by Ben Brady
This is a powerful scene, full of moral terrorism as a much older man breaks a child of ten to his will. But it is also based on several exceptionally simple emotional strands from which Bergman works the seeming complexity of the interaction between the bishop and Alexander. First, Alexander immediately gives himself a bigger problem than having told the story to Justine—he lies to the bishop instead of throwing himself on his mercy. Second, by doing so, he invites a contest that he can only lose and that Edvard must win. Third, Alexander hates the bishop: that emotion betrays him into the challenge, just as, fourth, his age and the difficulty he has put himself into leads him simultaneously to attempt to deny everything. These elements work together easily, and it is this blend of the characters’ clear motivations and reactions to their situation that give the scene its great emotional reality.
Now compare your list of reverses with ours:
1. Alexander’s attempt to lie meets an initial check when Justine is prepared to confirm her statement on oath. Alexander shifts from saying it isn’t true to saying that “she was probably dreaming.”
2. Alexander is forced to take an oath. We see his reaction, in this case, as he shifts uncomfortably and licks his lips.
3. His desire to go is thwarted by the bishop, even though he took the oath.
4. The bishop drives Alexander into admitting he thinks “the bishop hates Alexander.”
5. The bishop instead claims he loves Alexander and drives home his having greater strength—which he assures Alexander is spiritual.
6. Alexander’s attempt to pretend he has forgotten what he is to confess crumbles before the bishop’s list of punishments.
7. Alexander confesses and receives punishment but refuses to ask the bishop’s forgiveness.
8. “Never,” says Alexander to the bishop’s demand to ask for forgiveness, but he is forced to at the threat of further caning.
9. He is done and thinks he can go to bed, but is sent instead to the attic.
The ancient Greek playwright Sophocles would have felt as comfortable with this scene as we do, speaking technically. Alexander and Edvard are locked in a steady cause-and-effect contest. Each time Alexander resists, the bishop must make fresh efforts to get what he wants. In this course of action he reveals his need to triumph over Alexander and shows us, by being content with such a hollow triumph, how far he has fallen away from any true understanding of love or God. We see the failure of faith and its replacement by this cruel hypocrisy in action: we can almost feel it as he beats the boy.
Alexander, in turn, by his repeated efforts to defy the bishop, rising to the “never” that the bishop overcomes, dramatizes just how powerful his hate and contempt is for the man, while the behavior he provokes from the bishop only confirms and justifies his feelings despite the hopelessness of his resistance.
Compare this to the scene from The Graduate. The number of reverses alone indicates we are dealing with a much more substantial scene. Ben’s failure and Mrs. Robinson’s success simply confirm what we were able to guess about their characters from the beginning. They are well handled and their scene is interesting as a consequence, but they are not given the opportunity to grow beyond their initial characterizations, something necessary for any major character and something deferred to other scenes for Ben.
Bergman develops much more substantial characters and thematic weight because Edvard and Alexander have so much more to deal with in each other. Alexander’s challenge to the bishop provokes real anger in his surprise at its constant renewal (“Do you think this is a joke?”). That repeated resistance draws an ever-stronger effort on Edvard’s part to break the child’s will to his “moral” authority finally by resorting to violence. What is more, when Edvard makes his speech about the types of punishment once used but now no longer used, it is hard not to believe he is talking about his own childhood experience. In other words, Alexander drives Edvard into revealing more about himself than the bishop intended at the start, in respect to both the past and present. This is crucial to the sense of the scene’s weight and to the larger issue of conflict in the film. Here Bergman is at pains to show that the normally despised experience of the comfortable, worldly middle class is, in fact, infinitely more humane and preferable than lives sacrificed to principles. Very quietly, in other words, he touches on one of the central issues of our times.
Similarly, our feelings about Alexander undergo a steady development as he makes a renewed effort after each reverse to salvage something of his pride. It is one thing to resist once and give in, as is nearly the case with Ben: it is another to resist repeatedly and to give in only to overwhelmingly superior force, as Alexander does. He is a little boy with real grit. Edvard’s cruelty dispels our own sense of Alexander’s guilt for the story he invented.
Notice, too, that just as Alexander drives Edvard into revealing more than he realized or intended, so too does Edvard drive Alexander into similar revelations. Alexander didn’t walk into Edvard’s study intending to tell the bishop he hated him, nor did he realize he would have to reveal as much courage as he does show, rising to his hopeless “never.” He did not know he would demonstrate how much humiliation he could bear without ceasing to be himself. We are in a different place with regard to these characters than we were at the start, too, and they have certainly grown in unexpected ways through the action in this scene.
This is, in fact, how you, as a writer, develop character and conflict. The protagonist’s problem, the obstacle, does not appear in a scene once, but repeatedly, each time somewhat changed or redefined. Look again at the list of reverses. With each reverse, the nature of the obstacle metamorphoses for Alexander from the lie to the oath, to leaving, to being driven to an admission of hatred, to punishment, to forgiveness, and again to leaving (but being sent to the attic). Action leads to reaction. Each time what is immediately at stake evolves and so do the characters. One action-reaction does not resolve a scene, but attempts to succeed are repeated until the crisis arrives that provokes the climax that, in turn, resolves the conflict.
