If there’s one thing my creative writing students have learned this semester, it is the need to begin a story in the middle of the action. They easily recognize (and call each other) when a fiction begins with too much exposition, or flat out begins in the wrong place.
Gran Torino begins with the death of Eastwood’s wife. As I watched the film, I thought: "how nice. We begin the story in a significant moment."
But, the death of Eastwood’s wife, unfortunately, turns out to be an insignificant moment. Pretty quickly, we realize that this man doesn’t act any differently now that his wife is gone. Secondly, we realize that the conflicts that later arise are in no way complicated by the fact that this man has lost his wife. My creative writing students recognize that this funeral may not be “dropping us into the action.”
Miller’s Crossing is a good example of a story dropping the reader / viewer into the action. It begins with an intense conversation between two rival crime bosses, while an adviser to one boss is in the room. Later in the movie, one boss encroaches the other’s territory.
The opening of Miller’s Crossing performs double duty. Not only does it focus our attention on the rival crime bosses, it also focuses our attention on a second major conflict: The adviser is sleeping with his bosses girl.
Often, writers confuse “dropping the reader into the action” with “begin with a scene of intensity” (a la Gran Torino). It is critical (and difficult), however, to place the reader / viewer in a moment of significance. The intense opening needs to speak to the larger action, the overall storyline. If we think about Gran Torino and where the opening directs our attention—the belly buttons, short skirts, gossip, and cell-phones—we see that this focus does not become the focus of the movie. (The focus of the movie is actually a Korean War Vet and his relationship with his immigrant neighbors.)
So, rather than intending to “drop the reader into the action,” focus the reader’s attention. While it helps to remind yourself that you control the camera’s gaze, it also helps to think of your opening as a stage. A stage has limits. Set the limits of your story in the opening. Say to your reader / viewer: “You think this is intense? Wait until you see what happens when we go sniffing around the stage.” Or, like Miller’s Crossing: “This stage ain’t big enough for the three of us. Someone’s got to go.”
Monday, December 28, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Gran Torino (2008)
In the introduction to Hitchcock Truffaut, the French critic cites Hitchcock’s rule of counterpoint between dialogue and image. Truffaut writes, “If we observe any [dinner or cocktail party], it is clear that the words exchanged between the guests are superficial formalities and quite meaningless, whereas the essential is elsewhere…The rule of counterpoint between dialogue and image achieves a dramatic effect by purely visual means. Hitchcock is almost unique in being able to film directly, that is without resorting to explanatory dialogue, such intimate emotions.” (I’m puzzled by the phrase almost unique.)
We see this technique in Gran Torino at the very very very beginning. Clint Eastwood, scowling, stands alone next to his wife’s casket at the front of a Catholic church. A man approaches and expresses condolence. Eastwood says, “Thanks for coming, Al.”
Then, the movie falls apart. I groan when Eastwood growls at the idiocies of youth—belly buttons and cell phones at funerals—pointed out to me by the camera as it cuts to another rude person or son or granddaughter fidgeting in a pew, waiting for the funeral to end. As if Eastwood’s anger needs provocation.
My problem with the film concerns this kind of heavy handedness, something I discuss as "in your face directorial decisions" in Rachel Getting Married. The film cares more about racisms than racism. The drum roll every time Eastwood touches a firearm.
So, here’s a thesis against heavy handedness: if something is constantly in your face, eventually you’ll want to push it away. With the alternative, subtlety, you never feel irritated at what’s in your face, because it’s never in your face. One could argue, that you could be irritated by what’s not in your face. But if there are enough subtleties, you’ll find something. So, you can never have enough subtlety. Viewers and readers building connections keeps fictions from falling apart.
We see this technique in Gran Torino at the very very very beginning. Clint Eastwood, scowling, stands alone next to his wife’s casket at the front of a Catholic church. A man approaches and expresses condolence. Eastwood says, “Thanks for coming, Al.”
Then, the movie falls apart. I groan when Eastwood growls at the idiocies of youth—belly buttons and cell phones at funerals—pointed out to me by the camera as it cuts to another rude person or son or granddaughter fidgeting in a pew, waiting for the funeral to end. As if Eastwood’s anger needs provocation.
My problem with the film concerns this kind of heavy handedness, something I discuss as "in your face directorial decisions" in Rachel Getting Married. The film cares more about racisms than racism. The drum roll every time Eastwood touches a firearm.
So, here’s a thesis against heavy handedness: if something is constantly in your face, eventually you’ll want to push it away. With the alternative, subtlety, you never feel irritated at what’s in your face, because it’s never in your face. One could argue, that you could be irritated by what’s not in your face. But if there are enough subtleties, you’ll find something. So, you can never have enough subtlety. Viewers and readers building connections keeps fictions from falling apart.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
The Great Debaters (2007)
When I can accurately describe a movie as logical, illogical, predictable, unpredictable, serious, subtle, light-hearted, heart-warming, hysterical, sickening, heart-breaking, ugly, disgusting, and beautiful, I tend to like it.
The marketing / packaging of this movie led me to believe producers strapped it into a formulaic straightjacket, whereas vitality and versatility better dress The Great Debaters. I blame the title.
The careful sequencing of shots impresses. Each scene ends with an unexpected watcher, or an unexpected smile, just enough twist that makes every scene feel worthwhile. It’s an idea for us fiction writers to take note of it. Offering the reader a gift—a reward—in each scene keeps a reader hooked. It's like a cliffhanger, but more subtle and genuine.
