by Lucy V Hay
• Where does it end? Despite its complex, non-linear storytelling, Blue Valentine is ‘bookended’ – it ends as it begins, with Frankie, shouting after her father Dean as he walks away. This is a masterstroke of good storytelling because it underlines that whatever Cindy might receive in terms of personal space and peace of mind by breaking up with Dean at last, her gain is Frankie’s loss. Children are so often overlooked in stories about divorce (especially via the assumption, ‘It’s better for them this way, not so many arguments’), so Blue Valentine not only makes a refreshing change by including Frankie’s POV, it also adds to our devastation that Cindy and Dean could not make it work, despite both their best efforts. Frankie is the ultimate ‘lost girl’.
WHAT IS A TRANSFORMATIVE ARC?
Spec screenwriters (and many produced ones, incidentally) appear set on ‘character change’ in recent years as a solely ‘positive’ thing. With the deluge of ‘tragic pasts’ it would seem writers want their characters to ‘vanquish’ their fears and/or deal with their past losses. That is obviously no bad thing (especially when it comes to challenging accepted norms and values through well-conceived characterisation and plotting), but again it’s about differentiation against the rest of the spec pile. Often, the most memorable drama screenplays are those with characters who experience that inevitable descent into the negative, as mentioned in the section on the theme of ‘devastation’. This is especially the case in indie film. In typical Hollywoodised fare, for example, Dean and Cindy in Blue Valentine would resolve their issues, rather than split up. Instead, we see the problem is thus: Cindy DOES change, but Dean stays exactly where he is. Arguably, Cindy is bitter and put-upon; perhaps if she had chilled out as Dean suggests, their marriage might have been saved. After everything that has happened in their lives together, however, she doesn’t feel she can stay still, and that’s not her fault. Equally, Dean isn’t at fault either: this is just who he is and Cindy knew that when she married him. Dean’s personality and world view worked for Cindy back when she was a student and needed him to ‘legitimise’ Frankie by taking her on as his own child. The issue behind the story we’re watching, then, is that Dean’s laissez-faire attitude no longer works for Cindy in the present day, and even though Dean does not want to split up, he cannot provide his wife with what she needs: they have reached an impasse and there is quite literally no way back. Blue Valentine is the story of Cindy making that realisation and forcing the issue that leads to that impasse. Though we join Cindy in bed and annoyed – ‘I’m sleeping!’ – she’s not at that stage yet where she realises Dean is no longer right for her. There’s still a small part of her that hopes this is just a rough patch and they can work their way out of it, hence her agreeing to go away with him for the night (the ‘Blue Valentine’ of the title is the ridiculous ‘robot’s vagina’ in a hotel’s science-fiction-themed suite).
Over the course of the narrative Cindy DOES change… not for the ‘better’, but arguably not for the worse, either. In the long term, her decision to split with Dean may indeed work out best for everyone (though it’s important to note that this idea goes beyond the storyline of the movie we are watching). All the negative elements of Cindy and Dean’s personalities clash in the impressive scene in the sonographer’s office. Convinced he can change Cindy’s mind, Dean storms in and insists on reconciliation. Yet if there was ever a chance of saving their marriage, it’s at this precise moment everything goes downhill and all is lost. Her career is the only thing Cindy has that is ‘Dean free’; for him to invade it makes her mind up once and for all, leading her to yell at him, ‘I hate you!… you cunt!’ On this basis, then, when it comes to great drama storytelling, the concept of ‘character change’ should arguably come without a built-in judgement. This is why I do not talk of ‘character change’ (especially since writers seem so set on this being ‘a good thing’), but ‘transformative arcs’:
Characters start in one place… but end up in another.
This movement may happen purposefully or accidentally (to the character in question, at least). In addition, beyond society’s accepted norms and values (‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’ being the most obvious), the judgement on a character’s actions and world view should be the audience’s, NOT the writer’s or filmmaker’s. For example, I believe absolutely that neither Cindy nor Dean is at fault in Blue Valentine and they both act as heinously as each other. However, I have argued many times with friends who believe Dean is a waster and should ‘man up’; or that Cindy is a martyr and a bad mother for kicking Frankie’s father out. Blue Valentine is a layered enough drama to support ALL THREE of these interpretations – and probably more, too. Yet spec drama screenplays often fail to grab readers because there is just one way of viewing a situation: someone is at fault, another person is not, and the answer to a dilemma (or similar) is ‘obvious’. If you want to elicit an authentic emotional response from your reader (and thus your audience), nothing should EVER be ‘obvious’. Make your characters ‘transform’, make them face unpalatable things about themselves and others via that notion of ‘internal conflict’, which in turn will ensure the actions of the story point to the psyches of those characters, a perfect circle. But how to go about tackling a ‘transformative arc’? Try asking yourself these questions:
• What is my character like at the beginning of the story, and at the end? Writers frequently draw characters in very broad strokes when it comes to this element of their drama screenplays. A character who is repugnant at the beginning will usually reform by the end; or a timid mouse of a person will become brave and courageous. But the best drama screenplays explore the psyche of these characters and draw attention to those minute changes within the person that mean the world to them, but aren’t necessarily obvious immediately to the outside world… the audience shares in the character’s journey, then, every step of the way.
