I was a kid who read credits. I remember asking my Dad about the letters after people’s names. Happily, since he worked in radio and avidly read Broadcasting, he knew arcane facts, like ACE stands for American Cinema Editors.
But all by myself, I figured out what “based on” meant. It meant the show would have a good story. Most of the time. Eventually, I figured out the film or TV show came from another medium — a short story, a magazine article, a Broadway play, or a novel.
I leaned in when I saw those words in the credits, and, usually, the promise was fulfilled. Adaptations suggest the story has already proven itself and it’s being given a second chance. Consider these films:
Casablanca (from the play Everybody Comes to Rick’s)
Gone With the Wind (novel)
The Wizard of Oz (novel)
Lawrence of Arabia (biography Seven Pillars of Wisdom)
The Godfather (novel)
Dr. Strangelove (the novel Red Alert)
Apocalypse Now (the novella Heart of Darkness)
or, more recently…
There Will Be Blood (the novel Oil!)
Lord of the Rings (novel)
Brokeback Mountain (short story)
It’s worth remembering Star Trek films came from TV and James Bond films come from novels. Along with many, many comic books.
Traditionally, TV has grabbed ideas from films and even been created based on films. Fargo, Fame, Alice, Bates Motel. Game of Thrones (from the novels) and, again, untold adaptations of comic books, are worth mentioning.
I bring this up because a flood of material has come out of copyright recently . It used to be that every year provided material, but changes in the law created a huge store of titles in film, books, articles, songs, and more. In sheer numbers, the works released into the public domain in 2019 exceeded any past year in my life. 2020 created another haul, and the river won’t run dry for decades. (Duke University has posted 2019 and 2020 Public Domain Day pages with lots of examples.)
I hope you find this exciting. Celebrate, but proceed with caution. Probably the most familiar adage (regarding film adaptation) is, “It wasn’t as good as the book.” Adaptation isn’t easy.
The safest bet is probably simply to remake an old movie close to what already succeeded (but with new technology and today’s actors), but that’s not really adaptation. And it is unlikely to benefit from a fresh perspective. The social reason for the public domain is to invite a new generation to reinterpret great works and bring them new life. Look at what artists have done over the years to provide new perspectives on Shakespeare. Aim high. Think West Side Story.
Faced with the riches of the past, it might be hard to choose which projects to explore. My advice is to find the ones that were meant for you:
• your truth - authentic observations you recognize
• your questions - exciting you to dig deeper
• your themes - what they reveal about the human condition that feels honest and important
Or, they might have pieces missing that you can provide by:
• interrogating them through today’s lens
• excavating the text and identifying the undercurrents
• identifying something you want to push against and challenge
• recognizing scenes that call for new techniques or technologies
• reacting to contrasts and tensions between our times and theirs
Once you make it personal, do you keep it in the same medium? Or take it somewhere else?
That will be the subject of next week’s post.
Friday, August 28, 2020
Thursday, August 20, 2020
Character Relationships — Showing human connection through fiction
Evidence is building that fiction can build empathy and give people the tools to be kinder and more understanding. By connecting with characters, we can become better able to connect with each other.
My two previous posts inevitably led me to exploring this further, so I’ll provide a list that follows their pattern of analysis:
Novels as research has shown, get you into the head of another person. You are connecting with what another person cares about, how they think, how they suffer, how they are moved, and their world views. It is a connection between the reader and the character that can be intimate, immediate, and surprising. Characters lead us to conclude that other people think like us (theory of mind)… and that they may think very differently from us.
In addition, because of the storytelling of a novel, the thoughts and feelings come within a context. With a good story, we are worried about the character and partner with them in pursuit of a goal. We can reflect on what characters do and what goes on in their heads in relation to a narrative that may parallel narratives in our own lives. We get more than data and facts. We get experience endowed with meaning.
One more thing: When we read a novel we become co-creators. We have skin in the game, and every image, every sound, and every gesture is personalized by our imaginations.
