What a thing.
Which is not to say the day dawned without apprehension. I knew I'd be okay--my God, all I had to do was tell what happened and he had to like that--
--but what if he turned out to be an asshole? What if he was embarrassed by his early work, felt he had moved past it? Some of the stories were forty years old. What if he pissed on them, said they were just starters, juvenile stuff, those words that had been everything for me.
We had lunch at the Four Seasons, and as I walked in, I was terrified our time together would be a disaster.
It was.
Not because of him, no, he was just what I wanted him to be, this tough and feisty warrior, grizzled and funny, passionate, who loved sports and loved New York. He was wonderful that day.
I was the horror show.
I knew this was my one shot, and I needed to tell him what he meant; y'see, I might never meet him again; before the meal was over, he had to know. But all the rehearsals I'd done in my mind dried up, and I didn't know what to say, how to tell him, and at the very start I sensed it was not going to be one of my good days and that only made me panic more, so I gushed and blubbered and embarrassed the man, and I could feel myself slipping down the iceberg and I couldn't stop. This was the one day when I wanted to be wonderful and it was a fucking nightmare and when it was over I thought, well, thank God, I can't be any worse--
--and then I did it. We were walking along Park Avenue just before parting and I was talking about how he never made me stop reading, never used the wrong word, that great simplicity of the storytelling, and I heard myself saying these terrible words: It's easy for you, isn't it, the writing?
I still see this sad look in his eyes as he turned to me. And I don't know what he was thinking but I knew I had disappointed him so badly. I had trivialized the man, I had ignored his pain.
"It wasn't easy," he said very softly.
He went his way, I mine, and I guess that was the worst lunch of my life, because the one thing we have, everyone who writes or paints or composes, is our pain--pain that we deal with by huddling away in our pits and getting through it as best we can.
I remember in 1957 literally reeling out of a now-dead movie theater on Eighty-sixth Street--because I had just seen The Seventh Seal. And I knew I had never seen anything like it.
No one else has told this kind of story on film, at least not this well. The kinds of narratives that interest Bergman don't have a lot of roles for Sylvester Stallone in them, or very happy endings. His movies tend to be short, without an ounce of fat, and they are peopled with decent human beings trying to make sense of the madness down here. And usually failing.
The reason I never want to meet Bergman should be pretty clear to you by now: What if I said, "Was it a lot of fun writing The Seventh Seal?"
This is the opening of the movie. I can't come up with many better.
The Playing Chess with Death Scene
The night had brought little relief from the heat, and at dawn a hot gust of wind blows across the colorless sea.
The knight, Antonius Block, lies prostrate on some spruce branches spread across the fine sand. His eyes are wide-open and bloodshot from lack of sleep.
Nearby his squire, Jons, is snoring loudly. He has fallen asleep where he collapsed, at the edge of the forest among the wind-gnarled fir trees. His open mouth gapes toward the dawn, and unearthly sounds come from his throat.
At the sudden gust of wind the horses stir, stretching their parched muzzles toward the sea. They are as thin and worn as their masters.
The knight has risen and waded into the shallow water, where he rinses his sunburned face and blistered lips.
Jons rolls over to face the forest and the darkness. He moans in his sleep and vigorously scratches the stubbled hair on his head. A scar stretches diagonally across his scalp, as white as lightning against the grime.
The knight returns to the beach and falls on his knees. With his eyes closed and brow furrowed, he says his morning prayers. His hands are clenched together and his lips form the words silently. His face is sad and bitter. He opens his eyes and stares directly into the morning sun, which wallows up from the misty sea like some bloated, dying fish. The sky is gray and immobile, a dome of lead. A cloud hangs mute and dark over the western horizon. High up, barely visible, a sea gull floats on motionless wings. Its cry is weird and restless.
The knight's large gray horse lifts its head and whinnies. Antonius Block turns around.
Behind him stands a man in black. His face is very pale and he keeps his hands hidden in the wide folds of his cloak.
KNIGHT
Who are you?
DEATH
I am Death.
KNIGHT
Have you come for me?
DEATH
I have been walking by your side for a long time.
KNIGHT
That I know.
DEATH
Are you prepared?
KNIGHT
My body is frightened but I am not.
DEATH
Well, there is no shame in that.
The knight has risen to his feet. He shivers. Death opens his cloak to put it around the knight's shoulders.
KNIGHT
Wait a moment.
DEATH
That's what they all say. I grant no reprieves.
KNIGHT
You play chess, don't you?
A gleam of interest kindles in Death's eyes.
DEATH
How did you know that?
KNIGHT
I have seen it in paintings and heard it sung in ballads.
DEATH
Yes, in fact I'm quite a good player.
KNIGHT
But you can't be better than I am.
The knight rummages in the big black bag which he keeps beside him and takes out a small chessboard. He places it carefully on the ground and begins setting up the pieces.
DEATH
Why do you want to play chess with me?
KNIGHT
I have my reasons.
DEATH
That is your privilege.
KNIGHT
The condition is that I may live as long as I hold out against you. If I win, you will release me. Is it agreed?
The knight holds out his two fists to Death, who smiles at him suddenly. Death points to one of the knight's hands; it contains a black pawn.
KNIGHT
You drew black!
DEATH
Very appropriate. Don't you think so?
The knight and Death bend over the chessboard. After a moment of hesitation, Antonius Block opens with his king's pawn. Death moves, also using his king's pawn.
The morning breeze has died down. The restless movement of the sea has ceased, the water is silent. The sun rises from the haze and its glow whitens. The sea gull floats under the dark cloud, frozen in space. The day is already scorchingly hot.
The squire Jons is awakened by a kick in the rear. Opening his eyes, he grunts like a pig and yawns broadly. He scrambles to his feet, saddles his horse and picks up the heavy pack.
The knight slowly rides away from the sea.
Why do I think Bergman's so great? Five reasons.
1. Because he is.
2. Because I think Chekhov is the playwright of the last hundred years and Bergman works the same side of the street. Heartbreaking, sure, but sometimes laughter. Funny/sad. Think it's easy? Good luck.
3. Because I just spent a weekend looking at five flicks--The Seventh Seal, Wild Strawberries, Persona, Winter Light, Through a Glass Darkly. Sure, there is the occasional tendency to want to jump out the window, but once you get past that, you enter his world. He takes you places you've never been, never knew existed, and you know you'll never be quite the same after.
4. I wrote a line for Butch once when they are in South America and Sundance wonders what they are going to do if the Superposse keeps on tracking them: "We'll outlast the bastards."
Hollywoo
d is so full of short-time wonders. Welles and Sturges, and all these other great talents who got sucked up by their own egos, began to think they knew what they were doing. Welles worked for decades, but his great work lasted really two years, Kane and Ambersons. Sturges was around for close to twenty, but there is only real quality for five.
Bergman is not your everyday flash in the pan. He was at it in '44, was still great forty years later with his last masterpiece, Fanny and Alexander. For me, that's a career. (Oh, he's still at it. His latest screenplay just went into production.)
5. But all of the above reasons are nothing compared to the one thing that sets him apart from all the rest--Ingmar slugged a critic.
I don't remember all the details but I'm sure I didn't make this up--I mean I have no thoughts that Frederico biffed the guy from Il Mundo. Here's what I'm pretty sure happened.
In Sweden, Ingmar is at least as famous for his stage work as for his flicks. He was rehearsing a play one afternoon when a critic wanders in--a guy who had hammered our hero on more than one occasion. Anyway, Ingmar sees him, temporarily stops rehearsal, leaves the stage, chases the critic up the aisle into the lobby, and clocks the mother.
Yessss!
Think Orson or Hitch could do that?
* * *
Entering Late
Here is reality.
FADE IN ON
A COLLEGE SCREENWRITING CLASS.
A DOZEN STUDENTS sit rapt, as at the front, their lecturer inspires them.
WILLIAM GOLDMAN is that lecturer. Known for his modesty, GOLDMAN resembles a handsome Cary Grant; his wit, charm, and incisive vision are known around the world.
GOLDMAN
Why should we study poetry? Or art? Or music or ballet? Because each hour spent examining the other disciplines makes us better screenwriters. Here is one of my favorite quatrains:
"She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!"
Why should we be aware of those words by William Wordsworth? Listen now with great care, as I recite it to you again. And pay complete attention to the simple word "oh." I should tell you this: it comes at the end of the third line, and it is entirely surrounded by commas, one follows the preceding word, "grave," the next following the crucial "oh" itself.
"She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!"
Did you hear? It is not possible to read or hear that poem without giving particular emphasis to that simple two-letter word. You have to land on it hard. Now think. What is Wordsworth doing? First, of course, he is making us aware of the depth of his pain. And oh. And oh...!
(beat)
But what else is he doing that relates to screenwriting? Class?
CUT TO
THE STUDENTS. And it's clear they revere him, want to please him so much, but right now, no one seems to want to raise a hand. They are, by the way, a good-looking bunch of twenty-year-olds. Silence from the assembled.
CUT TO
GOLDMAN, looking at each of them in turn. Waiting silently.
CUT TO
THE PRETTIEST OF THE PRETTY GIRLS. Her name is Susan and she has a wonderful mind, but she's a Marilyn Monroe type, so who would know? She raises a hand nervously.
GOLDMAN
(indicating she should speak)
Go ahead, Sarah.
SUSAN
(correcting)
Susan.
GOLDMAN
Sorry, close only counts in horseshoes. What is Wordsworth doing?
SUSAN
(hesitantly)
Is he ... controlling the reader?
CUT TO
GOLDMAN, all smiles
GOLDMAN
In the words of Marv, yesss.
CUT TO
GOLDMAN. CLOSE UP.
