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Format: 14: Dialogue 10-5-2-0
May 28th, 2010 by paul peditto

Film to me, in its essence, in its ultimate nature, is silent. Music and dialogue are there to fill what is lacking in the image. But you should be able to tell the story with moving pictures alone.”–Takeshi Kitano

“. . . it is true that language and forward movement in the cinema are jolly hard to reconcile. It’s a very, very, difficult thing to do. . . . There is still a place in the cinema for movies that are driven by the human face, and not by explosions and cars and guns and action sequences . . . there’s such a thing as action and speed within thought rather than within a ceaseless milkshake of images.”–David Hare

Find a scene you’ve written with 10 lines of dialogue. Try to write it in 5 lines. If you have 5 lines, try to say what you need to say in 2 lines. If you have 2, say what you must without dialogue.

As a script analyst, one of the first questions I ask, on every page, is purpose of scene. What is the writer trying to accomplish? What is the essence?

Develop the cut instinct.

Go into every scene looking to cut, to clarify. The old adage applies: Less is more. If the scene doesn’t advance plot or character, dump it. If the dialogue runs on and accomplishes little, dump it.

INT. STARBUCKS- DAY.  You’ve written three pages of dialogue for your Starbucks scene and like what you’ve got so far. Only problem is: You don’t realize how long three minutes of screen time is, especially with your characters just sitting at a table talking. Every word is essential though, you’re sure of that. So, for the hell of it, let’s time it out right now. Read every word.

I’ll wait…

Does it read long? Do you need every interchange? Or is there fat to trim? Please don’t forget, actors fill in emotional gaps visually; you don’t have to speak out all meaning and intention. Silence is ok. Actors can play silence. Norma Desmond, Sunset Boulevard

We didn’t need dialogue…we had faces.”

A large part of writing dialogue for movies is the realization that you don’t need to write dialogue. Leave it unspoken. Leave it said in a glance, or a non-glance. Tease the Reader. Withhold information. Make them want to turn the page.

But when dialogue is called for, how do you make it special? How do you get your script by that dreaded demigod, the Hollywood Reader?

Good dialogue makes a sound: Use your ears.

Want to write better dialogue? Use your ears. Painful as it is, you’re going to have to listen to people talk. Real human conversations. Christ! Torture! What you will hear is the glorious mendacity of the human tongue. If you listen, really listen, you will hear:

  • Imperfections
  • Stops & starts
  • Interruption
  • Half-sentences
  • Forgotten thoughts
  • Silences
  • Different rhythms
  • Different tones
  • Stuttering
  • Cursing
  • Street lingo
  • Cultural and social differences
  • Foreign languages
  • Malapropism
  • Repetition

These and many more belong in your dialogue.

What doesn’t belong?

  • Perfectly punctuated sentences.
  • Thesaurus torture, using words no human has ever uttered.
  • Epic monologues
  • Bland table conversations that go on, and on, and…
Format: 13: Subtext
May 20th, 2010 by paul peditto

The said and unsaid. Dialogue and subtext. Symbiotic. Train rails, side by side. The nature of every scene is what is said, and what is really said. Meaning: The essence of the scene, the subtext. What are the actors playing? Have you spoken out every intention and emotion with exposition? Have you left them enough to work with? Let’s look at what to do, and what not to do. First, an example of exposition, the killer of subtext:

INT. DON’S CAR-DAY

DON drives, his pregnant wife DEB, sits in the passenger seat, looking angrily at her husband.

DEB

What’s wrong with you? You’ve been grumpy all week.

DON

Maybe because everything that happened this week has done nothing but frustrate and irritate me.

DEB

Like what?

DON

I’m glad you asked. The first thing is that you’re a week past due date of having our kid. Then my crazy family calls to say that there is a family reunion in Milwaukee. You told my mother that we’d come and now I have to drive 100 miles to Milwaukee instead of relaxing on my day off.

DEB

Are you saying this is my fault? Don’t you remember what you told me? Three years ago to the day! You said you would never go to Milwaukee as long as you lived. You couldn’t face it ever since that episode with Uncle Rocky and the omelet.

DON

I told you about Uncle Rocky and the omelet?

DEB

Yes! But what you never knew was that the same thing happened to me with my Aunt Lucy in the perfume aisle at Marshall’s.

DON

You shopped for perfume at Marshall’s? DEB Yes. I had my own Milwaukee to deal with.

DON

I never knew.

DEB

Now you do.

DON

I need to stop. I’m craving a chili dog.

DEB

Chili dog? That reminds me of that time in Toledo...

Avoid backstory.

Avoid exposition.

Don’t kill subtext.

Leave something for the actor to do. Don’t have your characters speak everything out. When a character speaks about things that happened in the past, it puts the present moment and the present scene on hold. It also puts the audience to sleep. Don’t do it.

Here’s an example of subtext, from Leaving Las Vegas:

INT. SERA’S KITCHEN. LATER THAT DAY

Yuri is tucking into a hearty breakfast. Sera plays with her food.

YURI

This is such a small apartment, Sera. I cannot stay here. We will find a big apartment. You know how much money I can bring you. I belong in... wealth and luxury.

He suddenly looks up from his food and smiles at her.

YURI

Why did you run away from me in Los Angeles?

Sera says nothing.

YURI

Because you are sly. Mmm? You knew all along that there was more money in Las Vegas. Didn’t you?

Sera nervously plays with her food.

YURI

You have nothing to fear from me. You know why? Because we belong together, Sera. Don’t we?

Sera forces a smile.

SERA

Yes.

A thousand thoughts through her head, and Sera says almost nothing. With an actress like Elizabeth Shue playing her, the camera will pick this up. The character does not reveal her thoughts to her pimp Yuri. She is silent. She plays with her food. When asked, she offers only a quiet “yes” to Yuri’s plans. The said and unsaid.

Here’s another example, same movie:

INT. SERA’S BEDROOM. LAS VEGAS – DAY

Sera wakes up in bed next to Yuri. She is completely drenched in sweat. A thin shaft o light comes from the crack in the drapes and falls across their bodies. Other than that, the room is in darkness. To get out of bed she would have to climb over him. She lies still. Yuri speaks without opening his eyes...

YURI

You have been lonely?

SERA

I’ve been all right.

YURI

I will keep you safe. We are both older.

He climbs on to her and mounts her. Familiarity.

YURI

You have been lonely?

SERA

I am lonely, Yuri.

He begins thrusting into her.

YURI

Yes... so am I.

Camera move slowly into a tight portrait of Sera.

Sera says it all by not saying it. This is what you want to emulate. One more, from Pleasantville:

He looks at David with pride then suddenly shifts his glance behind him.

MR. JOHNSON

Oh, hello Betty.

BETTY

Hello Bill.

DAVID

Well, look, thanks for coming by. I ... really appreciate it.

Not sure if you remember this scene, but the look between Joan Allen and Jeff Daniels says it all. Which leads us to:

Object Lesson 8: Silence is ok. Actors can play silence.

The Silent Era, decades of movies with minimal or no dialogue. Realize that actors fill in gaps of silence with body language, with eye contact, with physicality. You needn’t say everything on the page. This is where subtext comes into play. Learn this, write subtext, and you will be a better writer.

Structure: 3: The Movie Clock: Linear vs. Non-Linear
May 14th, 2010 by paul peditto

Does your story start at the beginning and run straight through? Do you pick it up late, and double back to tell the tale? Do you go Memento and get completely unconventional?

Think of structure as the movie clock. Conventional stories are told in linear fashion, from 12:01am to midnight. Sure, there can be flashbacks, but these serve to conventionally drive the story forward. An example of this is The Babe. Pick up The Bambino dropped off by daddy at Catholic school. Follow the fat, unpopular boy through school; see him pick up the bat for the first time, his first baseball contract, his time in Boston, then the New York fame, a best-of series of golden moments until his death.

More unconventionally is Tarantino in Pulp Fiction. He uses non-linear structure, agile transpositions in time, advancing story out of order.

How about Citizen Kane? The movie picks up at 11:30pm on the clock, very near the end. Kane’s “Rosebud” death scene leads to the investigation of what the word Rosebud meant, which leads to a linear structure following the life of Kane, the glorious rise and fall. The whole movie, then, is told in linear flashback. The search for the meaning of the word Rosebud doesn’t come full circle until the final image of the sled in the fire. The movie clock chimes midnight, and we have gone full circle.

The method of starting the movie at or near the end is often used. Two old Pacino movies I like to compare structurally are Carlito’s Way and Serpico. They are identical; opening with Pacino shot and on a gurney, one as a PR drug lord, and another as valiant real-life cop Frank Serpico. Both movies show how the men were shot, the story behind the shootings. This is useful when the movie is a real life story. Milk opens the same way. Documentary footage of Milk’s assassination opens the movie. Why? Because it’s common knowledge the man was shot. Everyone paying a ticket knows that. What they didn’t know is the how, the story behind the story. Who was Dan White and how did this terrible event happen? This is what the movie delivers.

Some movies defy conventional structural boundaries. Mulholland Drive and Memento obliterate standard linear storytelling. In the case of Memento, the story of a man with selective memory disease should play out from a tortured, non-linear POV.

When choosing a timeframe for you story, keep in mind there are many patterns beside the standard linear progression. Find what works best for you, and write the hell out of it.

Structure: 2: Don’t Give The Bastards A Reason To Say No
May 6th, 2010 by paul peditto

TV and film work is pure craft. It’s like building a table. No matter how well you build it, how well you carve the legs, it will always be a table. Because I have to outline my TV and film work, because I have to write scripts to the page count, I tend to be less structured in my playwriting. I simply let myself go where I go.”

Sally Nemeth

Screenplay structure is more rigid than, say, a novel, which can be 350 pages or a thousand. A screenplay is regimented. The page-a-minute rule is imperfect, but works as a general guideline. Comedy ideal length should be 90-100 pages. Drama: 100-120.

Yes, I know Benjamin Button went over 2 ½ hours. Lord of The Rings, Apocalypse Now… Many movies go 2+ hours. Those scripts can be 150 pages, so why can’t yours?

Don’t give the bastards a reason to say no.

Charlie Kaufman gets 150 pages if he needs it. David Benioff (Troy) gets 150. David Goyer (Batman Begins, Blade) gets 150. He can also write it in aquamarine crayon or COPPERPLATE GOTHIC BOLD if he chooses. Dude could bind it on seven-hole punch paper with seven brads—literally, he could punch 7-holes in the thing. He’d still get paid. William Goldman uses CUT TO’s as sluglines…why can’t you?

Professionals get away with things you, The Unknown Screenwriter, won’t.

Control what you can control.

Know industry standards. To not care about page count shows no discipline. It’s problematic at best, arrogant at worst. Don’t give the bastards a reason to say no.

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