What novels have trouble with is presenting both sides of the story. Even something as simple as alternating chapters between the hero and the heroine in a love story runs into the problem of loss of intimacy. Our brains need to switch perspectives, breaking connections. This is most obvious when authors dare to switch points of view within scenes. Such “head hopping” is a sure way to distance readers and destroy intimacy.
Theater works relationships from the outside. We become witnesses, and it’s often the case that, even if we takes sides in a conflict, we see both points of view. The interaction emulates the action and dialogue of real life, so we can be comfortable in being drawn into wooing, arguments, caresses, and fistfights. They happen right in front of us, and it can feel as authentic as overheard conversations and street brawls.
Theater can also shift to scenes to feature different characters. When these are done elegantly, it’s less abrupt than transitions in novels because the work of shifting gears is done by the actors (and the direction). And, of course, it’s less of a challenge to be a witness than it is to be a co-creator who has all the responsibilities of the reader of a novel.
There is even the opportunity for deliberation that parallels that in novels. Asides and full-fledge monologues can allow characters to share their most intimate thoughts. I’m not sure it reaches the level of intimacy of reading the thoughts of a character in a novel. But a good actor can make it feel as genuine and affecting as a heart-to-heart with a close friend or a lover.
A note on the actors craft. The best actors inhabit the characters with immediacy, intonation, body language, pacing, and action. That in itself is compelling. But they also add listening. Obviously, they pay attention to all that their fellow actors offer, but they also are present to audiences. Can art be intimate and communal at the same time? I think so. In a theater, you can feel as if the play is being performed just for you at the same time as you are aware of and responding to the audience around you. This s most obvious with humor, but it can also be just as powerful during the most delicate and personal moments of a scene in a drama.
TV does not put real people in front of you. A phone call requires more of us in terms of presence. But, like theater, it allows us to witness dialogue, action and (more limited) body language. It also can slice time, change perspective, and give us locales that are impossible for theater. What it gives us more powerfully than any other medium is faces. Close-ups were invented in film, but TV allows us to see human expressions as clearly and directly as we do when we talk with friends. It’s why, despite the many disadvantages TV has compared to novels and theater, Paddy Chayefsky’s Marty is such an amazing work of art. TV may not have the co-creation of a novel or the presence of theater, but it allows a level of realism no other medium can match.
As with theater, this can mean both sides of a relationship can be treated fairly. We can get to know and struggle with all the characters in The Wire, and experience their personal justifications for choice that reveal their values in a compressed way, without it feeling artificial.
Film has close-ups, of course, but they are huge and nothing like people across the dinner table. But, like theater, we can see bodies in relation to each other. The nonverbal communication that can touch us so deeply is available on the screen. Though there’s an artificiality to our being small by comparison, we are, in a way, forced the the size of the images and the intensity of the sound to be present. Not it the same way as theater, but in a valid, involving way.
There is another aspect to witnessing relationships in film. It is, perhaps, the best medium for irony. See anything by Hitchcock. See especially silent film comedies. What is going on around key characters, including things they don’t notice can be obvious to us. While irony can be used in any medium, film makes it easiest to present the protagonist’s view and the larger, more objective view simultaneously.
For both TV and film, voice-over and monologues can be put to use, but it’s rare that these are as engaging as reflection in a novel or the equivalents in theater.
Fiction podcasts encourage co-creation. Arguably, they have the potential to reach nearly the same levels of building empathy and giving people the tools to be kinder and more understanding as novels. We have a lot of skin in the game. This is especially true in longer stories in which people can become immersed. A forty-minute episode might not compare to a novel, but binge-listening to a fiction podcast series, investing in imagining the world and its characters, can provide a powerful, intimate experience.
Good voice acting, sound design, and music can direct and prompt our imaginations in ways that are unique to this medium. So there is an odd hybrid of limited intimacy (without much reflection) with witnessing (with nothing to see).
