Conversely, in scriptwriting — especially with regard to hanging onto our audience, and because the name of the game is moving pictures, we try to avoid long, static shots and/or too many talking heads.
One of the ways screenwriters accomplish this is by writing specific movement into our scenes. By choreographing them. By including what we describe as “parentheticals” (stage directions, really, such as crosses, grabs phone, enters, exits, etc.).
Another way we lend movement and energy to what might otherwise be a relatively motionless dialogue exchange is to make it a walking-talking scene (in film, sometimes known as a tracking shot).
As a writer of prose, think about all the ancillary — interesting and believable — incident that can occur while your characters are walking along an office corridor, or on a public street. The people they encounter, the shops or doorways they might pass, the distractions-and-or pauses while one of them eyeballs an item in a store window, or an attractive young woman, or they wait for a traffic light to change. Stuff that can heighten the drama or comedy you’re writing, energizing and bringing life to your material.
But, as with TV and screenwriting, the moves we write into our scenes, the business we give our actors — must be for a purpose that’s organic to the story. For exposition — a move or gesture that says something about that character. Or to make a dramatic point, from a pratfall to a reveal. To advance the story in some way.
Perhaps the most important point is that moves — choreography — changes of setting — should never be arbitrary, contrived — say — to fulfill some structural or purely expository purpose the writer may have. That’s awkward, forced choreography, and your audience will sense it.
One of the marks of bad writing — in prose or for the visual media — is inept choreography. Pointless, illogical or unnecessary moves. Again, there may be times when you write it that way to enhance your story, to throw a curve at your audience. But know that that is your point.
Another way to approach scene structure and choreography is to
THINK Picture/THINK Action/THINK Dialogue — A Screenwriter’s Approach
Let’s start by thinking about dialogue. You’ve done your homework, you’ve outlined. You have a pretty solid idea of where you’re going with it. But suddenly you come to a necessary scene that stumps you. Though you may know what it’s supposed to accomplish in terms of an A-to-B goal, you cannot quite visualize how you’re going to get it there.
One of the more useful techniques I’ve developed for “finding” a scene, for getting into a scene which I either don’t know how to start, or one in which the “meat” is eluding me, is by writing the participating characters’ “sides” (their lines, the he-said-she-said) in their entirety, with little or no attention to action or picture. In a way, it can be thought of as allowing the characters to write the scene for you. I’ve even done it by ad-libbing into a tape recorder, playing all of the roles.
Rarely do I use all of what they say. Sometimes none of it survives the cut. But I’ve found it a great way to develop a scene that I’m unclear about — a scene that, because of its subject, or objective in terms of storytelling, and/or structure, needs to be there, but isn’t automatically coming alive in my head. Often, the process will lead to business and/or a dynamic I hadn’t anticipated — stuff that may add dimension to the scene.
Now, the action part. Once the dialogue begins to gel, and I’ve gotten it all down, the next step for me in this particular process is cutting. Which may begin with finding places where the spoken words can be augmented — or better, supplanted by action or business. Those looks or gestures or pauses during which a character can take a sip of coffee — in place of a verbal response.
Or even better yet, finding material that can be eliminated.
And of course the outside trims — snipping off the ends.
At the the top, discovering how much I can can get rid of — how deep into the scene I can be when it begins. This part usually surprises — not only about how little is really necessary to make a significant story point, but also how effective it can be to throw your audience momentarily off-balance. Disorienting readers or viewers, wondering what in hell you’re up to is, incidentally, another convincing argument in favor of peeling back your exposition a layer at a time.
And similarly, best-case, leaving them with their mouths agape at the far end of the scene.
And — the picture: Regarding descriptive passages, my suggestion is that unless your name is F. Scott Fitzgerald and/or you have more than a touch of the poet, keep yours brief. Now, admittedly this may be a matter of taste, but in narrative fiction I find long paragraphs of scene-setting, of “eloquent” landscape description, and accounts of what people look like or what they’re wearing, tedious. For one thing, they’re usually not written very artfully. Also, such passages can stop the narrative flow. And, even when they’re written beautifully, I confess that I often find them to be self-consciously literary. Moreover — and again, it’s taste — I’d rather visualize the characters and the settings without a lot of help from the writer. Brevity, such as “Fortyish, with a whiskey-baritone” works far better for me than such details-upon-details as aquiline nose, silky skin-tone, gray-green eyes and more — unless of course they’re truly essential to the picture the writer is painting.
Sure, sometimes elaborately delineated physical characteristics, or the finer points of how a room is furnished have their place. Principally, of course, if you’re writing period stories, or scenes in which research is key. Even there, however, I recommend economy. Say it in as few words as possible. As in TV writing, let your action and dialogue carry the scene. Almost invariably, less will turn out to be more.
Stoppers
A Stopper is anything — from a clumsy or unclear piece of choreography, to awkward narrative verbiage, to a line — or single word — of dialogue that confuses — that stops the audience. One that causes a viewer or reader to wonder what was just said, or why it was said in that way. Sometimes it’s the result of pretentious or self-conscious writing. Or a lack of clarity.
In narrative fiction, a Stopper interrupts the reader’s flow. Admittedly, the need to re-examine — and pause to think about an occasional passage — probably won’t cause the average reader to disgustedly hurl your book across the room. But it’s a step in that direction, a move toward alienating your audience. And if you do so repeatedly it can be very harmful, even hurting sales of your next effort.
In theatrical pieces, film or TV, you can really lose your audience: If 200 — or 2,000 — or 20 million people are sitting there confused by what they’ve heard — or seen — you can be sure that many will lose the thread of the next few transactions — and in the bargain develop an intense dislike for the writer.
Another Stopper that should be avoided is the kind that inadvertently calls attention to, and comments on, the material itself. Deep into one of my early comedy scripts, following a series of funny pratfall-type accidents, I placed the following reactive line of dialogue in the mouth of the character who was most negatively affected by them: “Ogod, will this never end?”
Not a terrific idea to plant in your audience’s mind.
Can a Stopper ever be desirable? Absolutely. As it was so beautifully executed by Richard Condon in The Manchurian Candidate. But for most of us, the safest, most effective place for them is at the end of a scene or chapter, or of an entire story — as a punchline. Something for the reader or viewer to reflect upon.
More About Where to Start a Scene and Where to End it
or
Why the Playwright’s Curse is the Novelist’s and Screenwriter’s Blessing
Unlike the printed page or the movie-or-TV screen — either of which can provide close-ups or their equivalent, the theater stage is essentially, in movie-jargon, a wide shot. While adept stagecraft, and/or artful, modern lighting can isolate — and focus an audience’s attention — on a particular part of the scene — even approximat
ing movie-type cutting — the fact remains that it’s still taking place at a distance from the viewer.
Another aspect of the Playwright’s Curse — mostly the playwright is stuck with that tedious physical, logistical problem — the inescapable need to write entrances and exits — the necessity of moving actors on and off the stage. And with it, the challenge of keeping it entertaining.
Entrance Lines. From “Hello,” to “Tennis, anyone?” — it’s hard to come up with one that’s fresh. Same with Exit Lines. Sure, there are some memorable ones, lines that make a point, that have impact because they are delivered on an exit. Largely, though, they are the bane of most playwrights’ existence.
The screenwriter or novelist, on the other hand, can start in the middle of the scene!
And should!
Unless there’s a helluvva good reason to open it at the beginning, by bringing a new person through a doorway and into a room, or onto a location, don’t.
William Goldman’s motto for this says it very succinctly: Get into a scene as late as possible. (The same can be said of your story as a whole.)
And — your scenes can be buttoned without anyone needing to leave.
Bringing a new person onstage — or having one exit, say, in anger — in the middle of an ongoing scene — that’s something else, a device that can be very effective in introducing a new element — another level of excitement, conflict or humor.
Sure, there will be times when seeing somebody entering or exiting at the top — or bottom — of a scene is valuable, even essential. Obviously, a character bursting through a door on some sort of urgent mission (or storming out) can be highly effective (arguably, falling through a skylight is even better). But if the entrance you’re imagining isn’t dramatic, if it’s just a ho-hum way to start, you don’t have to write it that way. If the moment doesn’t count for something such as character development or exposition, if it isn’t adding anything — such as surprise — or urgency — or a button — or unless it has comedic value (as in Kramer’s entrances and exits on Seinfeld), why do it at all?
One of my reasons for emphasizing this is that so many writers — even professionals — as they’re devising a scene, tend to envision the entire transaction from the beginning — the client walking into the lawyer’s office, for example, including the “Hello, how are you” business that usually has no dramatic/entertainment value whatever — and is at best mostly on-the-nose exposition. Alas, far too many otherwise competent novelists seem to think that because they’ve pictured that their hero has to enter a room and meet someone — even if the meeting has no dramatic weight — they feel obligated to include the non-event anyway. And they may imagine — and write it clear through to the excruciatingly dull end, when the characters say their goodbyes and so on, and then exit the room.
Don’t.
As with dialoguing, imagining it’s entirety is an okay approach to creating your scene — but not if you then leave it that way, without trimming the fat.
Far better, as indicated earlier, to take a hard look at the content and, by trimming both ends — and perhaps taking some nips out of the middle — end up with only the good stuff.
This includes finding, if you aren’t already certain of it, the button for your scene — the precise moment at which you should end it, instead of hanging around after it’s over and stepping on your punchline — diminishing its impact.
Punchlines, Buttons and Act-Outs
Scene-endings, curtain-lines, are challenges all of us face, though the playwright’s may differ from those of the novelist or screenwriter, who can limit what the reader or viewer sees or hears — as much or as little as the author chooses. The equivalent, in film, of calling for a close-up, of focusing audience-attention where we want it. I’ve already explained that the Act-Out (commercial-break) in television scripts carries with it an additional requirement, beyond that of a punchline or button in other media, to motivate the viewers — even if they channel-surf during the commercials — to return for the next part of the show.
