outline the action too specifically. The best screenplays are sparse on description and allow the characters and dialogue to speak for themselves.
To complete its life cycle, however, the script has to be shot. And what is shot must be edited. And here is the rub. Some scripts that look brilliant on paper do not translate well to film. In fact, the more literary the script, the harder it may be to translate onto film. Depending on the producer and writer, some scripts are better refined than others. Studio films, because they have access to the top writers in Hollywood and the money to pay for them, often derive from painstakingly crafted scripts. They’re high concept with complex plots, subplots, and clever subtextual dialogue. Yet they sometimes suffer from lack of daring or originality. A vintage cartoon shows a studio executive seated behind his massive desk and tossing a script back to the hapless writer slumped in his chair on the other side of the desk. The caption reads: “We can’t do this. It’s never been done before.”
Independent screenplays, on the other hand, may suffer from less experienced writers, tighter completion schedules, and a minimum of budget, critique, and input. Yet films like The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover (1989); Sex, Lies and Videotape (1989); El Mariachi (1992); Pulp Fiction (1994); The Blair Witch Project (1999); Slumdog Millionaire (2008), and countless others issue from parents with independent sensibilities. In the end, all screenplays end up as dailies on an editing machine somewhere. Yet, because a screenplay is not the end product, it mutates like a salmon as it swims upstream through the driving currents of production and postproduction. And as it mutates, those questionable genes that lay dormant in its structure begin to emerge. In some cases, they corrupt the body of the film. Despite all the time and attention that went into nurturing it, vaccinating it, feeding it organic pabulum, and taking it to the best schools, the script may go astray. Editors are often amazed how the problems that emerge on the Avid were never caught before entering the editing room. In a strange way, however, the problems may not have existed before then. They lay dormant, waiting to be visualized and turned into something tangible that can be seen, heard, and discussed.
But sometimes story problems of a more chronic nature rear their heads following production. Here, the editor or film doctor must resort to all the tools in his black bag to solve the issue and forward the story. One such case occurred during the editing of the indie film Horseplayer (1990), starring Brad Dourif (see Case Study).
Evolution
Movies evolve. From the initial genetic material, that kernel of an idea, the film passes through various mutations. Each of the main creative participants has his or her approach to the material. The writer envisions the story from a blank page. She populates it with characters tormented by deep needs and overwhelming obstacles. She drives the plot toward an exciting climax and resolution. She gives birth to the beast. The director and director of photography transform the writer’s words into performance and images through well-conceived camerawork. The actors and settings bring life to the dormant words upon the page. And the editor takes all those images, all the action and dialogue, and shapes them into a compelling structure propelled by a strong pace and rhythm.
Romeo & Juliet
One of the best and most blatant examples of this is Baz Luhrmann’s version of William Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet (1996). Using the classic text of the timeless love story that was written for the Globe stage over 400 years ago, Luhrmann re-envisioned the opening scene to take place in a gas station among gangsters who wield mean-looking guns called Swords (to correspond with the bard’s line “put down your swords”). The ensuing confrontation is described in Shakespeare’s first folio with merely two words: They fight. Luhrmann, along with his production and costume designers, Catherine Martin and Kym Barrett, took those two words and developed a spectacular array of primary-colored costumes, pimped-out cars, fast-moving cameras, chilling images, and powerful performances.
The editor, Jill Bilcock, took the raw footage and built it into a highly compelling scene—a cascade of sights and sounds incorporating live action, titles, graphics, music, and sound effects. The sound editors, sound designer, and composer reinforced those cuts with dramatic sound and music. The crunching of a steel boot heel against a wooden matchstick resting upon cement is a particularly stunning and simple piece of sound design. The images fly past, the pace intensifies, and the cutting erupts with the same explosive quality as the on-camera explosions.
Through a scene such as this we see how the translation process nurtures the film, coaxing it through various stages of development like a child growing into an adult. Finally, it is released into the world.