Poems are wonderful at providing insights and experiences, but has a difficult time with presenting relationships. However, poems provide powerful triggers that can recall and recast our own experiences. I think this is how stories about relationships in songs have the kind of impact they do. They provide enchanting cues that reveal our lives and what we’ve learned.
Understanding the strengths and weaknesses of each form of storytelling broadens your choices as author. But what about moving from one form to another? Adaptation can be a disaster (the book was better) or a delight. Next time, I’ll offer some thoughts and advice on telling stories in more than one way.
My two previous posts inevitably led me to exploring this further, so I’ll provide a list that follows their pattern of analysis:
Novels as research has shown, get you into the head of another person. You are connecting with what another person cares about, how they think, how they suffer, how they are moved, and their world views. It is a connection between the reader and the character that can be intimate, immediate, and surprising. Characters lead us to conclude that other people think like us (theory of mind)… and that they may think very differently from us.
In addition, because of the storytelling of a novel, the thoughts and feelings come within a context. With a good story, we are worried about the character and partner with them in pursuit of a goal. We can reflect on what characters do and what goes on in their heads in relation to a narrative that may parallel narratives in our own lives. We get more than data and facts. We get experience endowed with meaning.
One more thing: When we read a novel we become co-creators. We have skin in the game, and every image, every sound, and every gesture is personalized by our imaginations.
What novels have trouble with is presenting both sides of the story. Even something as simple as alternating chapters between the hero and the heroine in a love story runs into the problem of loss of intimacy. Our brains need to switch perspectives, breaking connections. This is most obvious when authors dare to switch points of view within scenes. Such “head hopping” is a sure way to distance readers and destroy intimacy.
Theater works relationships from the outside. We become witnesses, and it’s often the case that, even if we takes sides in a conflict, we see both points of view. The interaction emulates the action and dialogue of real life, so we can be comfortable in being drawn into wooing, arguments, caresses, and fistfights. They happen right in front of us, and it can feel as authentic as overheard conversations and street brawls.
Theater can also shift to scenes to feature different characters. When these are done elegantly, it’s less abrupt than transitions in novels because the work of shifting gears is done by the actors (and the direction). And, of course, it’s less of a challenge to be a witness than it is to be a co-creator who has all the responsibilities of the reader of a novel.
There is even the opportunity for deliberation that parallels that in novels. Asides and full-fledge monologues can allow characters to share their most intimate thoughts. I’m not sure it reaches the level of intimacy of reading the thoughts of a character in a novel. But a good actor can make it feel as genuine and affecting as a heart-to-heart with a close friend or a lover.
A note on the actors craft. The best actors inhabit the characters with immediacy, intonation, body language, pacing, and action. That in itself is compelling. But they also add listening. Obviously, they pay attention to all that their fellow actors offer, but they also are present to audiences. Can art be intimate and communal at the same time? I think so. In a theater, you can feel as if the play is being performed just for you at the same time as you are aware of and responding to the audience around you. This s most obvious with humor, but it can also be just as powerful during the most delicate and personal moments of a scene in a drama.
TV does not put real people in front of you. A phone call requires more of us in terms of presence. But, like theater, it allows us to witness dialogue, action and (more limited) body language. It also can slice time, change perspective, and give us locales that are impossible for theater. What it gives us more powerfully than any other medium is faces. Close-ups were invented in film, but TV allows us to see human expressions as clearly and directly as we do when we talk with friends. It’s why, despite the many disadvantages TV has compared to novels and theater, Paddy Chayefsky’s Marty is such an amazing work of art. TV may not have the co-creation of a novel or the presence of theater, but it allows a level of realism no other medium can match.
As with theater, this can mean both sides of a relationship can be treated fairly. We can get to know and struggle with all the characters in The Wire, and experience their personal justifications for choice that reveal their values in a compressed way, without it feeling artificial.
Film has close-ups, of course, but they are huge and nothing like people across the dinner table. But, like theater, we can see bodies in relation to each other. The nonverbal communication that can touch us so deeply is available on the screen. Though there’s an artificiality to our being small by comparison, we are, in a way, forced the the size of the images and the intensity of the sound to be present. Not it the same way as theater, but in a valid, involving way.
