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.
Thursday, July 23, 2020
Is It a Novel, a Script, or a Poem? Thoughts on where your story belongs
It’s a cliche that readers will say of a movie, “the book was better.” That’s not surprising. A good book takes you inside the characters like a movie never could. It immerses you in a world for days (or weeks, if you read at may speed) instead of a couple of hours. And, provided you have a developed imagination, the images you see will be vibrant and memorable in a good book.
Of course, there are exceptions. I’ve read most of Philip K. Dick’s novels and many of his short stories, but I prefer the movies Bladerunner and Minority Report to the Dick’s texts. The Godfather movies (I&II) are classic. The book, not so much. Jaws the movie is much better than Benchley’s book. Did working on the script give him a second chance? Was it cowriter Gottlieb or director Spielberg? Or was the material more cinematic?
On Jaws, I’d go for the last. Getting into the characters’s heads directly (a strength of books) wasn’t helpful in a story where external conflicts and their development through the plot are so powerful. And visually rich.
I’m pondering these because I have just been part of Zoom sessions looking at the strengths and weakness of novels, films, poems, fiction podcasts (radio theater), stage plays, and television (or Web series). The discussions were wonderfully free range, with opinions, advice, and examples. As it happens, I’ve worked in all these areas, and that includes some adaptation. One short story of mine became a stage play and then was optioned for a film. So I’ll take what I heard, mix it with my own experiences, and present it here. You may want to add a grain of salt.
For me, while movies can be dialogue rich and require few visuals, they provide a great way to tell stories that feature images. A test I put all my film scripts through is imagining how they might be presented as silent movies. The power is most evident when forcing attention or perspective. Some of the most memorable movie moments for me were where I wanted to look away and couldn’t (e.g., moments in Aliens, On the Waterfront, and The Untouchables). In addition to taking people out of their comfort zones, movies can guide you through wonderful but uncanny dreams, like Big Fish.
Perhaps the signature moment of directorial power is the close up. With the right actor and the right moment, the intimacy can be overwhelming. But pacing and energy can be driven, too, through camera movement and editing (fast or languid). Spectacle (which is often outside of story values, but still entertaining) represent another case of leveraging the visual for entertaining films. Set pieces such as explosions and big monsters have their place. All of these, by the way, may or may not be in the hands of the writer. (There are some ways, for instance, to suggest a close-up without insulting the director by calling for it in the script.)
(Comics are not an area of expertise for me, but I suspect they are much like movies. Before I could read, I pored through the Sunday comics. I loved that Ferd’nand told stories with no words at all, but I got more out of Lil’ Abner and Prince Valiant, where I was forced to invent my own stories.)
This is not to say that dialogue (along with things usually beyond the writer, like music) isn’t of major importance to some of the best films made. But dialogue, at this point is more important in television (with roots in radio and small screens) so far.
Stage plays absolutely rely on dialogue. However, more than with films and tv, stage dialogue is often stylized. So stories that take advantage of the rhythms and sounds within dialogue to make language into a kind of emotional music may fit best on the stage.
Of course, poetry, except as it sits on the page (e.g., with e e cummings), is about word choice, rhythm, and sounds. In my experience, the richest poetry not only invites repeated readings (including reading out loud), but requires it for fuller understanding. Often, poetry does not tell a story, but epic poems, like the Iliad, have become cornerstones of culture and invite performance and memorization. Poetry is a difficult form, but its close cousin, song lyrics is worth exploring. For storytellers who might not recognize the opportunities, I recommend traditional folk songs and country music. Note how effectively Breaking Bad used Marty Robbins’s “El Paso” (also, “Felina”) to place a story within a story.
Next week, I’ll provide some rough rules of thumb for choosing how to tell your story. Also, some thoughts on adaptation.
Of course, there are exceptions. I’ve read most of Philip K. Dick’s novels and many of his short stories, but I prefer the movies Bladerunner and Minority Report to the Dick’s texts. The Godfather movies (I&II) are classic. The book, not so much. Jaws the movie is much better than Benchley’s book. Did working on the script give him a second chance? Was it cowriter Gottlieb or director Spielberg? Or was the material more cinematic?
On Jaws, I’d go for the last. Getting into the characters’s heads directly (a strength of books) wasn’t helpful in a story where external conflicts and their development through the plot are so powerful. And visually rich.