Case Study
The first feature film I edited by myself, Horseplayer, came from a cleverly conceived script by the film’s director, a keen observer of human nature. It contained all the elements of a good indie film: unique, intriguing characters, edgy dialogue, quirky plotlines, a strong existential theme, and a minimum of locations obtainable on a small budget. It had a thought-provoking theme about the power and selfishness of art and artists.
The story centers on a fellow, Bud, who likes to play the horses but, it seems, has a shady past. When the story opens he’s working in a liquor store run by George Samsa (wonderfully portrayed by Vic Tayback), a large fatherly boss with a quasi–Middle Eastern accent. Bud works hard trying to maintain his fragile stability, aided by the kindly boss who looks out for him, even bothering to remind him to check in with his parole officer. Along comes a young couple, Matthew and Randi, played by Michael Harris and Sammi Davis (the darling English actress who eventually became the director’s wife). Matthew is an artist who paints wild, impassioned canvases, while his girlfriend, whom he portrays to others as his sister, helps raise funds for his artistic endeavors. In the horseplayer Matthew discovers a prime subject for his art. He insinuates himself into his life, even to the point of giving him his “sister” and secretly stealing articles of his clothing. As their obsessive relationship builds, the girlfriend uses her association with Bud to bilk money from him, a couple of hundred dollars at first, then more (see Case Study, Chapter 12, p. 192). This money helps buy the paint, canvases, and brushes that the artist uses in his artistic study of this strange character. Bud would rather just be left alone, but this nefarious couple is relentless. As they continue to prey on him, they steal not only his money but his soul. Eventually, the girlfriend pops the big question: “I need more money … two thousand dollars.” The horseplayer informs her that he doesn’t have that kind of money, but not wanting to lose her affections, he promises her he can get it. He intends to borrow it from his employer.
In a crucial scene, the increasingly unstable horseplayer returns to the liquor store and asks his boss for the money. When George informs him that he doesn’t have $2000, Bud doesn’t believe him. He demands that he open the safe. At this juncture a critical plot point occurs. The two get into an argument, and, according to the script and the dailies, Bud lifts a figurine off the counter, threatens the unrelenting boss, and then clobbers him to death with it. Then he drags the body out to his car, tosses it in the trunk, and speeds off to the L.A. River, where he stows it among heaps of trash in one of the alcoves along the graffitied cement banks of this urban tributary. As the body flops into the refuse, we notice the hand of another of Bud’s victims lying close by. It is a fairly intriguing and grisly scene but not appropriate to the story as it was developed.
As I was cutting the film, I plowed into this scene. Everything stopped. Up to this point I’d been involved in the tale, sympathizing with this hapless loser, Bud, who was trying to get his life together while being preyed upon by a nasty, egomaniacal artist and his girlfriend. My other sympathies were with the liquor store owner, a decent enough guy who’d basically acted as a surrogate father to his troubled employee who’d been abused by his own father. A good little story. But now the dailies were asking me to kill off a character I liked, a character whose murder would instantly destroy any empathy I had for the perpetrator, Bud. After all, George had been kind enough to hire an ex-con, pay him a decent salary, look out for him, and befriend him. The one who deserved the horseplayer’s vengeance was the evil artist. But what was one to do? This was the film, as shot. And, considering the low budget, there was no money for reshoots.
I called the producers and the director and discussed these issues with them. We all agreed that we’d taken a wrong turn and that somehow we needed to get the story back on track. But how? We had to cut out the murder. Once we cut out the murder, a major lift, we had to cut out the following scene where Bud drags the body to the car. And the scene after that where the body is dumped by the river also had to go. But if you cut out the murder scene entirely, you were left with some major gaps. First, what happened to Bud’s promise that he’d try to get the money? Second, why wasn’t the boss in any of the film’s subsequent scenes? Third, why didn’t Bud ever return to the liquor store?
This is the issue that one often encounters when it comes to making lifts. As much as some scenes might appear to slow the film down or smack the plot’s trajectory in the wrong direction, they often contain bits of valuable information. Otherwise the writer probably wouldn’t have included them. So, in the case of Horseplayer, what could we do to maintain the audience’s sympathy for the protagonist, their distrust of the antagonist, and their connection to the story in general?