There is another aspect to witnessing relationships in film. It is, perhaps, the best medium for irony. See anything by Hitchcock. See especially silent film comedies. What is going on around key characters, including things they don’t notice can be obvious to us. While irony can be used in any medium, film makes it easiest to present the protagonist’s view and the larger, more objective view simultaneously.
For both TV and film, voice-over and monologues can be put to use, but it’s rare that these are as engaging as reflection in a novel or the equivalents in theater.
Fiction podcasts encourage co-creation. Arguably, they have the potential to reach nearly the same levels of building empathy and giving people the tools to be kinder and more understanding as novels. We have a lot of skin in the game. This is especially true in longer stories in which people can become immersed. A forty-minute episode might not compare to a novel, but binge-listening to a fiction podcast series, investing in imagining the world and its characters, can provide a powerful, intimate experience.
Good voice acting, sound design, and music can direct and prompt our imaginations in ways that are unique to this medium. So there is an odd hybrid of limited intimacy (without much reflection) with witnessing (with nothing to see).
Poems are wonderful at providing insights and experiences, but has a difficult time with presenting relationships. However, poems provide powerful triggers that can recall and recast our own experiences. I think this is how stories about relationships in songs have the kind of impact they do. They provide enchanting cues that reveal our lives and what we’ve learned.
Understanding the strengths and weaknesses of each form of storytelling broadens your choices as author. But what about moving from one form to another? Adaptation can be a disaster (the book was better) or a delight. Next time, I’ll offer some thoughts and advice on telling stories in more than one way.
Saturday, August 1, 2020
Is It a Novel, a Script, or a Poem? Thoughts on where your story belongs 2
Last week, I reviewed some of the advantages and disadvantages of different story forms. This time I’ll provide some rules of thumb to help you place your story. (I’ll save thoughts on adaptation for two weeks from now because this week’s post is extensive and naturally leads to another post.)
There are brilliant exceptions, but as a rules of thumb, here are my suggestions.
For a story with an excellent, simple plot:
Film is a good choice if you could convey the whole story in about two typed pages and get people to say “wow.” The Shawshank Redemption and The Postman Always Rings Twice are based on novellas that, for all the turns, have strong causal chains and lead to what feels inevitable.
TV and fiction podcasts, especially as limited series, can also do this if cliffhangers come equally spaced in time so the episodes encourage audiences to return.
Theater can make this work and certainly benefits from a strong plot, but you know it won’t be a long-running play because it’s not enough. Unless it’s a musical or very funny.
Poems like The Tale of the Ancient Mariner and storytelling songs can make this work. The former is rare. The latter is less rare and a treat when done well.
Novels are apt to feel bloated if this is all they have going for them. Something else, like humor or erotica, needs to be added to make it work.
For a story with a detailed puzzle, world building, or lots of complexity:
Novels are a sure bet. Many people who read novels love to participate by looking for clues or engaging their imaginations to fill in the details of unknown worlds.
Films adapted from such novels can work, but it’s difficult to get a standalone script produced with these elements. Puzzles that are complicated tend to feel too intellectual in a script and demand a lot effort from studio readers. Well-built worlds need a lot of description, making a script look dense. White space rules with scripts. The exception for this is when the writer has another role (e.g., producer or director). The Terminator and The Matrix are good examples of this.
Poetry already tends to be a puzzle, just in terms of the language and the allusions. It’s very rare that adding another level of complexity works well.
Fiction podcasts, with only sound to hold onto and no chance of reviewing clues, is not a great venue for complex puzzles. It can be good for world building, but the world needs to be built bit by bit. Too much too fast will overwhelm listeners.
Generally, this does not work well in theater. A play like A Midsummer Night’s Dream is one exception, though I’ve seen more mediocre and bad versions of that than of anything else by Shakespeare.