• Why do I want him/her to make this realisation/change/choice (or not, as the case may be)? In comparison to genre film, in which a protagonist does not necessarily have to change over the course of a narrative, a drama character usually must confront something metaphorical about themselves, the world or people around them. Remember, though we begin with an obvious problem between Cindy and Dean, via their flashbacks we discover that they started off very much in love: Dean is Cindy’s hero – at first. He’s a veritable knight in shining armour, taking on someone else’s child as his own and validating her as a woman for the first time. Fast-forward a few years and it’s a very different story: Dean has let himself go, complacent; Cindy feels trapped and resentful. Despite both of their best efforts, their relationship is doomed and, crucially, both make an attempt to resurrect the relationship, as well as behaving badly. This is not only realistic; it allows people in the audience to relate to this story by comparing it to their own relationship breakdowns, meaning that the all-important emotional response can occur, a triple whammy of great drama writing. I don’t mind admitting I cried like a baby at the end of Blue Valentine, as Dean strides off down the street, daughter Frankie calling after him, the only dad she has ever known, as fireworks go off where people elsewhere in the city celebrate.
• What am I trying to say here? Any writing of any kind is in essence a communication and it’s more than possible to create insightful messages and themes in genre stories. However, it is not essential, especially when we consider the primary function of genre film is entertainment. If the primary function of drama film is that all-important emotional response in the audience, we need to keep in mind how we are going to induce that, right from the outset. In other words, we need to know WHY we want to tell the story we have chosen; WHAT the story means to us; WHO it will appeal to; and WHY we feel it is important to share this ‘message’.
DRAMA LOGLINES
Loglines are always difficult to write, but especially so for drama screenplays because too often they seem too ‘small’ at best and horribly depressing at worst, meaning they’re an extremely hard sell in terms of gra
bbing someone’s attention. Considering Blue Valentine again, check out this one, which I found on a film review site:
The film depicts a married couple, Dean and Cindy, shifting back and forth in time between their courtship and the dissolution of their marriage several years later. (27 words)
If I heard this pitch at the London Screenwriters’ Festival, or received it via email, I would probably NOT request the screenplay. It’s not the worst logline I’ve ever read, but it does very little to sell the film ‘off the page’ to me… and yet I love Blue Valentine! So let’s rewrite it.
Perhaps the most intriguing thing about Blue Valentine is the fact it’s non-linear: the marriage breakdown is set in ‘the present’ and contrasted with the hopeful burgeoning of romance back in ‘the past’. Yet, crucially, the beginnings of Dean and Cindy’s love is not all ‘moonlight and roses’: Cindy is pregnant by a musclehead jock at her university and almost goes through with an abortion she doesn’t want; similarly, the jock beats on Dean for daring to ‘steal’ his woman. What’s more, both Cindy and Dean are flawed, troubled individuals with lots of emotional baggage of their own, plus they’re from two very different backgrounds. We know relatively little about Dean, other than that he is (we assume) a badly educated, blue-collar worker, with relatively few aspirations. In comparison, Cindy is a high achiever, desperate for something ‘more’ in her life. Having yearned to be a doctor, she ends up making do instead with being a sonographer, her ambitions cut short by marrying Dean so young (rather than having daughter Frankie, a clever reversal of expectation here). It’s Dean, not the baby, who becomes a millstone around Cindy’s neck: there’s a brilliant scene in which Cindy says Dean has ‘so much potential’, but she’s describing herself and her own clipped wings more than she is him and his job painting houses. Dean takes her and his family for granted: he ‘rescued’ Cindy from the jock and from her own belief she was not lovable – it doesn’t get any better, right? And for Cindy it quite literally doesn’t… which is why she grows to hate Dean, a real modern tragedy that so many in the audience can relate to. So, thinking about all of this, the words that pop out at me are: non-linear… love… married couple… hate… tragedy. So here’s my rewritten logline:
A non-linear tragedy, in which a young couple‘s marriage breakdown is contrasted against the heady early days of their relationship, yet because of their very different outlooks and backgrounds, and despite both their good intentions, love soon turns to hate. (40 words)
I believe this is a much better pitch for Blue Valentine because it illustrates both its method of storytelling (non-linear) and the characters’ arcs within it. Whilst some people might be of the view this story sounds ‘depressing’ due to the ‘love turns to hate’ aspect, it’s important to remember hate is an active state of being, just as love is (hence there being a ‘thin line’ between them), plus Blue Valentine does not have a ‘happy ever after’, so to leave out ‘love turns to hate’ or the word ‘tragedy’ could be viewed as disingenuous. We are MEANT to be devastated by that ending, by Dean walking off into the distance, by Frankie’s calls after him; the writer leads us to believe the situation might be salvaged right till the last possible second. My tears were what the writer and filmmaker wanted, but crucially I wasn’t depressed by that ending: I found it cathartic. I was remembering the various break-ups and near break-ups I’ve had, but also thinking of how, although it might have seemed like the end of the world at the time, everything had turned out okay in the end. And that is the true power of a good drama screenplay. In crafting your OWN drama screenplay logline, consider the following:
• What type of drama is this? If drama is ‘everything else’ that doesn’t come under the banner of high-concept, event-driven genre film, you need to give a nod to what type of drama story you’re telling. In the case of Blue Valentine, I needed to mention it is non-linear and deals with contrast (i.e. good to bad times), but if yours is a true story, mockumentary or whimsical dramedy, why not give an indication of this in your logline?