The climactic example of this comes in the final debate scene, which is broadcast across the country. Mister Tolson, black-listed for his extreme politics (more on the politically incorrect English teacher later), is not in the sequence of shots that contain all the characters of the film either attending the debate or listening next to a radio. The debate begins, still more cuts, ups and downs, and finally a cut to a man in a dark suit and dark hat making his way to the auditorium. We knew he’d come eventually, though.
If someone had told me that Denzel plays an inspirational, politically incorrect, poetry quoting English teacher, I doubt I’d give this movie a chance. (No one did.) Mr. Tolson, however, is more of a hardass than a Romantic poet, more discipline than liberation. The writers dealt with the characterization of Mr. Tolson carefully, undoubtedly aware of the type character they needed to avoid to make theirs interesting. Mr. Tolson is introduced to us while dancing at a backwoods whiskey fest. In the next scene, he, in suit and tie, lectures to college students. He also leads a movement to unionize local sharecroppers .
The story ends weakly, unfortunately. It’s hard to believe a movie that references warrants and logical fallacies would fall into its own trap. Weasely wins the debate against Harvard when a Crimson debater declares, “Nothing that erodes the law can be moral.” But, this is far too easy. Who better knows laws can be absurdly and violently unjust than Southern African-Americans circa Jim Crow?
But I pardon the movie because it reinforces many ideals that I hold true: the power of language, racism is wrong, the need for unions, the power of education, David can slay Goliath. I accept the movie because I accept its stance.
What’s got me hung up is that put another way these ideals are also clichés: the pen is mightier than the sword, all people are equal, power to the people, reading is power, and Go underdog Go.
Here is my update to Defiance, which also reinforces ideals I take to be true: 1. Love your family 2. Holocaust was horrific. 3. Go underdog Go.
Defiance masks the clichés of plot and ideology in illusion. The Great Debaters hardly masks the predictability of its plot.
The marketing / packaging of this movie led me to believe producers strapped it into a formulaic straightjacket, whereas vitality and versatility better dress The Great Debaters. I blame the title.
The careful sequencing of shots impresses. Each scene ends with an unexpected watcher, or an unexpected smile, just enough twist that makes every scene feel worthwhile. It’s an idea for us fiction writers to take note of it. Offering the reader a gift—a reward—in each scene keeps a reader hooked. It's like a cliffhanger, but more subtle and genuine.
The climactic example of this comes in the final debate scene, which is broadcast across the country. Mister Tolson, black-listed for his extreme politics (more on the politically incorrect English teacher later), is not in the sequence of shots that contain all the characters of the film either attending the debate or listening next to a radio. The debate begins, still more cuts, ups and downs, and finally a cut to a man in a dark suit and dark hat making his way to the auditorium. We knew he’d come eventually, though.
If someone had told me that Denzel plays an inspirational, politically incorrect, poetry quoting English teacher, I doubt I’d give this movie a chance. (No one did.) Mr. Tolson, however, is more of a hardass than a Romantic poet, more discipline than liberation. The writers dealt with the characterization of Mr. Tolson carefully, undoubtedly aware of the type character they needed to avoid to make theirs interesting. Mr. Tolson is introduced to us while dancing at a backwoods whiskey fest. In the next scene, he, in suit and tie, lectures to college students. He also leads a movement to unionize local sharecroppers .
The story ends weakly, unfortunately. It’s hard to believe a movie that references warrants and logical fallacies would fall into its own trap. Weasely wins the debate against Harvard when a Crimson debater declares, “Nothing that erodes the law can be moral.” But, this is far too easy. Who better knows laws can be absurdly and violently unjust than Southern African-Americans circa Jim Crow?
But I pardon the movie because it reinforces many ideals that I hold true: the power of language, racism is wrong, the need for unions, the power of education, David can slay Goliath. I accept the movie because I accept its stance.
What’s got me hung up is that put another way these ideals are also clichés: the pen is mightier than the sword, all people are equal, power to the people, reading is power, and Go underdog Go.
Here is my update to Defiance, which also reinforces ideals I take to be true: 1. Love your family 2. Holocaust was horrific. 3. Go underdog Go.
Defiance masks the clichés of plot and ideology in illusion. The Great Debaters hardly masks the predictability of its plot.
Watchmen (2009)
...I wish there were more films / literature as outraged with contemporary morality as Watchmen.
...At 2 hours, 40 minutes, I wish more films to be a lot shorter than Watchmen.
...I wish I had time to read the graphic novel. I'm an outcast in the English department because I haven't. And, it seems Watchmen fans and movie critics agree that "prior knowledge" enhances the experience of the film.
...At 2 hours, 40 minutes, I wish more films to be a lot shorter than Watchmen.
...I wish I had time to read the graphic novel. I'm an outcast in the English department because I haven't. And, it seems Watchmen fans and movie critics agree that "prior knowledge" enhances the experience of the film.
Vicky Cristina Barcelona (2008)
I think it's fun the way this film uses clichéd actions to create an explosive plot. In this film, clichéd actions are earned by the absurd amount of clichéd actions. The collision of absurdities is what keeps the viewer interested. The film doesn't ask the viewer to believe in its realism, so much as asks a viewer to ponder "what if?".
...I appreciated the runtime, as well--96 minutes.
...I appreciated the runtime, as well--96 minutes.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Inglourious Basterds (2009)
I was lucky to have caught this interview the other day so I thought I'd share, especially because Mr. Tarantino reveals himself a "novelist" and "poet."