TV can make this work, but only in a long form like Breaking Bad or American Horror Story. Episodic TV struggles with complexity.
For a story that relies on spectacle and visuals for (emotional) payoff:
Film has thrived with these from the very beginning. The wows need to be bigger than trains coming into stations or fires being put out (two audience pleasers in the early days), but people still love rollercoaster stories with plenty of special effects. Camera games (creative editing, 3-D, split screens) can excite audiences, and the spectacle of ingenious sound effects can also enhance box office receipts.
Not all visuals are the result of special effects. A John Ford western takes advantage of exciting locations, composition, focus, and framing to thrill and audience. And, of course, any story that can be told almost entirely by images alone is great for film.
TV is likely to come up short when it comes to spectacle and visuals. How many times have you watched a film you loved at a movie theater, only to be disappointed when you saw it on TV? Leaning heavily on the songs, I think music videos did this from time to time. For my money, Jim Henson’s Storyteller took visuals to their highest point for a TV series. I haven’t seen anything else that comes close.
Fiction podcasts actually create wonderful visuals in audience imaginations. Think Orson Welles’s adaptation of War of the Worlds. Novels can do this, too. Both have lots of potential (and low costs) for big visual payoffs, but they depend on the craftsmanship of someone like Tolkien and the participation of audiences and readers.
Poetry can create fireworks and thrills. I think The Odyssey proves that. But this requires really holding reader attention with longer works and miraculous talent for shorter ones.
Theater does this at a smaller scale, with what are essentially magic tricks. And there can be tricky sets. The only thing I really liked about The Year of Magical Thinking when I saw it on Broadway was what they did with the floorboards. Often, attempts at spectacle, as with Spider-man Turn Off the Dark, feels off and distracting.
For a story where language and wordplay are an essential component:
Poetry leads here, if there is story going on. But poetry often eschews story.
Theater has audiences that look for this. They listen closely to enhanced language, giving it the attention it deserves and suspending enough disbelief to stay in the stories.
Film can do this. Think of Quint’s monologue in Jaws. Or Blake’s speech in Glengarry Glen Ross (which was from the play, but brilliantly performed in the movie by Alec Baldwin). Films usually don’t even attempt it because it (mostly) stops the camera. Long periods of listening are actively avoided in film (unless a play is being adapted).
TV actually loves language. It hangs onto its roots in radio. Golden Age shows like Rod Serling’s Patterns and Paddy Chayefsky’s Marty provide naturalistic dialogue that hits the sweet spot between what belongs on the stage and what belongs on the silver screen. You can get away with more in terms of characters conversing on TV than anywhere else. The West Wing is a great example (though, for Sorkin, I like Sports Night above everything else).
Fiction podcasts can do this well. Dialogues and monologues are built to engage the ear, after all.
For a story focused on one character or when the heart of the story is the relationships between characters:
So much to say! Too much for me to explore properly here, so it will be next week’s post.
In the meantime, even though I’ve asserted rather than prove points above, I hope my musing provide some guidance as to what to do with that story that’s in your head.
There are brilliant exceptions, but as a rules of thumb, here are my suggestions.
For a story with an excellent, simple plot:
Film is a good choice if you could convey the whole story in about two typed pages and get people to say “wow.” The Shawshank Redemption and The Postman Always Rings Twice are based on novellas that, for all the turns, have strong causal chains and lead to what feels inevitable.
TV and fiction podcasts, especially as limited series, can also do this if cliffhangers come equally spaced in time so the episodes encourage audiences to return.
Theater can make this work and certainly benefits from a strong plot, but you know it won’t be a long-running play because it’s not enough. Unless it’s a musical or very funny.
Poems like The Tale of the Ancient Mariner and storytelling songs can make this work. The former is rare. The latter is less rare and a treat when done well.
Novels are apt to feel bloated if this is all they have going for them. Something else, like humor or erotica, needs to be added to make it work.
For a story with a detailed puzzle, world building, or lots of complexity:
Novels are a sure bet. Many people who read novels love to participate by looking for clues or engaging their imaginations to fill in the details of unknown worlds.