Where the Answer Lies
As is usually the case, the answer resided in the dailies. I watched the dailies over and over, searching for a solution. One finally made itself known. There was one take where the camera operator hadn’t heard the director call “Cut!” and had waited to turn off the camera. By some wonderful fortune, it was the scene where Bud yells at his boss, brandishing the figurine and threatening to kill him with it. At “Cut” the actor broke character, lowered the figurine, relaxed his emotions, and turned away. That was all that was needed to recut the film. The initial scene would remain. It would still escalate in the same way, the two men shouting back and forth, one demanding the money and the other insisting that he didn’t have it and ultimately firing the other from his job. Then, at that crucial moment, the moment when all seems lost, the moment when Bud raises the weapon and is about to bring the porcelain figurine crashing down upon his boss’s bald skull, he realizes what he’s doing. He realizes that he’s relapsed into his old ways, that he’s about to murder a man he truly likes, that he’s been defeated by his own desires and lack of ability. He lowers the figurine and turns away as his boss, in a close-up, growls at him that he’s a “punk, a dirty snot-nosed punk.”
At that point, rather than losing all sympathy for him, the audience feels for the poor horseplayer who had tried to get his life together but had been conned by the artist and his girlfriend and whose impotent rage and attempt to impress the girl has lost him his job. Because of all this, he now endures the further verbal abuse of his boss. It’s all there, without being stated in words, but revealed in a series of cuts. The boss’s last line was stolen from an earlier part of the scene where he curses Bud in a medium shot. The close-up was held in reserve until the very end of the scene where it could be most effective and, considering the change in angle and reading, it appeared to belong to that part of the scene.
The actual murder, of course, was lifted, as were two subsequent scenes of removing the body under the cloak of night and stowing it by the river. The scene that followed these—Bud pacing his apartment in desperation and confusion—fit perfectly and suddenly had a whole other meaning that the audience was at liberty to infer. We never expect to see the boss or the liquor store again because we saw Bud fired during the altercation, so that solved the issue of the boss’s disappearance from the film. And, since the boss never gave Bud the $2000, a later scene where Bud tells Randi, “I couldn’t get the money,” remains unaltered. All the anger and frustration that has brewed in Bud’s character is eventually unleashed, and the artist gets his comeuppance. When the artist’s body is tossed in the rubble beside the L.A. River, it was simply a matter of enlarging the frame to remove George’s body, who, through the magic of editing, has survived to sell more Jack Daniels.
This helps illustrate one of the more extreme, but hardly rare, applications of cinematic surgery: the use of lifts to enhance and clarify a story’s meaning and character while keeping focused on the movie’s spine. In the case of Horseplayer, the film gained the attention of a popular band, The Pixies, who supplied the songs accompanying the edgy score by Garry Schyman. Horseplayer became an Official Selection of the Sundance Film Festival and eventually received a domestic theatrical release, garnering many excellent reviews including from the Los Angeles Times. I doubt this would’ve happened if the murder scene hadn’t been surgically removed in the editing room.
► The Montage
Editing’s ability to expand or contract time becomes evident in the use of the montage. In the world of film time, the montage allows filmmakers to show a progression of events that would take too long if pictured in detail. In some cases the script includes a montage as part of its original concept. In other cases the montage enters the film in postproduction as a solution to matters neglected in the script or to truncate overly long or expository scenes. Either way, the montage is a story element that depends upon execution to make it work. As an editor’s tool the montage can serve many purposes.