"Pulp And Circumstance: Tarantino Rewrites History"
"Pulp And Circumstance: Tarantino Rewrites History"
Monday, August 3, 2009
Summary Judgments
For those of you wondering if I ever planned to write about those movies in queue..
The Wrestler (2008) -- This is a nice case study for the “open ending.” I was indifferent at first about the success of The Wrestler’s end. But, the more I think about it, the more I focus on that final shot. A lasting final image is evidence of a powerful ending, right?
Revolutionary Road (2008) -- If I could adequately articulate my thoughts on this film, I would have done so (I’m still trying). I think the film is fantastic.
I read this while doing some homework on Richard Yates (author of Revolutionary Road, the novel (which is the final book of my summer reading list)): “And I think it's a curious thing, maybe a significant thing, that good novels - let's say great novels - have almost never been adapted into good movies.”
Read the full interview, here: http://www.pshares.org/issues/article.cfm?prmArticleID=128
Choke (2008) -- I think this is what Forrest Gump meant when he said “Stupid is as stupid does.” But, I’m still trying to figure out what Gump meant.
Changeling (2008) -- The first time I sat down to watch it, I drank too much and fell asleep before it ended. The second time, I fell asleep before it ended and I regret not drinking. Sorry, Mom.
Blindness (2008) -- I didn’t take too much away from this film, either. DP (my roommate) sat down in the middle of it and after a few minutes asked, “Are we supposed to be blind, too?”
…But DP has me thinking about the relationship of free and indirect style to film…and the limits of free and indirect style…
The Wrestler (2008) -- This is a nice case study for the “open ending.” I was indifferent at first about the success of The Wrestler’s end. But, the more I think about it, the more I focus on that final shot. A lasting final image is evidence of a powerful ending, right?
Revolutionary Road (2008) -- If I could adequately articulate my thoughts on this film, I would have done so (I’m still trying). I think the film is fantastic.
I read this while doing some homework on Richard Yates (author of Revolutionary Road, the novel (which is the final book of my summer reading list)): “And I think it's a curious thing, maybe a significant thing, that good novels - let's say great novels - have almost never been adapted into good movies.”
Read the full interview, here: http://www.pshares.org/issues/article.cfm?prmArticleID=128
Choke (2008) -- I think this is what Forrest Gump meant when he said “Stupid is as stupid does.” But, I’m still trying to figure out what Gump meant.
Changeling (2008) -- The first time I sat down to watch it, I drank too much and fell asleep before it ended. The second time, I fell asleep before it ended and I regret not drinking. Sorry, Mom.
Blindness (2008) -- I didn’t take too much away from this film, either. DP (my roommate) sat down in the middle of it and after a few minutes asked, “Are we supposed to be blind, too?”
…But DP has me thinking about the relationship of free and indirect style to film…and the limits of free and indirect style…
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Defiance (2008)
Mainly, I measure a movie by how much I suffer, how much I want the movie to just end. The less I suffer, the more I enjoy the movie. I suffered through a long stretch of Defiance. Eventually, I stopped my DVD player with little intention of returning to finish the movie.
I’m glad I returned to Defiance.
In writing workshop, we often talk about payoff, which can be understood in terms of economics. Does the viewer’s investment produce a high, profit-yielding return? Or, from the writer’s perspective, does a decision (killing off a character, possibly) produce the desired effect (we’re happy to see a character’s still alive)? Somtimes, the payoff is worth the suffering.
Defiance does not kill a character and bring him back, but a character does go away and return, and that character saves the day, and it sounds cheesy, but I found the payoff to be extremely high.
For those unfamiliar with the film, Defiance is based on the true story of Jewish brothers who begin living in the forest to escape the Holocaust and eventually lead a refugee colony which survives the end of the war. One brother (Zus), aggressive and uncompromising, leaves the colony after a spat with his brother (Tuvia) to fight with the Russians, who are aware they share the forest with the refugees. While in camp with his new comrades, Zus learns that the Russians, aware of an impending German attack, will retreat from the forest. The scene ends ambiguously as Zus’s allegiance is obviously called into question.
The refugee camp is left for dead by the Russians and the German slaughter begins. Tuvia, the leader of the refugees, outflanks the Germans and picks off only enough so that the Germans redirect their attack in his direction. Tuvia’s death is certain. Then, German soldiers begin to fall inexplicably. As only film can do, the camera zooms out to a bird’s eye a view and it’s clear that Germans are being attacked from the other flank. They are being shot from behind. Zus, the deserting brother, and a small number of Russian troops, save the day.
I use the term “save the day” facetiously. Because in no way did I find it cheesy that Zus returned. In no way, did the illusion of the story break down. Here are some reasons why:
1. Zus does not return alone; he is accompanied by Russian soldiers.
2. The ambiguity of the scene with Zus and the Russian commander leaves it unclear as to who did the “right” thing, who decided to help the refugees (Was it Zus? Was it the Russian commander?).
3. The love expressed by Zus’s return was not romantic love; it was love for his brothers and love for his Jewish brethren.
Zus as solitary hero, Zus giving the Russian commander a metaphoric middle finger, and Zus returning to the woman of his dreams are common tropes that remind us (me) the story / film is only an illusion.
So, the formula, is pretty simple: Step 1 – Establish a relationship. Step 2 – End the relationship. Step 3 – Renew the relationship.
Step 4 requires magic. Make me believe I’ve never seen this formula. That’s the return I want on my investment.
...I have more to say...Update coming soon...
I’m glad I returned to Defiance.
In writing workshop, we often talk about payoff, which can be understood in terms of economics. Does the viewer’s investment produce a high, profit-yielding return? Or, from the writer’s perspective, does a decision (killing off a character, possibly) produce the desired effect (we’re happy to see a character’s still alive)? Somtimes, the payoff is worth the suffering.
Defiance does not kill a character and bring him back, but a character does go away and return, and that character saves the day, and it sounds cheesy, but I found the payoff to be extremely high.
For those unfamiliar with the film, Defiance is based on the true story of Jewish brothers who begin living in the forest to escape the Holocaust and eventually lead a refugee colony which survives the end of the war. One brother (Zus), aggressive and uncompromising, leaves the colony after a spat with his brother (Tuvia) to fight with the Russians, who are aware they share the forest with the refugees. While in camp with his new comrades, Zus learns that the Russians, aware of an impending German attack, will retreat from the forest. The scene ends ambiguously as Zus’s allegiance is obviously called into question.
The refugee camp is left for dead by the Russians and the German slaughter begins. Tuvia, the leader of the refugees, outflanks the Germans and picks off only enough so that the Germans redirect their attack in his direction. Tuvia’s death is certain. Then, German soldiers begin to fall inexplicably. As only film can do, the camera zooms out to a bird’s eye a view and it’s clear that Germans are being attacked from the other flank. They are being shot from behind. Zus, the deserting brother, and a small number of Russian troops, save the day.
I use the term “save the day” facetiously. Because in no way did I find it cheesy that Zus returned. In no way, did the illusion of the story break down. Here are some reasons why:
1. Zus does not return alone; he is accompanied by Russian soldiers.
2. The ambiguity of the scene with Zus and the Russian commander leaves it unclear as to who did the “right” thing, who decided to help the refugees (Was it Zus? Was it the Russian commander?).
3. The love expressed by Zus’s return was not romantic love; it was love for his brothers and love for his Jewish brethren.
Zus as solitary hero, Zus giving the Russian commander a metaphoric middle finger, and Zus returning to the woman of his dreams are common tropes that remind us (me) the story / film is only an illusion.
So, the formula, is pretty simple: Step 1 – Establish a relationship. Step 2 – End the relationship. Step 3 – Renew the relationship.
Step 4 requires magic. Make me believe I’ve never seen this formula. That’s the return I want on my investment.
...I have more to say...Update coming soon...
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Away We Go (2009)
Here’s the premise of Away We Go: An expecting, unmarried couple in their thirties wants to find a new place to live because the man’s parents are leaving town a month before the baby will be born to travel for two years and his parents are the only reason they're in that town. So, they travel to cities like Phoenix, Montreal, and Miami to find a place to raise their child. Oh yeah, and the pregnant women refuses to marry.
Currently, I’m reading The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (author Ron Hansen). Yesterday, noting a major similarity, I was ready to compare it to Away We Go.
Yesterday, I was ready to toss both into a garbage bin I call “Technically Astute, Narratively Arid.” That may be a fancy way of saying “This story is boring,” but I think it says a little more: It’s built well, but what is built isn’t very interesting.
My issue with Away We Go and (previously with) The Assassination of Jesse James is that these stories never get messy. I never get a sense of the story becoming increasingly complicated.
Away We Go is a road trip from heaven. The protagonists fly from one city to the next. They always have a free place to stay. The breadwinner works from his cell-phone; he has no office. His long time girlfriend is sixth months pregnant, though large as nine (a running joke of the movie). But nothing bad ever happens to this couple.
Likewise, there aren’t many twists and turns in the first two-hundred pages of The Assassination of Jesse James. The writing is excellent often. Occasionally, you cringe at a visceral description. The conversations are interesting. You get upset that Hansen turns a noun into a verb and then he hits you with a shocking slice of 19th century real life that makes it okay. But the situation never gets messy…until yesterday (about page 200 (of 300)).
The Assassination of Jesse James (finally) gets messy, gets complicated, makes you wonder what could possibly happen next. I never felt that way about Away We Go.
One way Hansen, despite his title giving the story away (a very clever decision, it seems now), creates tension is that all characters always feel like they’re in danger, whether it be from each other, from the law, or from their 19th century diet. In Away We Go, the protagonists don’t encounter many problems that a credit card can’t solve.
Hansen also uses many characters and these characters always come back, less they die (still, though, issues of the dead come back in this story). In Away We Go, peripheral characters are dropped when the protagonists move on to the next city. And I can see that the story may drop characters to effect--to enhance, and ultimately, perhaps, to embrace the isolation of their future. But the payoff isn’t there.
It seems to me that the writers of Away We Go deliberately avoid physical harm (or the threat of) as “too easy,” meaning that they want to raise the stakes for these characters in a more original way than physical pain. Indeed, most conflicts in this story are those between characters and the ways they live. The moments where the protagonists are discovering the bizarre lifestyles of family and old friends are the liveliest, funniest, and the ones that we’re probably supposed to have the most invested in.
But I don’t care about the two protagonists from Away We Go, probably because of their seemingly effortless existence. To me, the alternative Away We Go accepts in exchange for dropping the threat of the physical is a conflict of existence. How should we live? Where should we live? Who are our friends? Are we fuck-ups?
But, why should I care if you get married? Or, if you’re a fuck-up? Or, if you’re not a fuck-up, but everyone thinks you are? Or, you’re a fuck-up despite everyone thinking you’re not? Or, whatever.
I could go on and on and on and on about why I don’t care about this movie. I’ve done it in my head. It always comes back to the same thing. There isn’t much in this film that really surprises me. Maybe, it’s so believable it’s boring. Regardless, Away We Go can’t hold my attention because the story is too busy keeping its hands clean.
