I don’t want to fall into the trap of stereotyping actors. Yet, as evinced from his style of writing, Laurence is more concerned with creating an esoteric emotion rather than relaying a clarity of thought. This may be an approach that satisfies the author, but it leaves the reader feeling puzzled. Confessions of an Actor reads like the product of an actor with a frazzled brain, who isn’t interested in details or clarity. It’s difficult to turn the pages when you haven’t made much sense of the page you’re on. In the end, Laurence only seems to be a shadow of the larger than life roles he played.

I was hoping to find some deep insight from this mighty thespian and occasional director. Instead, I spent most of the time reading passages over again trying to figure out what he was talking about. Does he even have a point? What is this chapter about? Is there any purpose to this book? These questions kept coming up as I read.

Confessions of an Actor puts things together with no sense of chronology or relatedness. The greatest revelation into Laurence’s work is his penchant for changing his appearance with a fake nose to help him find the character he is trying to become. I finished the book disappointed that he didn’t fill it with that special magical light he brings to movies.

John Huston, on the other hand, is a natural and gifted storyteller. An Open Book is basically one great story after another. Each chapter reads like a movie, ending with either a significant observation or a cliffhanger moment that keeps you enthusiastically turning the pages. John’s life is anything but dull. This is a veritable collection of rip roaring adventures from a man who truly did great things. When he relates his war experiences, or opinions of the anti-communist blacklisting in Hollywood, you really feel you are listening to an authority figure.

When I read an autobiography, I want to read honest accounts that let me into a bygone era. John shares his great admiration for his many friends and speaks modestly about his own achievements. He never sounds apologetic about his shortcomings either. Even when he glosses over a significant part of his life, he does it with flair. There is a picture in the photo section of his adopted Mexican son, Pablo. This is a great story that is only afforded two paragraphs. Throughout the book there isn’t a trace of bitterness for things that didn’t turn out favorably.

After reading both these books, I asked myself who I’d rather sit down and have dinner with. The answer of course is John Huston. Laurence’s writing makes the actor seem stuffy and a bit insecure. He’s neither elegant or enlightening with his words. John is a master storyteller who knows how to keep his audience captivated. Dinner with him every night of the week would be a real treat.

Fortunately, I put the book aside for a while, and came back to re-read slowly, digesting each paragraph carefully. What we actually have here, is a nice novel size guide to screenwriting that every screenwriter should keep within arms reach.

I don’t really subscribe to any one screenwriting guru or trainer. (Although I do like Robert McKee’s Story a lot). I think screenwriting is something that cannot be taught; but it can be learned. Anyone who is serious about writing films should immerse themselves in the world of screenwriting. For that reason, I read just about every reputable book on the topic.

Syd Field’s Screenplay is definitely aimed at a more general, beginner audience. But don’t let that deter you from dipping into this book. Many of his ideas can be found in the works of different writers under different names. For example, McKee talks about the successful Inciting Incident as having a set-up and a payoff. In Syd’s view, they are two separate events: the inciting incident and the key incident. Anyway you look at it, it’s reassuring to know that two respected experts have arrived at similar conclusions independently.

Syd’s writing is unavoidably a bit repetitive. That serves to remind me that he is writing for a more general audience. But what he’s really trying to do is emphasize just how crucial those points are to a successful screenplay. Screenplay comes across as a light read the first time around. But if you go back to it and treat it as a serious read, digesting each point carefully, you will be impressed by Syd’s knowledge and insight. The newer edition makes use of many examples from contemporary cinema, and that can only be an added comfort for younger readers discovering Syd’s work for the first time.

This is actually the only book of Syd’s I’ve read. But the writing style is warm enough that I would consider reading anything else by him. It’s good work. This book is sure to be on my shelf until it falls apart, and then I’ll immediately order the latest edition.

Five Screenplays by Preston Sturges is much more than an anthology of classic forties film scripts. This rather heavy compilation reaches a class that other published collections of scripts don’t even approach. In all honesty, it does for scripts what The Norton Shakespeare does for the Bard. Each script is prefaced with a well researched academic essay. The essays meticulously examine the original sources for each script, and relying on papers from the Sturges Library, trace the development of each story through its various drafts. As a writer of dramatic work, this kept sending me back to the introduction after finishing each script. The story development that occurs between each draft follows something akin to a story arch. It’s indispensable insight and analysis for a writer who is going to complete more than one draft of anything.

There is also an excellent thirty page introduction by Brian Henderson, which outlines Preston’s rise and examines his work. It also serves to illustrate the dynamics of the world in which he worked.

And let’s not forget the scripts themselves. Included are scripts for some of the finest films Hollywood produced in the early forties: The Great McGinty (1940), Christmas In July (1940), The Lady Eve (1941), Sullivan’s Travels (1942) and Hail The Conquering Hero (1944).

This is a fairly heavy book to lug around. I originally started this out as my bathroom book, where I could digest a few reviews each visit. The reading was compelling enough that I soon graduated it to the bedside table where I could read more without making frequent trips to the commode.

5001 Nights offers much more than light reading and entertainment. The short and snappy reviews make excellent, extra-cirrucular reading for screenwriters. Many readers complain that just about every review is a bad one. Pauline sure doesn’t mince her words when she’s trashing something that has been passed down to us as a classic. But as mentioned by William Shawn in the foreword: “when she thinks that a picture has failed, she becomes so intent on getting to the bottom of what went wrong.”

That’s the rewarding part of this book. After a short 2 or 3 paragraphs, you know what the story is about, who starred in it, how it was made and what significance the film has. Personally, I’ve found reading and re-reading this book has helped me avoid many storytelling traps. It has also helped me get better at summing up my own writing in a few sentences. After all, when someone asks you what you’re writing, you only have about 3 or 4 sentences to get your idea across before their eyes start glazing over and they wish they hadn’t asked.

This is a great book of short film criticisms. It illustrates that the role of the critic is not to tear down films, but help future filmmakers and writers learn from the mistakes others have already made.

Paddy Chayefsky is a writer whose name gets mentioned a lot. As well as being a playwright he also worked in television for many years before turning to screenwriting. The Collected Works of Paddy Chayefsky: The Screenplays Volume 2 includes The Hospital (1971), Network (1976) and Altered States (1980). His 1976 script Network is ranked number eight on the Writer’s Guild of America, West’s 101 Greatest Screenplays, making this collection required reading for any screenwriter.

I more or less enjoyed reading these scripts, taking many positive things from each of them, even if my review leans towards the negative. Reading through these scripts I couldn’t help but feel that the writing belongs to another time. In terms of style, technique and convention, there isn’t much to help today’s screenwriter. My biggest complaint is the amount of directing done on the page. Perhaps if you are a brilliant satirist like Paddy you can get away with it, but there are countless descriptions of set-ups, camera moves, and POV shots that it becomes distracting to read. It’s nearly impossible to remain in the world of the story when you’re constantly being reminded that this is a blueprint for a movie. An example from Network:

• CAMERA PANS, DOLLIES out of their bedroom and into…

Sometimes so many details are given that the director won’t be left with much choice when it comes to blocking or camera position. He’ll simply have to move the actors around like objects on stage, leaving very little room to interpret the action. Not everything is going to work as written, and there are times when a director has to improvise to bring a scene to life. These scripts are written in a way that makes this kind of collaboration unlikely.

Another technique appearing in each script, the use of narration, seems somewhat ineffective. In Network, the narration is great. It works because it recurs throughout the story, and comments ironically on what is happening on screen, rather than explaining the action. The Hospital and Altered States both have narration that falls flat. It doesn’t work in these scripts because it is only used once during the opening sequence. The narration may help set things up but when it doesn’t return later in the script, it seems like an annoying convenience. Another irritating bit is a flashback sequence in The Hospital. Again, this technique is only used once and in a way that doesn’t strengthen the script by adding anything new to the story.

At times, the frequent use of expository language gets a little too literary for a script. Here’s an example from Altered States:

Literary:

• The creature is no bigger than Ortega’s own nine-year-old son, but it is fierce…

Ortega is a very minor character and the extraneous information about his family disrupts the flow of things. Not only is it something we can’t see or hear, but it’s a rather irrelevant description. It might help an actor or director visualize a scene, but it does nothing for the audience. This novelistic style of writing breaks the reader right out of the flow of the story.

On the good side, what I have taken from these scripts is an appreciation for writers who have a great ear for conversation. Paddy is one of those writers that recreates the way people really talk, even if the scene is one of improbable events where characters are required to say ludicrous sounding things. Things always seem to come out sounding like a natural conversation. An example from Altered States:

• JESSUP
• If I come out of that tank anthropoid, I’ll be in a very primitive consciousness and impossible to relate to, so sedate me while I’m still in the tank. Otherwise, you’ll have to chase me around and subdue me.

It’s absurd dialog that could be hard for actors to deliver and sound credible, but Paddy has written something that is deliverable, and believable.

I read a lot of classic scripts from the 30s and 40s. The older conventions and formatting are considerably different from what is expected of today’s writer, but they still reveal a lot about good storytelling. Paddy is an unconventional writer telling unconventional stories. These scripts should be required reading for anyone writing for film today. While admiring his unique brilliance, we can look for ways to find our own voices without straying too far from today’s strict formatting requirements.