by Lucy V Hay
• Internal conflict. Many writers believe drama to be a genre in its own right, especially as the word ‘genre’ essentially means ‘category’, as defined by the dictionary. Regardless of what writers feel, however, the key here is not so much what the word literally means, as how the actual industry sees it. As I’ve already described, drama films are often realistic, personal stories that place emotion and authenticity at their hearts; this means protagonists are frequently the ones driving the action, which comes from within them. This is what is meant by a story being ‘character-led’.
• External conflict. In direct contrast, then, genre films are more frequently event-driven, pulling their protagonists into situations in which they are FORCED to react for some reason. In addition, the stakes are often literal in genre film, most commonly life-or-death, especially in the cases of horror and thriller. But even when risk of actual death is not present (such as in comedy), there will be some ‘outside’ element like a deadline, meaning there is a specific risk of loss to the characters, such as losing their home, job, spouse or face (as in humiliation) – sometimes all of these. In addition, genre films will utilise specific conventions to confirm AND break with audience expectation, which may relate to specific characters and storytelling techniques. For example, in creature thriller Pitch Black (2000) we are asked to invest in the journey of Fry, so may reasonably assume she will survive to the end as the so-called ‘final girl’. When she does not, we are shocked.
With the above in mind, then, the industry sees genre film at grass-roots level as something that is high-concept – or, rather, event-driven – with high (often literal) stakes, which utilises stylised storytelling that’s highly commercial for a mass audience. In contrast, the industry sees drama film as everything that is NOT that (yet which may include life-or-death stakes too). Remember, drama is typically about the minutiae of life and will probably include events and situations everyone in the audience will have direct or indirect experience of, such as relationships, illness, or family problems. This means a drama story and its characters need to be truthful, so audiences can relate to them. Yet still many spec screenwriters struggle with making their spec drama screenplays authentic and relevant, probably because the notion of ‘drama concept’ is notoriously slippery to pin down, especially when it comes to theme.
WHAT IS THEME?
If ‘high-concept’ means a story that is event-driven with literal stakes, writers could be forgiven for believing the opposite would be so-called ‘low-concept’! Instead, however, it is more advantageous to think of it as the aforementioned ‘character-led drama’. Most commonly, a character looks inside him or herself and must change his/her life in some way, for a particular reason (which may include literal life-or-death stakes, or may be metaphorical instead; sometimes it is both). The dictionary calls ‘theme’ a ‘unifying or dominant idea, motif’ and produced dramas are often overtly concerned with a message (moral or otherwise), whereas this should arguably be secondary in genre film (or needn’t play a part at all). Genre film may utilise very obvious and/or generic themes, such as ‘good versus evil’ or ‘survival of the fittest’, calling into play various wide elements the audience may interpret based on their own world view. Again in contrast, many produced dramas may attempt to communicate more overtly and specifically with their target audiences, so they may be cautionary tales, or challenging or inspirational stories, and/or they may be groundbreaking, usually by being the first project to represent or combine certain story elements, especially with regard to social issues or subjects, or characters from marginalised groups not usually seen in mainstream cinema.
COMMON THEMES IN PRODUCED DRAMA
This is by no means an exhaustive list and there will be many produced dramas that exist simultaneously on several platforms, especially thematically. However, breaking down produced dramas, I was rather surprised to discover that, despite there being a wide selection of stories in terms of execution, all the ones I could think of fitted into four broad categories in terms of theme:
• Morality. The ‘right thing’ is something mined by many stories regardless of whether they are drama or genre, though dramas will frequently utilise literary techniques like allegory, allusion and dramatic irony to make their points. Though District 9 (2009) was presented primarily as a science fiction thriller, it could be argued this allegory for apartheid was in fact more of a drama as its horrified protagonist Wikus van de Merwe finds himself ‘in league with the beasts’ and thus forced to understand them, further underlining the moral message that ‘xenophobia is wrong’. Quiz Show (1994), the story of the fraud scandal that rocked the popular 1950s TV show Twenty One, used allusions to Shakespeare amongst others via its dialogue to bolster its message that ‘cheating is wrong’ (by contrast, it should be noted ‘homage’ is usually a visual choice of the director and/or cinematographer’s, rather than the screenwriter’s). Finally, dramatic irony may be employed in certain produced dramas to give the target audience a sense of doom and/or the ‘inevitable’, especially a character being (usually) his own worst enemy, i.e. ‘had the character not done X, Y would not have subsequently happened’. We can see this most obviously in Harsh Times (2005): had Jim never rejected his pregnant girlfriend or smoked the marijuana in the set-up, his death may have been preventable in the resolution, the message being irresponsibility should not (and will not) be rewarded in life.