Currently, I’m reading The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (author Ron Hansen). Yesterday, noting a major similarity, I was ready to compare it to Away We Go.
Yesterday, I was ready to toss both into a garbage bin I call “Technically Astute, Narratively Arid.” That may be a fancy way of saying “This story is boring,” but I think it says a little more: It’s built well, but what is built isn’t very interesting.
My issue with Away We Go and (previously with) The Assassination of Jesse James is that these stories never get messy. I never get a sense of the story becoming increasingly complicated.
Away We Go is a road trip from heaven. The protagonists fly from one city to the next. They always have a free place to stay. The breadwinner works from his cell-phone; he has no office. His long time girlfriend is sixth months pregnant, though large as nine (a running joke of the movie). But nothing bad ever happens to this couple.
Likewise, there aren’t many twists and turns in the first two-hundred pages of The Assassination of Jesse James. The writing is excellent often. Occasionally, you cringe at a visceral description. The conversations are interesting. You get upset that Hansen turns a noun into a verb and then he hits you with a shocking slice of 19th century real life that makes it okay. But the situation never gets messy…until yesterday (about page 200 (of 300)).
The Assassination of Jesse James (finally) gets messy, gets complicated, makes you wonder what could possibly happen next. I never felt that way about Away We Go.
One way Hansen, despite his title giving the story away (a very clever decision, it seems now), creates tension is that all characters always feel like they’re in danger, whether it be from each other, from the law, or from their 19th century diet. In Away We Go, the protagonists don’t encounter many problems that a credit card can’t solve.
Hansen also uses many characters and these characters always come back, less they die (still, though, issues of the dead come back in this story). In Away We Go, peripheral characters are dropped when the protagonists move on to the next city. And I can see that the story may drop characters to effect--to enhance, and ultimately, perhaps, to embrace the isolation of their future. But the payoff isn’t there.
It seems to me that the writers of Away We Go deliberately avoid physical harm (or the threat of) as “too easy,” meaning that they want to raise the stakes for these characters in a more original way than physical pain. Indeed, most conflicts in this story are those between characters and the ways they live. The moments where the protagonists are discovering the bizarre lifestyles of family and old friends are the liveliest, funniest, and the ones that we’re probably supposed to have the most invested in.
But I don’t care about the two protagonists from Away We Go, probably because of their seemingly effortless existence. To me, the alternative Away We Go accepts in exchange for dropping the threat of the physical is a conflict of existence. How should we live? Where should we live? Who are our friends? Are we fuck-ups?
But, why should I care if you get married? Or, if you’re a fuck-up? Or, if you’re not a fuck-up, but everyone thinks you are? Or, you’re a fuck-up despite everyone thinking you’re not? Or, whatever.
I could go on and on and on and on about why I don’t care about this movie. I’ve done it in my head. It always comes back to the same thing. There isn’t much in this film that really surprises me. Maybe, it’s so believable it’s boring. Regardless, Away We Go can’t hold my attention because the story is too busy keeping its hands clean.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Rachel Getting Married (2008)
Could have been great, if it had tried to be great. All(?) it needed was a story.
Rachel Getting Married isn’t great because nothing happens. Or, everything that we expect will happen happens. There just aren’t many surprises. I hear some of you yelling and throwing your fists in the air, asking if this idiot actually watched the movie, but to me, this film was a classic case of a story relying too heavily on quirky, diverse characters that we love, but failing to push the characters out of the proverbial room.
I’m of the opinion that revealing backstory, in particular backstory that all the characters know, but the audience doesn’t, isn’t something happening. Backstory, when used correctly, complicates the situation / story / scenario for the characters as much as it complicates for the audience. Rachel Getting Married places an elephant in the room but waits much too long to show / tell us it has been sitting there all along. Everyone else (in the film) knew, and I didn’t. That’s just not fair. Is it? = you tell me.
So, I think that if RGM had revealed information that radically changed the way we, the audience, and they, the characters, see the story, then it would have been a bit more successful. In Revision = Check to make sure your backstory changes the stakes not only for the audience, but also for the characters in your story.
However, what I found extremely fresh about the backstory is that we didn’t see it. We only hear it through the words of the characters. It is all too easy for film to visually recreate backstory so that the audience “sees it,” but RGM refrains from doing so. And for that, amidst all the in your face directorial decisions—the fork in the road, the bouncing camera, the guy with the home video camera, holding hands to cut the cake—I appreciated RGM.
…It’s extremely difficult to buy into a story based on the consequences of a car crash and then there is a second car crash and the second car crash has no consequences.
…You could also argue RGM isn’t supposed to me a story, but a portrait. Who looks at a portrait for 113 minutes?
Rachel Getting Married isn’t great because nothing happens. Or, everything that we expect will happen happens. There just aren’t many surprises. I hear some of you yelling and throwing your fists in the air, asking if this idiot actually watched the movie, but to me, this film was a classic case of a story relying too heavily on quirky, diverse characters that we love, but failing to push the characters out of the proverbial room.
I’m of the opinion that revealing backstory, in particular backstory that all the characters know, but the audience doesn’t, isn’t something happening. Backstory, when used correctly, complicates the situation / story / scenario for the characters as much as it complicates for the audience. Rachel Getting Married places an elephant in the room but waits much too long to show / tell us it has been sitting there all along. Everyone else (in the film) knew, and I didn’t. That’s just not fair. Is it? = you tell me.