As South Park originator Trey Parker wrote in his lyrics to the montage sequence in Team America: World Police (2004), “In anything if you want to go, from just a beginner to a pro, you need a montage.” Some montages, such as the exploits of Max Bialystock (Zero Mostel) in Mel Brook’s classic The Producers (1967) as he bilks old ladies out of their money in order to finance his anticipated flop of a musical, amplify a particular aspect or process. In themselves, the mini-scenes that compose these montages are devoid of the usual arc or development associated with a fully realized scene. They hover on one idea, reinforcing it in an intriguing or, in The Producer’s case, humorous way. Likewise, the news montage in Ghostbusters (1984)—a throwback to the spinning newspaper headline montages of earlier films—begins with a news reporter announcing the team’s exploits and then transitions, via headlines that slide across the screen from USA Today, New York Post, Time, and so on, to shots of the Ghostbusters’ vintage Cadillac racing to haunted locations and other images of the paranormal exterminators in action.
Other montages depict a progression of actions that would prove tedious to watch in their entirety but are informative and even compelling in small doses. The Blind Side (2009) used a progression of images set to Sean Tuohy’s recitation of “The Charge of the Light Brigade” to recall Michael Oher’s development from abandoned child to star athlete.
As with the sugar-coating on a bitter pill, stringing glimpses of nondramatic activities together with dissolves or straight cuts can help them go down easier. This type of montage is common in the getting-to-know-you sequence often found in love stories or romantic comedies. Mindful that the repeated encounters that contribute to intimacy are a necessary part of mating rituals, the writer feels compelled to sketch out multiple cases where the lovers can get to know each other. Unfortunately, quiet dinners and walks on the beach, which may be fascinating to those involved, prove less so to outsiders who view them. So rather than force the viewer to endure the generally conflict-free pleasantries of early courtship, the editor will accelerate the process through a series of brief images culled, at times, from larger scenes.
In the classic “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” montage from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969), Butch Cassidy (Paul Newman) and Etta Place (Katherine Ross) gambol across the Wyoming countryside on a bicycle, pick apples, and enjoy each other’s company in the absence of their mutual friend, Sundance (Robert Redford). In the same film, a montage of sepia photographs depicts Butch, Sundance, and Etta on a sojourn to New York before journeying by steamer to South America. The images’ effectiveness prompted Vincent Canby of The New York Times to write, “The stills tell you so much about the curious and sad relationship of the three people that it’s with real reluctance that you allow yourself to be absorbed again into [the film’s] further slapstick adventures.”1
Other montages fill in important information or backstory by blending a series of incidents. In the animated film Up (2009; Figure 14.1), the audience watches the courtship of a young couple who marry and struggle to achieve their dreams, culminating in the death of the elderly wife. The touching montage is accomplished without dialogue, but underscored with music and sound effects. The events portrayed within the montage serve to launch the surviving spouse on an adventure that encompasses the majority of the movie.
Some montages incorporate a voiceover narration from one of the characters, as in the opening of American Beauty (1999). Or in the middle of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (2002). At this juncture Harry Potter (Daniel Radcliffe) and Tom Marvolo Riddle (Christian Coulson) come upon the inert body of Ginny Weasley (Bonnie Wright) lying beside a pool of water in the Chamber of Secrets. In a flashback montage, 16-year-old Tom reveals answers to all the questions involving Ginny that were raised during the course of the film. While under Riddle’s influence, we see her open the chamber, write messages in blood, and petrify Filch’s cat, Mrs. Norris.
The elemental draw of the montage can be so compelling as to become a setpiece for the entire film. Consider the opening montage in Apocalypse Now (1979) choreographed to The Doors’ song “The End.” Or the riveting ending montage that accompanies the assassination of Robert Kennedy in Bobby (2006). According to editor Richard Chew, it was one of the elements that initially attracted him to the script.2 Chew composed a gripping montage that follows the immediate aftermath of Sirhan Sirhan’s fatal assault set to the powerfully eloquent speech delivered by Robert Kennedy on the occasion of Martin Luther King Jr.’s assassination.
Doctor’s Note
In trying to overcome writer’s block when crafting the script to Bobby, the writer/director Emilio Estevez checked into a hotel in the remote coastal California town of Pismo Beach. While there, he discovered that the woman at the reception desk had been at the Ambassador Hotel the night Kennedy was shot.
► A Telling Story
Syd Field, in his classic book on screenwriting, Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting, points out that audiences are willing to invest in the first ten minutes before judging a film.3 In screenplays it is important to grab the audience from the beginning, while establishing the story problem that must be solved within the last moments of the film. A major problem that arises in screenplays that don’t work well comes from not knowing where to start the story and, once started, not having compelling enough scenes to hold the audience’s attention. Movies and the scenes within them suffer from starting too early into the story or giving too much information up front.
Case Study
Hints of things to come. As in all storytelling, foreshadowing plays a significant role in maintaining the believability and veracity of an edit. In Guardians of the Galaxy (2014), our heroes are finally summoned to The Collector’s inner sanctum by a servant girl, Carina (Ophelia Lovibond). Here the mysterious and highly sought-after orb is finally unlocked, revealing a glowing energy source, the Infinity Stone. In a series of cuts we survey the reactions of the primary characters gathered around the orb. Yet there is also a cut to Carina watching in awe. Why her? Her part is so secondary as to appear insignificant. Yet it is not. Moments later she will reach out and grab the glowing stone, declaring, “I will no longer be your slave,” and then be consumed by the devastating force of the stone.
The single cut to her has prefigured this moment. It sets up her active participation in the scene’s subsequent action by reintroducing her to our senses, by imposing a subconscious question as to the significance of that cut.
Information
Expository dialogue strives to explain rather than allow the characters’ actions to show. Compare the opening scenes of an otherwise well-made film, Taken (2008), with some of its later scenes. The early scenes are used to set up Bryan Mills (Liam Neeson), a former spy, and his problem: He’s divorced from a wife (Famke Janssen) who went off and married a rich businessman (Xander Berkeley) because Bryan didn’t spend enough time with her and her daughter (Maggie Grace). The difference between the scene where we learn that he’s a retired spy and the scene where we learn that he’s estranged from his wife and daughter points to the issues confronting the first ten minutes of a film. The former information is related over a barbecue scene with his beer-drinking buddies. In it there exists basically no dramatic conflict, and the dialogue blatantly explains who these people are. The film really begins to take off in the next scene where Bryan goes to deliver a modest birthday present to his daughter at her extravagant birthday party. The nasty ex-wife tells him to leave the present on the table with the others, and the tension between them becomes immediately palpable.
Good writing leaves out information. It makes the audience crave for more, rather than dulling them by inundating them with facts. It straddles the line between clarity and confusion. In this way some films begin too soon. We see the writer at work, figuring out who his characters are, what their histories are, and where they are going. Sometimes it is best just to cut out those moments or, at least, severely trim them.
Narration, of course, is one of the most blatant forms of exposition. Because essential information is missing from the action in front of us, the filmmakers have chosen to explain it through narration. This works well, generally, in documentaries, where the demands of continuity prove less stringent and because interviews, not dialogue, forward the story. In some cases, narration can work. Look at the opening of American Beauty or Apocalypse Now. Or the ending of Up in the Air (2009). In other cases it demeans the audience’s ability to glean what they need to know from the action. For a prime example of the dangers of exposition, look at Angels and Demons (2009), the first half of which is weighed down with explanations, theories, and blatant messages.
As happens with films that rely on exposition, the emotion can dissipate, leaving the audience disengaged. A film’s message resides in the audience experiencing the outcome of desire, whether the urge to solve a mystery, extract revenge, marry the right person, amass a great fortune, or rule the world. The audience experiences this through identification with the main character or protagonist. The struggles of the main character become their struggles, reflect on challenges in their lives, and, at the resolution, shed light on their own problems.
All these aspects reflect influences of the original story as written. In some cases the movies evolve from an original screenplay. In other cases the story can trace its lineage back to a novel or short story. But in any case, a perceptive editor can help solve the issues of heredity.
RX
Check out a variety of film montages:
- ► Princess Diaries makeover montage
- ► Dirty Dancing falling in love while training montage
- ► Up married life montage
- ► Ghostbusters news montage
- ► The Blind Side college recruitment montage
- ► The Rocky series, especially Rocky IV, training montages
- ► Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets reveal-of-information montage