Okay, but how does this apply to other writing-forms?
As a cautionary note. Make sure all of your scene-and/orchapter-buttons are as strong as you can make them — especially if, in the next scene you’re abruptly changing locales, dealing for example with parallel action.
Leave your audiences hanging. Make ‘em anxious about what’s going to become of the characters they’ve just left.
This caveat, by the way, is not limited to melodrama or suspense yarns. It should be part of the writer’s thinking for even the softest, most lyrical of stories. It’s another essential part of hanging onto your audience.
Often, the scene-button, the “out,” is not a line of dialogue, but rather a moment, as in a look, a silent reaction from one of the players. Obviously, this is a lot easier for the writer to control in a novel, or in movie and TV scripts, than it is in a stageplay. And it is definitely a place where — in TV anyway — the writer can and should direct the scene on the page, with a specific instruction for actor, director and film editor:
“Off Millie’s look, we go to:” Followed by the next scene.
Or:
“Richard sags.”
Clearly, such cinematic stage directions would be unsuitable for all but the quirkiest novels. But paraphrased equivalents — written in the appropriate tense, in an acceptable prose style (in your style) — can be very effective in narrative fiction. And by limiting it to the outward description, rather than explaining the character’s inner feelings, one can leave the audience, whether readers or viewers, with the opportunity to project, to imagine what is going on behind the character’s eyes.
Nor is it wrong to button a scene from inside the mind of one of your characters.
A good button is a good button.
The Non-Scene — Causes and Cures
The scene in which all of the characters are in agreement with each other.
The scene inserted solely for the purpose of exposition, of passing along information to the audience.
The scene that is basically “mechanical” in the sense that its excuse for being there — its purpose — is to establish a certain fact, or to get this or that character from Point A to Point B for plot purposes.
The scene that merely platforms a story-element or clue without achieving anything else. Without adding anything new, or advancing inter-character conflicts.
The scene containing no dramatic or comedic value.
The scene that fails to entertain.
All of these are what we describe in television as non-scenes. And I mark them as such in scripts that I’m editing. They’re dull, amateurish, and not acceptable.
They also have something else in common: If whatever they accomplish is essential to your story, they can almost always be incorporated into other, more interesting scenes.
It’s worth repeating here that among the most important of the many self-editing questions you need to ask yourself is — where is the heat in each scene? Where’s the tension in each moment? Where is the conflict? Where’s the edge? What’s going on in this transaction — beyond the transaction itself? Again, the heat need not be in what they’re talking about or otherwise acting out, but rather in the subtext, a topic discussed more fully in Chapter Six.
Further, each scene should pass the writer’s “What does it accomplish?” test. Does it move the story to another place? Does it expose another side of one or more of the characters?
If the answer is no, it’s telling you to rethink it.
Non-scenes are what cause your audience to dial out. The good news is — the condition is fixable. In ways suggested earlier in this book, as well as others you’ll figure out for yourself. Sometimes the solution will be to eliminate the scene, or to combine it with another. Or — to find another layer, another level further beneath the surface of one or more of your characters — one that provides the needed spark that will bring the scene to life.
But first, you ne
ed to recognize when you’ve committed a non-scene, to set your own detector to begin flashing when the problem shows up.
The toughest scene to write so that it won’t be a non-scene is, as mentioned earlier, the love scene. The scene between two people who agree with each other. Because on the face of it, it doesn’t have conflict, ergo it has no drama. Ergo it has no entertainment value. Even if it’s gussied up with literal eroticism, or with jokes — unless the humor — or the acrobatics, contain some conflict.
Examine the earlier-referenced opening of Preston Sturges’ film, Christmas in July, and you’ll see one of the very best examples of how to make such a moment work. I think you will also be impressed by how much, in terms of subtle exposition, Sturges shows us about the couple — and how quickly he sketches it in — without being on-the-nose.
What continues to astonish me, in novels, television shows, and in so many big-or-small budget movies, is how often edges are missing from scenes, or even from entire stories. One of the liberating benefits of the VCR and DVD is that if a movie viewed at home fails to grab us in — say — the first fifteen or twenty minutes, we can — and do — bail out with less hesitation than if we’d laid out nine or ten dollars per theater ticket — plus overpriced candy and popcorn. Or popped for a pricey, over-hyped hardcover book that turns out to be unreadable.
Obviously, considering the number of such novels that are published, and films released, containing long, uninteresting, non-confrontational scenes, there are quite a few successful professionals out there who seem to disagree with me about the need for consistent, ever-present conflict as the tool for grabbing — and then holding onto — the audience. Are they wrong? I believe they are. Would their work be more effective, more involving, if they did agree? I know it would.
Fiction Writing Demystified Page 18