So, I think that if RGM had revealed information that radically changed the way we, the audience, and they, the characters, see the story, then it would have been a bit more successful. In Revision = Check to make sure your backstory changes the stakes not only for the audience, but also for the characters in your story.
However, what I found extremely fresh about the backstory is that we didn’t see it. We only hear it through the words of the characters. It is all too easy for film to visually recreate backstory so that the audience “sees it,” but RGM refrains from doing so. And for that, amidst all the in your face directorial decisions—the fork in the road, the bouncing camera, the guy with the home video camera, holding hands to cut the cake—I appreciated RGM.
…It’s extremely difficult to buy into a story based on the consequences of a car crash and then there is a second car crash and the second car crash has no consequences.
…You could also argue RGM isn’t supposed to me a story, but a portrait. Who looks at a portrait for 113 minutes?
Monday, May 25, 2009
Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist (2008)
Norah: There's this part of Judaism that I like. Tikun Olam. It said that the world is broken into pieces and everyone has to find them and put them back together.
Nick: Maybe we don't have to find it. Maybe we are the pieces.
Norah: Nick? I'm coming in... [she goes into the recording studio to have sex with him]
Sound like teenagers?
Nick: [leaving a message on his ex-girlfriend Tris’s phone] I think we both said some things we didn't mean, like... when you broke up with me... on my b-day.
Sounds like a teenager.
Here are some difficulties when writing adolescent dialogue. Go heavy (Exhibit A) and they don’t sound / feel like teenagers. Go humorous (Exhibit B) and the seriousness / intensity dissipates tremendously.
Norah: This is amazing! You are literally like my music soul mate.
Exhibit C is probably right on. But it feels absolutely empty. What is the value in a music soul mate? It is interesting because it sounds right (the misuse of literally, the rhythmic addition of like, the clichéd soul mate) and sounds fresh (whoever heard of a music soul mate?), but there isn’t much substance here. This leads to the bigger question of how much we can lean on adolescent voices to impart something meaningful to the viewer / reader. It’s tricky because we are quite reductive when we think about teenage relationships / feelings / emotions / knowledge. It’s so easy for the viewer to toss these in the file marked “trivial” or "they'll get over it." But, I’ve always been a big fan of teenagers. In story, they are often reliable sources or energy and intensity. Desirous, emotional, fickle, unpredictable youth usually equal adventure—something this film relies on too heavily.
I long to see teens treated seriously. And I’m interested in doing so using their own voices. Some of the moments in the film that I found particularly engaging were those where Nick and Norah reflected on their past relationships. I think that teenagers reflect on the past is too often overlooked. In fact, it seems common sense that teenagers obsess with the (not very distant) past. So, reflection is a real opportunity to let loose a serious, adolescent voice. For one, reflecting is a shared experience—the audience can relate. Also, reflection requires specificity. The character has to refer to specific actions and names and dates. The character doesn’t have to (and probably shouldn’t) get abstract, which is the point where I think most of us stop listening to teenagers because we think they have so little life experience (note exhibit D). Finally, if the teenager reflects as a teenager and not as an adult (the most common way to work around the problem of adolescent stories), then the wound is still fresh, the intensity is naturally higher, years and years haven’t gone by. Try it = write the dialogue of a teenager who is reflecting on a recent, past experience.
Exhibit D
Thom: You just haven't figured it out yet, have you?
Nick: What?
Thom: ...The big picture.
Nick: I guess not.
Thom: The Beatles.
Nick: What about them?
Thom: This. [grabs Nick's hand] Look, other bands, they want to make it about sex or pain, but you know, The Beatles, they had it all figured out, okay? "I Want to Hold Your Hand." The first single. It's F-ing brilliant, right?... That's what everybody wants, Nicky. They don't want a twenty-four-hour hump sesh, they don't want to be married to you for a hundred years. They just want to hold your hand.
Eh.
Nick: Maybe we don't have to find it. Maybe we are the pieces.
Norah: Nick? I'm coming in... [she goes into the recording studio to have sex with him]
Sound like teenagers?
Nick: [leaving a message on his ex-girlfriend Tris’s phone] I think we both said some things we didn't mean, like... when you broke up with me... on my b-day.
Sounds like a teenager.
Here are some difficulties when writing adolescent dialogue. Go heavy (Exhibit A) and they don’t sound / feel like teenagers. Go humorous (Exhibit B) and the seriousness / intensity dissipates tremendously.
Norah: This is amazing! You are literally like my music soul mate.
Exhibit C is probably right on. But it feels absolutely empty. What is the value in a music soul mate? It is interesting because it sounds right (the misuse of literally, the rhythmic addition of like, the clichéd soul mate) and sounds fresh (whoever heard of a music soul mate?), but there isn’t much substance here. This leads to the bigger question of how much we can lean on adolescent voices to impart something meaningful to the viewer / reader. It’s tricky because we are quite reductive when we think about teenage relationships / feelings / emotions / knowledge. It’s so easy for the viewer to toss these in the file marked “trivial” or "they'll get over it." But, I’ve always been a big fan of teenagers. In story, they are often reliable sources or energy and intensity. Desirous, emotional, fickle, unpredictable youth usually equal adventure—something this film relies on too heavily.
I long to see teens treated seriously. And I’m interested in doing so using their own voices. Some of the moments in the film that I found particularly engaging were those where Nick and Norah reflected on their past relationships. I think that teenagers reflect on the past is too often overlooked. In fact, it seems common sense that teenagers obsess with the (not very distant) past. So, reflection is a real opportunity to let loose a serious, adolescent voice. For one, reflecting is a shared experience—the audience can relate. Also, reflection requires specificity. The character has to refer to specific actions and names and dates. The character doesn’t have to (and probably shouldn’t) get abstract, which is the point where I think most of us stop listening to teenagers because we think they have so little life experience (note exhibit D). Finally, if the teenager reflects as a teenager and not as an adult (the most common way to work around the problem of adolescent stories), then the wound is still fresh, the intensity is naturally higher, years and years haven’t gone by. Try it = write the dialogue of a teenager who is reflecting on a recent, past experience.
Exhibit D
Thom: You just haven't figured it out yet, have you?
Nick: What?
Thom: ...The big picture.
Nick: I guess not.
Thom: The Beatles.
Nick: What about them?
Thom: This. [grabs Nick's hand] Look, other bands, they want to make it about sex or pain, but you know, The Beatles, they had it all figured out, okay? "I Want to Hold Your Hand." The first single. It's F-ing brilliant, right?... That's what everybody wants, Nicky. They don't want a twenty-four-hour hump sesh, they don't want to be married to you for a hundred years. They just want to hold your hand.
Eh.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
The Queen (2006)
I really enjoyed this film, and I see that most others have as well. I enjoyed it so much that as I was watching it, I was having a hard time deciding how I would respond to it in a way beneficial to fiction writers.
My first impulse was to offer a spiritual platitude to writers: Think Big. This film is ambitious in its content and in the roles. Because character driven stories so dominate the landscape of literary fiction, I feel too often we resign ourselves to simple characters in simple settings with simple (though serious) conflicts—because we think this is all we know. However, there is so much info out there these days, I see no reason why someone can’t get to know Buckingham Palace as well as the Queen.
This film takes on the largest media event of the 1990s and tells the story through the eyes of the major players: The Queen and the Prime Minister. Think Big.
I knew from the beginning it was the characters that made the film intriguing. Us common folk seem desperate to look inside the lives of the figures we see on the television. Writers shouldn’t forget, us common folk have big desires too; this film taps into those desires by giving us the behind the scenes.
Beyond the conceptual (or early) choices, though, I realized that this story uses POV to the maximum. In fact, wikipedia tells me that the scenes with the Queen were shot in 35mm film, while scenes with Blair were shot in 16mm film. Here, we see how the movie’s conflict—how the Queen and Blair have different views on how to handle Diana’s death—is enhanced through POV.
But, POV isn’t used only to enhance the conflict. It is also used in the resolution, which is what I think writers should take from this film. The movie restricts itself to these POVs and uses no “common folk” characters to help tell the story. We only see the public as these two dignitaries see the public: through media clips.
Dehumanizing as this may seem, the film uses it to its advantage, for the resolution comes when the Queen returns to London, visits the flowers and the people outside of Buckingham Palace, and addresses the public in a televised speech. When the Royal Family is looking at the flowers stacked around the gates of BP, there is a distinct change in POV. We watch the Royal Fam through the eyes of the crowd. Heads and hats and cameras are in our way, while the camera bobs like a person searching for a better sightline. Instead of witnessing through the eyes of Blair or the Queen, and instead of looking at the public through a television screen, the viewer becomes the public, seeing what they see, not what the Queen sees, not what Blair sees.
The Queen’s televised speech, then, becomes a union of perspectives, a union of POVs. The Queen, who learns of the public only through the tabloids and television, uses the media so that the public can learn about her, come into her world, if only briefly.
So, the conflict is resolved, but it uses merging POVs to provide the feeling of resolution. A similar technique, used to opposite effect comes in Chekhov’s “The Lady with a Pet Dog.” After restricting POV to Gurov for the length of the story, just before the end we have a glimpse of Anna’s perspective on their relationship and just how different it is from Gurov’s, thus providing the feeling—despite not knowing for sure—the relationship is doomed.
Breaking POV so late in a story (if ever) is a no-no according to the textbooks, but here we have two great stories that break POV near the end because it better facilitates the writer’s desired ending. But how do they get away with this? I’m not sure. My guess is that the story creates a desire to know other perspectives and learning other perspectives feels satisfying.
What seems obvious, though, is that POV isn’t exact, steady, or reliable. In story, it inevitably bounces, oscillates, shifts, and/or breaks. And perhaps the naturally unstable POV is most effective when such movement creates expectations and responds to them.
Try it = when considering your next resolution, ask how POV fulfills the expectations your story has created.
Think Big.
My first impulse was to offer a spiritual platitude to writers: Think Big. This film is ambitious in its content and in the roles. Because character driven stories so dominate the landscape of literary fiction, I feel too often we resign ourselves to simple characters in simple settings with simple (though serious) conflicts—because we think this is all we know. However, there is so much info out there these days, I see no reason why someone can’t get to know Buckingham Palace as well as the Queen.
This film takes on the largest media event of the 1990s and tells the story through the eyes of the major players: The Queen and the Prime Minister. Think Big.
I knew from the beginning it was the characters that made the film intriguing. Us common folk seem desperate to look inside the lives of the figures we see on the television. Writers shouldn’t forget, us common folk have big desires too; this film taps into those desires by giving us the behind the scenes.
Beyond the conceptual (or early) choices, though, I realized that this story uses POV to the maximum. In fact, wikipedia tells me that the scenes with the Queen were shot in 35mm film, while scenes with Blair were shot in 16mm film. Here, we see how the movie’s conflict—how the Queen and Blair have different views on how to handle Diana’s death—is enhanced through POV.
But, POV isn’t used only to enhance the conflict. It is also used in the resolution, which is what I think writers should take from this film. The movie restricts itself to these POVs and uses no “common folk” characters to help tell the story. We only see the public as these two dignitaries see the public: through media clips.
Dehumanizing as this may seem, the film uses it to its advantage, for the resolution comes when the Queen returns to London, visits the flowers and the people outside of Buckingham Palace, and addresses the public in a televised speech. When the Royal Family is looking at the flowers stacked around the gates of BP, there is a distinct change in POV. We watch the Royal Fam through the eyes of the crowd. Heads and hats and cameras are in our way, while the camera bobs like a person searching for a better sightline. Instead of witnessing through the eyes of Blair or the Queen, and instead of looking at the public through a television screen, the viewer becomes the public, seeing what they see, not what the Queen sees, not what Blair sees.
The Queen’s televised speech, then, becomes a union of perspectives, a union of POVs. The Queen, who learns of the public only through the tabloids and television, uses the media so that the public can learn about her, come into her world, if only briefly.
So, the conflict is resolved, but it uses merging POVs to provide the feeling of resolution. A similar technique, used to opposite effect comes in Chekhov’s “The Lady with a Pet Dog.” After restricting POV to Gurov for the length of the story, just before the end we have a glimpse of Anna’s perspective on their relationship and just how different it is from Gurov’s, thus providing the feeling—despite not knowing for sure—the relationship is doomed.
Breaking POV so late in a story (if ever) is a no-no according to the textbooks, but here we have two great stories that break POV near the end because it better facilitates the writer’s desired ending. But how do they get away with this? I’m not sure. My guess is that the story creates a desire to know other perspectives and learning other perspectives feels satisfying.
What seems obvious, though, is that POV isn’t exact, steady, or reliable. In story, it inevitably bounces, oscillates, shifts, and/or breaks. And perhaps the naturally unstable POV is most effective when such movement creates expectations and responds to them.
Try it = when considering your next resolution, ask how POV fulfills the expectations your story has created.
Think Big.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Doubt (2008)
The first black student in a Catholic school. Altar boys. Priest. I don’t like where this is heading. Squirmy as that sounds, interpreted another way it sounds impossible: Meryl Streep opposite Phillip Seymour Hoffman. Priest versus nun. Luckily, Doubt had a head start. It was written for the stage—this film was not adapted from a novel. The story was adapted from the award-winning play of the same name, by John Patrick Shanley.
Regardless of form, one must consider what an intelligent narrative decision it is to place two socially esteemed and trusted roles in conflict with another. This especially works for film because I can think of no serious attempts to portray a priest or a sister as real, flawed human beings (comments welcome), rather than the traditional role they might fulfill in society, and within our minds. Shanley deserves all the credit for this. (Doesn’t he?) It is geniusly simple and simply genius to pose two morally upright souls against one another as the central conflict. It’s genius because conflict forces these two roles, which can easily fall into types, to be treated as human beings. Conflict makes us see their dark sides. I often wonder how fiction writers and storytellers arrive at such decisions. Did Shanley wisely decide on those two characters and their conflict from the beginning? Or, did he write and fight through draft after draft to find his story? Try it = write a piece where two “good” characters have a conflict, a fight.
There are a few scenes about foul shots and American history that are quite topical and shallow, tragically uninsightful and unoriginal, unfortunate to my experience of the movie. Fortunately, the scenes appear early, and the conflict builds enough to where I’m only focused on the characters and what they will do next. In Revision = ask why something feels shallow. Question its necessity.
An elegant aspect of the conflict revolves around lack of communication. It makes me wonder how much suspicion and a lack of communication are linked. In Doubt, the priest refuses to divulge information that should quell suspicions. The Sister, meanwhile, convinces herself despite zero evidence. Whom do you trust more, a priest or a nun? The father believes the sister has an agenda against him because he is “new school” and she is “old school.” The Sister believes the priest is having an inappropriate relationship with the new black student, yet doesn’t ask the student what happened. That sounds like a one-sided interpretation in favor of the father, I know, but the film does well to cast both characters in a light that makes appear good on their word, yet capable of sin.
Probably due to Doubt’s success on the stage, I enjoyed the film’s ability to refrain from making the film too filmy. Happily, there is quite a steady camera, no jumpy, quick cutting scenes that I recall, and certainly no exceptional photography or special effects. I also appreciated the film’s loyalty to some of the tropes we expect in plays. The backstage, not-so special-effects is what I’m referring to. The wind blows at all the right times, thunderstorms crash behind a heated argument. It works on screen, I think, because of the steady camera and static scenery. I was expecting, however, big drama, a scene of theatrical frenzy. My expectation was met with convention. Not flurry and frenzy, but pure, woe-begotten, cathartic melodrama. The confession feels much more for the audience than organic to the story, or naturally coming from characters. Question = Do you think of your fiction as having to separate resolutions? One for the reader and one for the characters.
The wails suspended my suspension of disbelief and the invocation of the title I believe is taboo in a scene of confession—even if the invocation is more thematic than revealing. The invocation of the title late in the story makes it cheesy. Doubt's resolution doesn’t tie the strings of the story together, it just places a factory-made, store-bought bow on the gift. Try it = invoke your piece’s title at the end, without being cheesy, of course.
I liked the lack of resolution. I didn’t need the bow. The most important thing we want to know: did he do it? did he not? We never find out. Maybe that bow was supposed to make us feel like we did.
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