• Who are my characters? Remember, your characters are undergoing something deeply personal and your conflict is likely to be internal, rather than external. But DON’T fall back on cliché, whatever you do! Look at my logline for Blue Valentine again: I describe their issues as being differing ‘outlooks and backgrounds’, but crucially I also draw attention to the fact that we are supposed to sympathise with them BOTH, not one over the other, with ‘despite both their good intentions’. If you’re used to writing loglines for genre films, you’ll likely know ‘the shorter the better’ is the ideal, something in the region of twenty-five words. Drama loglines are typically longer, since they need to be ‘character-led’, like the stories they represent. The ideal in my opinion is 35 to 40 words, though there are always exceptions: true stories lend themselves pretty well to shorter loglines, I find.
• What emotional response do I want from my audience and how will I go about it? Blue Valentine is a tragedy; we’re supposed to be devastated by its conclusion and wish it could be different for Dean and Cindy. But including ‘the heady early days of their relationship’ hints that Blue Valentine will not be a feature-length misery fest, as does ‘their good intentions’: there are moments of humour and warmth to the movie, such as when Dean quizzes Cindy when he first meets her, or when she dances to his ukulele and terrible singing in the doorway. Most importantly, it’s these moments that make us wish it could have worked out for them. Love it or hate it, Blue Valentine is a masterclass in devastating drama BECAUSE of light and shade, not in spite of it.
NO ONE SIZE FITS ALL
CHANGE AGENTS
As with all elements of creative writing, there are always exceptions and, in the case of drama screenplays and transformative arcs, it is important to note there are drama protagonists whose function is to stay exactly the same. These ‘change agents’ instead inspire other characters to make realisations about their lives and the world around them. The most obvious ‘change agent’ is, of course, the title character of Forrest Gump (1994), whose unyieldingly optimistic (and simplistic) view of life transforms the lives of secondary characters such as Bubba, Lieutenant Dan and Jenny, not to mention countless peripheral characters, either forever or momentarily. Forrest is present at a number of historic moments and is directly responsible for a number of iconic pop culture elements, from Elvis’s trademark jig to ‘Shit Happens’ car bumper stickers, underlining the message of the film that we ALL have the capacity to make an impact on others’ lives. Though Forrest Gump is frequently talked down as being ‘overly sentimental’ and even ‘sick making’, it was the winner of six Academy Awards, including Best Picture and, most importantly, remains a hugely popular movie with audiences some 20 years later. In a world that may seem cold and intimidating to so many, a ‘feel-good’ movie that draws attention to the fact we DON’T have to ‘transform’ ourselves in order to matter to other people is obviously hugely important to audiences. As writers, then, we must not underestimate change agents in our bid for great characterisation for our spec drama screenplays.
‘CLOSED’ PROTAGONISTS
Another method of characterisation, other than transformative arcs and change agents, worth thinking about is the notion of what I call the ‘closed protagonist’. Sometimes these protagonists are called ‘passive’, which is a term I ultimately disagree with, because usually they will have to make some kind of decision at some point in the narrative for a specific reason, even if it is only once (thus meaning they do contribute actively to the story). What is notable then about the closed protagonist in drama screenplays is not that they’re literally ‘closed off’ (though sometimes they are, as in the case of the title character in Dumbo [1941] who is completely silent), but the fact that another character – usually a secondary, though sometimes an antagonist – will need to ‘take the reins’ of the story FOR them for an extended period, often half or even two thirds of the story. In Dumbo’s case, his mouse friend, Timothy, communica
tes to us, the audience, the elephant’s desperate need and desire, not only to be back with his mother, but to be liked and accepted for who he is, big ears and all (and both of these dreams come true by the end of the film).
In the case of Sideways (2004), however, it is antagonist, Jack, not closed protagonist, Miles, who drives the drama… It is Jack’s bachelor party Miles is present at, not his own; plus it is the fallout Jack creates that Miles must deal with, especially when it comes to hiding Jack’s infidelity from his fiancée so her feelings are spared. Throughout the entire movie Miles puts aside his own needs in favour of others’, creating obstacle after obstacle for himself, so he is unable to engage with his own desire to be loved. It is only in the last few moments of the film that Miles finally decides to take a chance with Maya. We finish the story with him on her doorstep; we don’t even know how it will turn out (especially given his brittle and infuriating behaviour with Maya earlier). Ultimately, the emotional response elicited by both Dumbo and Sideways, made over 60 years apart, one animated, the other live action, is again one of hope for the future.