• Truth. The pursuit of truth ‘no matter what’ is the focal point of many produced dramas. However, in comparison with thrillers that may place a conspiracy or problem at the heart of the story for a protagonist to figure out, a produced drama often takes in other elements such as ‘identity’ or ‘redemption’ to do this. In ‘identity’ stories, characters may investigate themselves to discover the ‘truth’ of who they are and what they need, as in coming of age and/or coming out stories such as My Own Private Idaho (1991) or What’s Eating Gilbert Grape (1993). In ‘redemption’ stories, characters with dark pasts may find something that delivers them to something better, probably exemplified best by the (non-horror or fantasy) work of Stephen King and subsequent movie adaptations like The Shawshank Redemption (1994).
• Responsibility. Being responsible for another human being weighs heavy, so it’s no accident parenthood features strongly in this type of produced drama, as does sibling rivalry: a movie like You Can Count on Me (2000) personifies both these elements. However, other different kinds of responsibility stories may appear, such as a lawyer or investigator’s desire to get justice and/or answers for a violated client, as in The Accused (1988), A Time To Kill, (1996) or The General’s Daughter (1999). Alternatively, that investigator may be keen for a defendant to admit responsibility in an ambiguous case in which it is not immediately apparent exactly who (or indeed what) is at fault, as in The Life of David Gale (2003) or The Exorcism of Emily Rose (2005).
• Enlightenment. It is common for characters in produced dramas to have realisations and thus transform their outlook on a particular issue; sometimes their entire world view is altered by the experiences they undergo in the story. Frequently a character with an incredible talent will be the focus of a drama featuring enlightenment, such as the eponymous janitor of Good Will Hunting (1997), who is a mathematical genius. Also a pathological liar and unable to relate to authority, Will goes into therapy to avoid jail time, though all his psychologists sack him until he meets with Sean. The two men bond over their shared past experiences – both have survived child abuse – with the older man finally enabling Will to accept the abuse was not his fault. Jobs feature heavily in this type of drama, particularly with characters going into war zones and other cultures, either as soldiers or civilians. In Hotel Rwanda (2004), when war breaks out between the Hutu and Tutsi tribes, a Hutu hotelier initially cares only for the safety of his family and the maintaining of his business. As the narrative continues, however, inspired by his own marriage to a Tutsi, he attempts to save as many of his countrymen as he can from genocide
, regardless of their tribe. Another example is The Last King of Scotland (2006), where fictional Scottish doctor Nicholas Garrigan relates how he became (the real) Ugandan dictator Idi Amin’s personal physician. Garrigan is fascinated by the colourful Amin but is forced to see the negative impact he has on his country.
As ‘enlightenment’ is arguably one of the most common themes in produced drama content, I thought I would use it for our third case study, albeit an example much smaller and closer to home: Dear Frankie.
CASE STUDY 3: THE ENLIGHTENMENT STORY
DEAR FRANKIE (2004)
Written by: Andrea Gibb
Directed by: Shona Auerbach
Produced by: Gillian Berrie
Budget: £2.3 million
Q: What’s good about it?
A: Placing a ‘silent’ character at the heart of the story, this movie makes impressive (and justified) use of voiceover, exploring how children are perhaps not as in need of protection from reality as their parents might think.