GOLDMAN
When we write our screenplays--more than anything else this is what we want--to control the reader's eye.
(intently now)
We use all our tricks to make that happen. We space a laugh on the page differently than we space a shock-- all in an attempt to make the reader hear our voice.
(louder)
--do we understand this?
(before they can all answer, the bell rings)
More on this anon.
CUT TO
THE STUDENTS, rising slowly, heading out.
Except for SUSAN. She grabs her books, waves to the others, goes to GOLDMAN's desk. One final glance around--they're alone. And you can tell that even though she is twenty and he is pushing seventy, they are more than student and teacher.
SUSAN
Why the Sarah?
GOLDMAN
So no one would suspect us.
SUSAN
Gonna be hard to do that now.
(beat)
I'm pregnant.
HOLD ON THE TWO OF THEM. He sits down hard at his desk. We can see some photos there now--snapshots of his family, his smiling wife, their four smiling little kids.
BLACKOUT.
I tried very hard to make that as interesting for you to read as I could. I put in stuff about how I'm handsomer than Cary Grant, how I'm so charming you want to throw up, all to keep you going. And I believe entirely in the central notion that Wordsworth did control our eye, which is what screenwriters want to do.
I said at the start it was reality, and I tried to make that as true as I could. It might be a college class somewhere. When I write a movie, I see every cut. I think we all do, and if we don't, I think we all should. When I wrote "fade in on" a classroom, I didn't describe it, but I could have, I kept a couple from my past in my head. I see the desk and me standing there and the students.
And I try to imagine that I am sitting there in the theater, watching.
Do you know what you would have done if you had, in reality, sat through a scene like that? Do you realize the pain you would feel? You would have been groaning. You would have thought some terrible trick was being played on you. That scene runs three and a half minutes.
I was at the Mount Kenya Safari Club years ago, late afternoon, gorgeous sunset, perfect beauty and silence, which is what you go there for--
--when suddenly this awful drumming began and I looked out to see the next cabin, where twenty Africans in native costume were banging away and chanting--and I realized some asshole must have paid them to do that, and maybe the people in the next cabin enjoyed it--
--me, I thought it was the worst practical joke ever. That's what you would have thought if you'd been in a theater and this awful droning about Wordsworth went on. You might have thought someone was trying to drive you mad.
I hope we understand this by now: movies have nothing to do with reality.
But that scene has enough dramatic material to make a valid movie scene. Here is how you would do it:
FADE IN ON
A COLLEGE SCREENWRITING CLASS
A DOZEN STUDENTS sit listening in various states of disinterest.
Their lecturer is a man in his mid-60's. Knowledgeable, stiff.
LECTURER
Wordsworth has many lessons for us as screenwriters--
(the bell rings)
--we'll start here next time.
CUT TO
THE CLASS, getting up, heading out.
One student, SUSAN, twenty and very sexy, goes to the desk, glances around, sees they are alone.
LECTURER
Yes, Susan?
SUSAN
I'm pregnant.
HOLD ON THE TWO OF THEM. He sits down hard at his desk. We can see some photos there now--snapshots of his family, his smiling wife, their four smiling little kids.
BLACKOUT.
Fifteen seconds. Do you have the requisite information? Think so. Were you bored? Shouldn't have been. We are, at this moment, at something I have written about before a
nd you know all about anyway, but since it is one of the crucial facts of our work, I'm going to put it in very large type.
This has been about entering late.
We must enter all scenes as late as possible.
We must enter our story as late as possible.
Why?
Because of the camera.
Because of the speed.
I cannot think of exceptions. Not in proper screenwriting.
The story I used here could make, in the hands of a skilled novelist, an engrossing piece of work. It could be comic--the silly old fart forgetting his years. It could be heartbreaking--that's so easy I won't even bother.
And this could be the first page of a novel. Or it could come fifty pages in or a hundred and fifty. That is the decision the novelist must make. He does not have the camera literally looking over his shoulder. He is the camera.
You could do endless stuff on the professor, his coming to grips with a failed life, his loveless, or glorious, marriage, doesn't matter, he could still feel failed. You could do endless stuff with the girl. Maybe she has always been a hunk, maybe her father could not keep his hands off her, maybe her father was a saint who protected her from the potential evils of the world so when she saw this Cary Grant of a professor, she couldn't help falling for him.
Maybe she's a young Glenn Close, nutty as hell, who has hated the wife for years and has set out to destroy her and she ain't pregnant at all. Or maybe she is pregnant, but it's not the professor's child.
Any way you want to take this, feel free. And feel free to take all the time you want to develop whatever story you decide to tell.
But not in a screenplay.
There is no time in a screenplay.
Do you want to read a piece of great screenwriting? Not mine, alas. It comes from the mind of Raymond Chandler.
FADE IN ON
A married couple in an elevator. They stand silently. The man wears a hat.
Which Lie Did I Tell?: More Adventures in the Screen Trade Page 19