Paul Hackett

For me, there is something almost as important as keeping a daily writing routine – it is knowing when to break the routine. Creative work is probably the hardest to finish when you’re trying to force yourself. My standard three hours a day, six days a week of writing can at times feel like an attempt to manufacture the goods on an assembly line. A well timed day off works wonders.

Lately it seems as if I’ve been traveling as much as I’ve been working. Travel is the greatest of escapes. It sure beats that other favorite writer’s excuse for not working – cleaning the fridge!

Not only does a trip take me outside the box, it also stimulates me with new ideas and experiences. It’s more likely that a real life situation I wouldn’t get in my regular writing space will produce that key line that transforms a scene and saves the story. Whatever I’m working on, inevitably, turns out better for a little time spent on the road. It’s not always possible to go away mid-project, so I make a point of going somewhere after completing each draft, and again before starting a new one.

I see why the writers from the classic Hollywood era did a lot of their work in hotels. I’m thinking of Robert Riskin writing for Frank Capra in Palm Springs, or Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur churning out scripts for Howard Hawks in Manhattan hotel rooms. For some reason, it’s just easier for me to get work done in hotel rooms. (Yeah I know, the above writers were all notorious for partying it up – but they completed some of their most famous work under those conditions.)

This advice, if it can be termed advice, should come with a warning. Travel can offer some great inspiration; but inspiration only accounts for two percent of a great story. The rest is perspiration – hard work!

When I settle into the hotel room after a long day of activity, I can do a whole day’s work in less time than usual. Most of the time the work is better too. If I had to guess, I’d say it has to do with the fact that while my mind was busy doing other things, the subconscious had all day to work on the story by itself. We writers carry our stories around with us for a long time, sometimes years. The mind simply can’t put it to rest because you’ve gone into escape mode. As Graham Greene wrote in Ways of Escape, “the unconscious collaborates in all our work.” I think I’ll have more to say about this later.

I’m glad I read Syd Field’s Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting twice before reviewing it. After only reading it once I probably would have said it was a bit patronizing, repetitive and not very insightful.

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.

Graham Greene once wrote:

The second-rate cinema mind has always been attracted to symbolism – the apple blossom falling in the rain, the broken glass, all the sham poetic ways of avoiding the direct statement, which demands some insight into the way men really act.

In the same piece, he describes the overused technique of filming an old man about to die. Rather than showing his death, the camera settles on the stylus of a gramophone scraping at the end of the record.

I agree completely with Graham in his take on symbolism. The trouble with symbols is that they invite clichés. An artist that uses a grand symbol may think he is being pretty clever. He may even fool himself into believing that he is doing something that has never been done before. Of course, everything has been done before and then done again. Today’s screenwriter knows that avoiding clichés is an essential part of good writing. Without any completely original ideas to work from, many writers like to start with a cliché and turn it on its head. They will write something a little different by defying an expectation. In any case, the result should be far more interesting that resorting to symbolism. A writer will never have cause to pat themselves on the back for coming up with a clever symbol.

I’ve always been a believer in the power of procrastination. It can be a writer’s best friend. If you are truly committed to your story, putting things off is not necessarily the worst thing you could do. As long as you are thinking about your story all the time, and completing the required number of pages every day, waiting as long as possible before writing those pages may be a good thing.

I believe that when we invest so much of ourselves in a story that it consumes our every waking thought, the subconscious starts to take over. When we are not actively thinking about it, the subconscious continues working out problems and essential details. The more time the subconscious has to work on things, the clearer the results will be.

My favorite ways of procrastinating are walking and sleeping. Taking long walks is a meditative experience. While the exercise raises your heart rate, your legs are the only part of your body working and in need of more oxygen. The leftover extra oxygen that is produced then goes to your brain and you end up thinking more clearly than usual. Many a story problem can be solved with a leisurely walk. In any given day, I actually spend more time walking that writing. But when I do sit down to write, I always know what to say, because it’s been in my mind for hours.

You should never procrastinate to the point where you don’t get any work done. Set a deadline and make sure you write the required number of pages every day so you meet that deadline. But don’t worry that waiting as long as possible before putting the words on the page is going to hurt your writing. Take your time and meet your deadlines. It will all work out.

There is an interesting interview with screenwriter John August about creativity at the cecil vortex website. Here’s a great excerpt:

CV: How do you think being a screenwriter shapes the way you take in the world today?

JA: I certainly find myself looking for motivation, in the dramatic sense. Motivation is the answer to questions like, “Why is this character doing this thing right now? What does he actually want?” I find that I don’t get flustered or frustrated by assholes as much anymore, largely because I redirect my energy at figuring out why they’re acting a certain way. Basically, I look at people as characters, often ones who have no idea where their story is going.

There are times in life when I also start to see real people as characters in a story that is still unfolding. And this usually happens when they are being assholes. We all know from screenplays that characters don’t often know what they want. The question is, am I unearthing their real motivation, or am I manufacturing one from a writer’s point of view?

It’s been a while since I directed. My last film was Not Much, and that was a few years ago. But I remember in detail some of the problems we faced in pre-production. In particular, I remember sitting around with the cast during rehearsals and trying to discover the inner workings of their roles. One day, instead of going over the scenes line by line, we just sat around and talked about the characters themselves. I probably should have had a series of questions prepared but I could only think of one thing to ask: “What is your character most afraid of?”

It ended up being the right question, and it is now one that as a writer I ask all the time. Before doing anything with a character, whether major or minor, I come up with an answer to this question. It always helps me determine what kind of person I am dealing with, and how they will behave in any situation. In a lot of really great movies, a character’s behavior and actions says much more than the words they use.

At the moment I am reading through Syd Field’s Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting. In a few chapters, Syd draws examples from an interview he did with screenwriting legend Robert Towne in the 1970s. When asked how he goes about creating characters, Robert replied that the first question he often asks himself is “What is this character afraid of?” Syd then applies this to the character of Jake Gittes in Chinatown (1974). It’s an interesting anecdote and a useful lesson. Jack Nicholson’s character is clearly born out of his deep-seated fear of appearing foolish or not being taken seriously.

Syd’s analysis reassured me that I am already on the right track for creating characters. By first determining what someone fears most, you are unlocking the characters psyche that will manifest itself in every word and action that finds its way onto the page. Even though most people will do their best to hide their fears, hiding something is also a form of behavior. That contradiction is something that a good writer can illustrate in a well-thought out script. It certainly works out that way in Chinatown.

The publication of Five Screenplays by Preston Sturges is a real treat for anyone with more than a passing interest in screenwriting. Preston was quite simply one of Hollywood’s greatest writer-directors, and the scripts included here give clear evidence as to why.

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).

Pauline Kael’s 5001 Nights At The Movies is not meant to be a complete guide to movies, but rather an overview of what cinema can do. Containing over 2800 reviews originally written for the Goings On About Town section of The New Yorker, it tackles all manner of movies including silent films, talkies, foreign and American productions, as well as shorts and documentaries.

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.

The best way to educate yourself about screenplays is to read lots of them. If possible, read at least one script a week. For some time now I’ve been trying to read as many scripts as I can, and this eventually led me to The Collected Works of Paddy Chayefsky: The Screenplays Volume 2.

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.