A Further Word on Complication
We have stressed the difference between a complication and a reverse, but we don’t want you to lose sight of the fact that a complication is also a problem for your characters. We said a complication might, on its first introduction, appear as the actual problem in a scene, as when Joanna reappears and demands Billy from Ted in Kramer vs. Kramer. We want to emphasize here how in good writing the complications or problems a character must deal with tend to be integrally related to the thrust of the play. For example, Alexander complicates his life by telling Justine a foolish story. That has a major consequence, as complications do, provoking the next scene with the bishop and several others we aren’t going to look at. But notice how Alexander takes the first consequence of that complication and gives it a new twist by trying to lie, with all the results we have examined. The one is directly connected with the other, just as Alexander’s being in this dilemma in the first place is directly tied to his mother’s having married Edvard. We can push the link of cause-and-effect relations back to his father’s death if we like.
Contrast these complications to those in a film like Raiders of the Lost Ark. Many of the problems encountered by Indiana Jones are almost unrelated to each other. At one moment he needs to escape from a snake-filled chamber; at another, to get back on a truck he has fallen off. He must ride a submarine externally as it leaves for some unknown destination. These make for good adventures and are all related to his effort to find or regain the ark, but in a casual, episodic way. The same is true of the James Bond films and of action-adventure films in general. It is the inherent tie-in between complications and character development that lends a story the greatest potential emotional weight, the development of conflict and character out of a given situation that you begin by complicating in some fundamental way, as with the death of Alexander’s father or, for that matter, of Hamlet’s. This is why scripts like Fanny and Alexander, To
otsie, or Kramer vs. Kramer give us a much stronger sense of one event leading inevitably to the next. That is the best sort of dramatic writing.
Two Simple Faults in the Business and Dialogue
When Alexander is said to feel a sick crab in his bowels, or the bishop’s face is said to swell terribly, or you are told Alexander thinks that “nothing matters now. Life is over. God’s punishment is going to strike him. Bloody damn vindictive God,” you see the business misused. A film exists in your sight and hearing immediately: you must show how a character feels or thinks in and through the action, not tell us. Calling for such an effect on the part of the bishop’s face must lead either to a special effect that would destroy the believability of the scene, or call for a piece of acting beyond an actor.
Note, too, the length of the bishop’s speeches. We have also seen Bonasera make a long speech in the opening from The Godfather and Les make another proposing to Michael-Dorothy in Tootsie. These go against normal practice. You should avoid speeches of such length as a beginner, especially. If you take the advice of writing a first draft of each assignment, then at that stage let your speeches run to whatever length seems right at the moment. But in revision break them up. For example, suppose Edvard’s speech on types of punishment was yours. You could have revised it into something like this:
EDVARD
In my childhood parents were not so soft-hearted. Naughty boys were punished in an exemplary but loving manner.
ALEXANDER
How was that?
EDVARD
With the cane. The motto was: “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” I have a cane, too.
INSERT
cane on the table.
BACK TO SHOT
as Alexander stares from it to the Bishop.
EDVARD (CONT’D)
Then we had another means that was really efficacious, and that was castor oil. There you see the bottle, Alexander, and a glass. When you’ve swallowed a few mouthfuls of that you will become a little more docile.
ALEXANDER
Would I?
And so on.
That being said, any effective scene is able, through the dramatic tension it generates, to do what the “rules” say you can’t do. All the long speeches we have shown are effective, including the steady outpouring of words from Edvard against Alexander’s laconic stubbornness. The rules almost exist to be broken. A film like My Dinner with Andre is an illustration of how dinner conversation can be extended successfully through an entire film. But don’t break the rules of prevailing practice in your scenes unless your material drives you to do so. Then be prepared to defend your choices!
Now let’s draw our considerations together by looking at a short sequence of major scenes from the classic On the Waterfront, written by Budd Schulberg.
A Sequence from On the Waterfront
On the Waterfront is one of America’s memorable films. It has a true-to-life feel about its exposure of dockside corruption and a clarity in cinematography and writing that refuses to be dated. Reruns in theatres and on TV and release for the home video market give it a wide, continuing exposure.
Johnny Friendly runs the corrupt longshoreman’s union in the story. Charley is his lawyer. A sympathetic character, he is not one of Johnny’s thugs. Charley’s younger brother, Terry, is the protagonist. Terry was once a boxer, but his career didn’t go anywhere: he’s punch-drunk. Now he works, or more accurately drifts, through the days on the docks, given easy jobs because of Charley’s connection. Terry is a decent guy, but he is on the fringe of the Friendly organization. The Friendly crowd takes advantage of his naivete to use him without his knowing to set up a murder at the beginning of the film.