MY LOGLINE: A single mother writes letters to her son, pretending they are from his dad, who she says is away at sea. When ‘his’ ship docks in their town, however, she is forced to hire a stranger to play the role of Frankie’s father.
Writing and Selling Dear Frankie
Dear Frankie started off life not as a feature, but as a 13-minute/page short film that was shortlisted for the Tartan Shorts scheme with Scottish Screen. Though it was commended, it didn’t get made. ‘So I just kind of forgot about it and did other things,’ says the film’s writer, Andrea Gibb. Then, out of nowhere, she received an email from a producer, asking Andrea if she had anything suitable for a new director, Shona Auerbach, who was ‘up and coming’. And not only that – the prodco actually had money! ‘It wasn’t that long ago, but it was a different age back then,’ Andrea says wistfully. Andrea is right: as with Beautiful Thing in 1996, it’s unlikely a spec drama screenplay – or indeed ANY spec screenplay – would have a budget as high as Dear Frankie’s nowadays. Happily, however, the development process for Dear Frankie is typical, even if, these days, scribes (and producers!) are more likely to have to fund their passion projects themselves. Andrea collaborated with the producers to develop Dear Frankie from 13 to 90 minutes. ‘The short film was set in the sixties,’ Andrea explains. ‘I grew up around that time, plus I wanted to exclude modern technology, such as email.’ This changed in development, however. Nevertheless, though Dear Frankie is set ‘today’, it has a timeless quality; its set dressing, the costumes, the way it’s shot, the colours used all mean it can be interpreted as being set in the past as well. ‘It has this lovely kind of fable aspect,’ Andrea says.
It was during the development process that Andrea won a script reading, with actors, at the Edinburgh Film Festival. ‘I can recommend all writers do a script reading,’ Andrea says. ‘There’s no quicker or more effective way of finding out what’s working and what’s not.’ An actress once herself, Andrea understands the ability of her colleagues to breathe life into characters, not just on set, but long before that: ‘I like to write for particular actors, it helps me,’ says Andrea. ‘Of course, it doesn’t always turn out that way and whoever I cast in my head is not always who ends up on screen. But visualising a real person can, I think, give your mind access to extra details.’ So did any of the people she cast in her mind’s eye end up in Dear Frankie? ‘No,’ Andrea laughs, ‘but Shona’s casting was empathetic to the story. Gerard (Butler) was just brilliant as The Stranger, so restrained. Emily Mortimer was incredible; her discipline and intelligence were just so good. And the boy! His eyes… they instinctively understood what we were trying to do. All the actors brought something extra, something more than I hoped for.’
Frankie’s deafness is such an integral part of the story in the feature, so I was surprised when Andrea explained Frankie was not deaf in the original short film script. ‘I needed a reason for him living inside his head,’ Andrea says, ‘otherwise, why wouldn’t he and his mother speak?’ This element of the screenplay sounds as if it was one of those light-bulb moments, where everyone in the development process asked themselves incredulously, ‘Why didn’t we think of this before??’ (I’ve found this myself as a script editor: that the best ideas often reveal themselves in this manner.) But it wasn’t just a question of simply ‘making’ Frankie deaf. Realism was important to everyone on Dear Frankie and Andrea did copious amounts of research and workshops with the deaf community in Glasgow. Shona Auerbach even had a signer on set for the shoot.
What’s very striking about Dear Frankie is not only how ‘woman- centric’ the story is as a tale of motherhood (rather than the more neutral notion of ‘parenthood’), but how many women were involved in the actual production, too. ‘Women have been very significant to my career,’ Andrea acknowledges. In an industry that is frequently accused of excluding women, I ask Andrea if she believes female directors are any different to their male counterparts. ‘In their craft? There is no difference,’ Andrea says firmly. ‘It’s the individual, yet there is this persistent notion women are maybe too emotional, or not reliable… I don’t know where that comes from. In my experience, women are just as highly skilled, professional and disciplined. So it’s not gender. Yet the stats for female directors, writers and so on are shockingly low. I don’t understand why that is.’
My Take on Dear Frankie
Running away from one’s past (and thus having to confront it) is a staple feature of both spec drama screenplays and produced content, so Dear Frankie is no different in this regard. We join the story with Lizzie, her mother, Nell, and Lizzie’s nine-year-old son, Frankie, packing up and moving again. The deaf Frankie provides a voiceover for the proceedings in the form of a letter to his father, whom he believes is a merchant seaman. Lizzie is a deeply troubled young woman who lives hand to mouth after running away from her husband, Davey, when Frankie was just a baby. Nell accompanies Lizzie wherever she goes so as to maintain a relationship with her only child and grandson, but also to ‘make sure [Lizzie] never goes back’. As the narrative progresses, the reason for Lizzie’s fragile mental state and Nell’s concern for her daughter becomes clear: Frankie was not born deaf, but was made so by Davey, who was violent and abusive to them both. So Frankie is not writing to Davey, whom he has never met, but a PO box number. Lizzie picks up the letters and writes back to him, pretending to be a benevolent father figure who sends Frankie lively stories of life at sea and stamps for the boy’s growing collection.
Many spec drama screenplays rely too much on coincidence to help fuel the plot, but Dear Frankie successfully uses a small contrivance to kick off the story that comes next. The movie illustrates perfectly that a coincidence can work in screenwriting, as long as it gets the protagonist into trouble rather than out of it. Sometimes the question isn’t ‘Why?’ but ‘Why not?’ So the inciting incident in Dear Frankie comes not in the shape of a crisis, but a seemingly harmless embellishment Lizzie makes in one of the letters. When she buys a stamp with a picture of a ship on, she tells Frankie in the letter that it’s the very ship Davey sails on. This is Lizzie’s fatal mistake, however, because the ship DOES exist… and is due to dock the very next week in the town where Lizzie, Nell and Frankie now live! To make matters worse, Frankie’s classmate and ‘frenemy’, Ricky Monroe, bets Frankie his own Top Trumps cards in exchange for Frankie’s beloved stamp collection that Davey will not want to see his son. Lizzie is caught in a quandary: not only will she shatter Frankie’s illusions if she confesses to having written the letters, but he will lose his precious collection and be humiliated in front of his classmates! The addition of Ricky Monroe’s bet is a masterstroke in the story, because it means we totally believe Lizzie’s reticence to reveal the truth to Frankie, despite Nell urging her to come clean. After all, Frankie is nine years old, the sort of age when many children discover that Father Christmas, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny are their parents’ well-meaning fabrications, so it might have stretched credulity if Lizzi
e had carried on the story without at least considering him old enough to handle the truth. But Frankie is already the outsider on the basis of his deafness and the fact that he is the new boy, which means we do not blame her when Lizzie resolves to pay a stranger to pose as Frankie’s father, just for a short visit that coming weekend. Though this is Lizzie’s story, it’s not Lizzie who wants to save face; she really does have Frankie’s best interests at heart, so we forgive her (somewhat overbearing and ill-judged) intervention.
It would have been very easy to play Dear Frankie as a comedy, with Lizzie ‘auditioning’ various unsuitable candidates for the role of Frankie’s pretend father, but it does not go down this route. Lizzie is very much lost, living solely for her child, so her journey to the pub to ‘find a (random) man’ is heartbreaking in its naivety. We can believe her tears and shame, sitting on the bench all night, until her friend and employer Marie finds her. Lizzie is desperate, and that’s why we can believe it when Nell backs off, not interfering when Marie puts Lizzie in touch with a man (who the script and the film simply call ‘The Stranger’), despite Nell’s own huge misgivings. But Dear Frankie is not a romance, either. No sparks fly when Lizzie and The Stranger meet in the coffee shop. The Stranger is suitably enigmatic, failing even to give his name. He is not droll or witty like we might expect, making quips about the odd situation. Lizzie is awkward and formal and we’re not even sure until the last minute that The Stranger will even do it, until he says, ‘What time would you like me to be there?’