Films adapted from such novels can work, but it’s difficult to get a standalone script produced with these elements. Puzzles that are complicated tend to feel too intellectual in a script and demand a lot effort from studio readers. Well-built worlds need a lot of description, making a script look dense. White space rules with scripts. The exception for this is when the writer has another role (e.g., producer or director). The Terminator and The Matrix are good examples of this.
Poetry already tends to be a puzzle, just in terms of the language and the allusions. It’s very rare that adding another level of complexity works well.
Fiction podcasts, with only sound to hold onto and no chance of reviewing clues, is not a great venue for complex puzzles. It can be good for world building, but the world needs to be built bit by bit. Too much too fast will overwhelm listeners.
Generally, this does not work well in theater. A play like A Midsummer Night’s Dream is one exception, though I’ve seen more mediocre and bad versions of that than of anything else by Shakespeare.
TV can make this work, but only in a long form like Breaking Bad or American Horror Story. Episodic TV struggles with complexity.
For a story that relies on spectacle and visuals for (emotional) payoff:
Film has thrived with these from the very beginning. The wows need to be bigger than trains coming into stations or fires being put out (two audience pleasers in the early days), but people still love rollercoaster stories with plenty of special effects. Camera games (creative editing, 3-D, split screens) can excite audiences, and the spectacle of ingenious sound effects can also enhance box office receipts.
Not all visuals are the result of special effects. A John Ford western takes advantage of exciting locations, composition, focus, and framing to thrill and audience. And, of course, any story that can be told almost entirely by images alone is great for film.
TV is likely to come up short when it comes to spectacle and visuals. How many times have you watched a film you loved at a movie theater, only to be disappointed when you saw it on TV? Leaning heavily on the songs, I think music videos did this from time to time. For my money, Jim Henson’s Storyteller took visuals to their highest point for a TV series. I haven’t seen anything else that comes close.
Fiction podcasts actually create wonderful visuals in audience imaginations. Think Orson Welles’s adaptation of War of the Worlds. Novels can do this, too. Both have lots of potential (and low costs) for big visual payoffs, but they depend on the craftsmanship of someone like Tolkien and the participation of audiences and readers.
Poetry can create fireworks and thrills. I think The Odyssey proves that. But this requires really holding reader attention with longer works and miraculous talent for shorter ones.
Theater does this at a smaller scale, with what are essentially magic tricks. And there can be tricky sets. The only thing I really liked about The Year of Magical Thinking when I saw it on Broadway was what they did with the floorboards. Often, attempts at spectacle, as with Spider-man Turn Off the Dark, feels off and distracting.
For a story where language and wordplay are an essential component:
Poetry leads here, if there is story going on. But poetry often eschews story.
Theater has audiences that look for this. They listen closely to enhanced language, giving it the attention it deserves and suspending enough disbelief to stay in the stories.
Film can do this. Think of Quint’s monologue in Jaws. Or Blake’s speech in Glengarry Glen Ross (which was from the play, but brilliantly performed in the movie by Alec Baldwin). Films usually don’t even attempt it because it (mostly) stops the camera. Long periods of listening are actively avoided in film (unless a play is being adapted).
TV actually loves language. It hangs onto its roots in radio. Golden Age shows like Rod Serling’s Patterns and Paddy Chayefsky’s Marty provide naturalistic dialogue that hits the sweet spot between what belongs on the stage and what belongs on the silver screen. You can get away with more in terms of characters conversing on TV than anywhere else. The West Wing is a great example (though, for Sorkin, I like Sports Night above everything else).
Fiction podcasts can do this well. Dialogues and monologues are built to engage the ear, after all.
For a story focused on one character or when the heart of the story is the relationships between characters:
So much to say! Too much for me to explore properly here, so it will be next week’s post.
In the meantime, even though I’ve asserted rather than prove points above, I hope my musing provide some guidance as to what to do with that story that’s in your head.
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