Terry is obviously drifting into worse until he falls in love with Edie (whose brother is the man he set up at the beginning). Through her and the local priest, Father Barry, he finds his long-simmering resentments and conscience start to come to life. A crime commission investigation has been launched against Johnny Friendly, and Edie and Father Barry try to persuade Terry to testify. Terry knows enough to send Friendly to prison, but Terry can’t make up his mind. He’s under terrible pressure from all directions. The sequence that follows begins with a meeting Friendly has called to deal with Terry. He has gotten wind that Terry is about to break ranks.
FADE IN:
INT. FRIENDLY BAR—BACKROOM (EST) NIGHT
It is set up as an informal kangaroo court. Jocko is pointing at Charles Malloy, who is on the hot seat. Johnny Friendly is the judge, flanked by Big Mac, Truck, Sonny, Barney, Specs, J. P. Morgan, and others.
J. P.
I didn’t hear them, boss, but I sure seen them, walking along and smiling like a pair of lovers.
Charley looks uncomfortable. He hasn’t finished his drink.
JOHNNY
(watching him carefully)
Drink up Charley, we’re ahead of you.
CHARLEY
(disturbed)
I’m not thirsty.
JOHNNY
(drinking)
After what we been hearing about your brother, I thought your throat’d be kind of dry.
CHARLEY
So they’re walking along and smiling. That doesn’t mean he’s going to talk. There’s no evidence until he gives public testimony.
JOHNNY
Thanks for the legal advice, Charley. That’s what we always kept you around for.
(smiles wisely)
Now how do we keep him from giving this testimony? Isn’t that the—er—as you’d put it—main order of business?
CHARLEY
(nervously)
He was always a good kid. You know that.
BIG MAC
He’s a bum. After all the days I give him in the loft—he’s got no gratitude.
JOHNNY
(offended)
Please Mac, I’m conducting this—
(nodding to Charley)
investigation.
CHARLEY
This girl and the Father got their hooks in him so deep he doesn’t know which end is up anymore.
JOHNNY
I ain’t interested in his mental condition. All I want to know is, is he D ’n D or is he a canary?
CHARLEY
I wish I knew.
JOHNNY
So do I, Charley, for your sake.
CHARLEY
What do you want me to do, Johnny?
JOHNNY
Very simple. Just bring him to . . . that place we been using. Mac, you take care of the details. Call Gerry G. in if you think you need him.
CHARLEY
Gerry G!! You don’t want to do that, Johnny! Sure the boy’s outa line, but he’s just a confused kid.
JOHNNY
Confused kid? First he crosses me in public and gets away with it and then the next joker, and pretty soon I’m just another fellow down here.
CHARLEY
(horrified)
Johnny, I can’t do that. I can’t do that, Johnny.
JOHNNY
(coldly)
Then don’t.
CHARLEY
But my own kid bro—
JOHNNY
(cutting in)
This is for you to figure out. You can have it your way or you can have it his way.
(gestures with his palms up and his palms down)
But you can’t have it both ways.
(turns to Sonny)
Am I right, Sonny?
SONNY
Definitely!
JOHNNY
(thumbing Charley to his feet)
Okay, on your horse, you deep thinker.
Charley rises reluctantly, his confident, springy manner now gone.
DISSOLVE
INT. TAXICAB (N.Y. B.G.) [NIGHT]
Charley and Terry have just entered the cab.
TERRY
Gee, Charley, I’m sure glad you stopped by for me. I needed to talk to you. What’s it they say about blood, it’s—
(falters)
CHARLEY
(looking away coldly)
Thicker than water.
DRIVER
(gravel voice, without turning around)
Where to?
CHARLEY
Four thirty-seven River Street.
TERRY
River Street? I thought we was going to the Garden.
CHARLEY
I’ve got to cover a bet there on the way over. Anyway, it gives us a chance to talk.
TERRY
(good naturedly)
Nothing ever stops you from talking, Charley.
CHARLEY
The grapevine says you picked up a subpoena.
TERRY
(noncommittal. Sullen)
That’s right . . .
CHARLEY
(watching his reaction)
Of course the boys know you too well to mark you down for a cheese-eater.
TERRY
Mm hmm.
CHARLEY
You know, the boys are getting rather interested in your future.
TERRY
Mm hmmm.
CHARLEY
They feel you’ve been sort of left out of things, Terry. They think it’s time you had a few things going on for you on the docks.
TERRY
A steady job and a few bucks extra, that’s all I wanted.
CHARLEY
Sure, that’s all right when you’re a kid, but you’ll be pushing thirty soon, slugger. It’s time you got some ambition.
TERRY
I always figured I’d live longer without it.
CHARLEY
Maybe.
Terry looks at Charley.
CHARLEY (CONT’D)
There’s a slot for a boss loader on the new pier we’re opening up.
TERRY
(interested)
Boss loader!
CHARLEY
Ten cents a hundred pounds on everything that moves in and out. And you don’t have to lift a finger. It’d be three-four hundred a week just for openers.
TERRY
And for all that dough I don’t do nothin’?
CHARLEY
Absolutely nothing. You do nothing and you say nothing. You understand, don’t you, kid?
Struggling with an unfamiliar problem of conscience and loyalties: