And in the meeting this came out: they needed a star.
As Superman.
Because of their financial needs, they had this one requirement.
Dead I was.
They talked of Eastwood’s interest.
Dead.
They spoke of Jimmy Caan.
Still and forever dead.
Because I knew this: no star would play the part. (I really knew it.) No star would wear the costume. No star would risk looking that stupid. Years later I spoke with Warren Beatty, very smart, about when his turn came to be offered the title role. He had been given the costume, had taken it home, had put it on, had run around his swimming pool, as I remember, had looked at himself for a very short moment before taking it off.
Eventually, they did what they had to do to get the movie made: went for a wonderful unknown and surrounded Chris Reeve with stars. I would have written that. Never had the chance.
Okay, you want me to adapt something and you have given me something to read—book, article, whatever. Guess what I do? I read it. As a traveler, as someone who might be on a trip and has just picked up something he hopes he loves—not as a screenwriter (that comes later).
I’m pretty fast in my decision making, I think I always have been. I almost always know before I’m done. And if I can answer the two crucial questions in the affirmative—do I love it, can I make it play?—you pretty much own the next six months of my life.
Then lawyers and agents fire guns across the water.
Once that is past—and it doesn’t take long, or shouldn’t with men of goodwill—there may be meetings. Usually only with the producer. (In my experience, we are always the first wave in the battle; that is the blood of screenwriters splattered all over Omaha Beach.)
Usually the producer has shit to say. My favorite is when someone says, “We can have a lotta fun with this.” Then he takes his tan and his smile and goes. And then you are alone with you, the screenwriter.
Here is one of the main rules of adaptation: you cannot be literally faithful to the source material.
Here’s another that critics never get: you should not be literally faithful to the source material. It is in a different form, a form that does not have the camera.
Here is the most important rule of adaptation: you must be totally faithful to the intention of the source material.
In All the President’s Men, we got great credit for our faithfulness to the Woodward-Bernstein book.
Total horseshit: the movie ended halfway through the book. What we were faithful to was their story of a terri-ble hinge in American history. In other words, we didn’t Hollywood-it-up.
Look—something moved you when you said, Yes, I want to try and adapt this. (If you didn’t feel that, then you are just another hooker and I will not weep as you go down.) And whatever it was that the original writer put down—whatever it was that made you, for a moment, say “omigod”—that feeling has got to be translated from the book to the script. And you must protect that to the death.
In the later stages of movie making, when I am working with producers or directors or stars, and they put in for their needs, fine, that’s that process. Lose those wars if you must, not crucial.
But if they begin to encroach on your emotional core, if you let them take that ground, you lose everything.
Here is how I adapt and it’s very simple: I read the text again. And I read it this time with a pen in my hand—let’s pick a color, blue. Armed with that, I go back to the book, slower this time than when I was a traveler. And as I go through the book word by word, page by page, every time I hit anything I think might be useful—dialogue line, sequence, description—I make a mark in the margin.
A blue one.
I put the book away, fiddle, panic, if there’s research to be done, I start in on it.
Then maybe two weeks later, I read the book a third time, this time with a different color pen.
Let’s go with a red one.
And I repeat the same marking process—a line in the margin for anything I think might make the screenplay.
Then more research, more thoughts, and maybe—but only maybe—a few notes. I am doing two things, of course, during these months—
—building up my confidence for the actual writing—
—desperately trying to find the spine of the flick.
Now another reading of the text.
A brown pen, maybe.
I hope you see why I have to care for the source material. Because I am going to live with it. If I had to reread and reread something I didn’t like, I would more than likely have gone out the window long ago.
What follows now is this page–this page of my copy of Stephen King’s wonderful Misery. It’s the scene where Kathy Bates saws through Jimmy Caan’s ankles (breaks them in the movie; check out the Misery essay). It’s pretty obvious that whatever the spine of the piece was, I knew from the start it had to pass through this sequence.
What follows after that are two more pages from the same book, a blink further on (this page–this page). It’s after the violence, Paul is writing and the “t” has just fallen out of his typewriter (the “n” had already fallen out). One line is circled—King has bees buzzing and I wrote the word “sound” in the margin. One line is underlined—it’s the first day of summer.
In other words, I did not think the typewriter breaking would make the movie, whatever that movie might turn out to be.
When I am done with all my various color-marked readings—five or six of them—I should have the spine. I should know where the story starts, where it ends. The people should be in my head by now.
So I make a list and tape it to the wall in front of my Mac. On my wall I put these five words for the start of Misery—
1. finishing
2. leaving
3. driving
4. storm
5. crash
Hopefully, the whole movie, the entire story would be thirty shorthanded words. They could tell me about something as short as a single cut. Or a ten- or twelve-page sequence. Which I hope is in my head. Then, always checking out the list, all I have to do is write the movie.
* * *
The Seventh Seal
by Ingmar Bergman
* * *
I know, or have interviewed, the other screenwriters in this section. And when I began thinking about just what this section might be, I thought I would try and meet Bergman, even went as far as to contact a representative of his in America. I sort of envisioned it like this: casual, you know, have something set up that would fit his plans, fly over, say, from London, when I was there, go to whatever island he is presently inhabiting, talk for a few minutes.
I think Bergman is the greatest screenwriter. I think a hundred years ago he would have been a great novelist, Balzac maybe. And the more I thought about our meeting, the more I realized something: I was nuts to contemplate such a thing. And why? Because I did meet my great writing hero, the man who changed my life, Irwin Shaw.
I was in my teens once, wanting to write, not really knowing what it meant, if I could, not dating, certainly not dating the girls I dreamed of, a shitty student, C average, used to be tops in school but then all kinds of family madness came crashing down and I was in trouble, and I think I probably knew that.
Which was when a cousin of mine, who did not read much, out of some mystic blue, gave me a copy of Mixed Company, a collection of Shaw’s stories.
I didn’t know his stuff, picked up the book, glanced at the first story, “The Girls in Their Summer Dresses,” read it, then on to the next, “The Eighty-Yard Run,” then “Act of Faith,” and that day spun into tomorrow and probably it was the tomorrow after that before I’d finished “Sailor off the Bremen” and “Welcome to the City” and “The Dry Rock” and all the others and I don’t think I knew it at the moment of putting the book down—
—but my life was never the same—
—because I had read these wondrous things, these vig
nettes and tables, told with such ease and style—for me, Shaw and Fitzgerald are the great American stylists—and I knew this: I could do that.
Okay, it’s decades later, and my publisher at Delacorte is Ross Claiborne, wonderful Ross, and he knows of my feelings for Shaw and one day he says this: “Irwin’s going to be in town, would you like to meet him?”
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, t
here 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.”
Hollywood 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.
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