I’m pondering these because I have just been part of Zoom sessions looking at the strengths and weakness of novels, films, poems, fiction podcasts (radio theater), stage plays, and television (or Web series). The discussions were wonderfully free range, with opinions, advice, and examples. As it happens, I’ve worked in all these areas, and that includes some adaptation. One short story of mine became a stage play and then was optioned for a film. So I’ll take what I heard, mix it with my own experiences, and present it here. You may want to add a grain of salt.
For me, while movies can be dialogue rich and require few visuals, they provide a great way to tell stories that feature images. A test I put all my film scripts through is imagining how they might be presented as silent movies. The power is most evident when forcing attention or perspective. Some of the most memorable movie moments for me were where I wanted to look away and couldn’t (e.g., moments in Aliens, On the Waterfront, and The Untouchables). In addition to taking people out of their comfort zones, movies can guide you through wonderful but uncanny dreams, like Big Fish.
Perhaps the signature moment of directorial power is the close up. With the right actor and the right moment, the intimacy can be overwhelming. But pacing and energy can be driven, too, through camera movement and editing (fast or languid). Spectacle (which is often outside of story values, but still entertaining) represent another case of leveraging the visual for entertaining films. Set pieces such as explosions and big monsters have their place. All of these, by the way, may or may not be in the hands of the writer. (There are some ways, for instance, to suggest a close-up without insulting the director by calling for it in the script.)
(Comics are not an area of expertise for me, but I suspect they are much like movies. Before I could read, I pored through the Sunday comics. I loved that Ferd’nand told stories with no words at all, but I got more out of Lil’ Abner and Prince Valiant, where I was forced to invent my own stories.)
This is not to say that dialogue (along with things usually beyond the writer, like music) isn’t of major importance to some of the best films made. But dialogue, at this point is more important in television (with roots in radio and small screens) so far.
Stage plays absolutely rely on dialogue. However, more than with films and tv, stage dialogue is often stylized. So stories that take advantage of the rhythms and sounds within dialogue to make language into a kind of emotional music may fit best on the stage.
Of course, poetry, except as it sits on the page (e.g., with e e cummings), is about word choice, rhythm, and sounds. In my experience, the richest poetry not only invites repeated readings (including reading out loud), but requires it for fuller understanding. Often, poetry does not tell a story, but epic poems, like the Iliad, have become cornerstones of culture and invite performance and memorization. Poetry is a difficult form, but its close cousin, song lyrics is worth exploring. For storytellers who might not recognize the opportunities, I recommend traditional folk songs and country music. Note how effectively Breaking Bad used Marty Robbins’s “El Paso” (also, “Felina”) to place a story within a story.
Next week, I’ll provide some rough rules of thumb for choosing how to tell your story. Also, some thoughts on adaptation.
Wednesday, July 15, 2020
Discovering Your Characters’s Secrets - Interviews that probe deeply
The more complex my characters, the more difficult it is to get the best answers from them. Even 50 rude questions only give me some of what I want. Their evasions can be revealing, but I’ve found with my current characters — who are all smarter than I am — there’s a glibness that hides the truth.
In my non-fiction life, I’ve interviewed a range of people, from Linus Pauling to Steve Allen to Nora Roberts. I’ve had to bring my A game to them. Why not characters, too?
So this week, I’m sharing some questions that provided more of the inner lives for me. Some questions worked for some characters. Some worked for others. I hope you find some useful ones. And if these don’t fit yours? I have some approaches to forming your own questions that might work.
The first approach is providing a prompt rather than a question. “Tell me about…” has given me more wonderful responses than any other approaches, so here’s a sampling of them.
Tell me about the worst advice you ever got.
Tell me about the best advice you ever got.
Tell me about a gift that was important to you, why, and what happened to it.
Tell me about a difficult choice you’re proud of making.
Tell me how you expect you’ll be remembered and why.
Tell me about an interesting pet you’ve had (or why you’ve chosen not to have pets).
Tell me about your most life-changing experience with nature.
Note that the only answer here that would be likely to get a quick answer is the first. The others probably will develop in the process of responding. They invite exploration and most of them don’t prompt for good/bad values.
The second approach is active and focused on preparation. This reveals awareness, planning, and sometimes fight or flight responses that are surprising. It is good to set these up with limits. For instance:
You have two hours. What do you pack for a camping vacation?
or
You have a thousand dollars. How do you spend it for a wedding?
Limits for the following may vary:
How would you prepare for two weeks with no phone or Internet?
How would you prepare for a days-long dust storm?
How would you prepare for a final conversation with a loved one?
How would you prepare for police questioning after you’ve witnessed a murder?
How would you prepare when a bully from your childhood calls and says he’s coming to your house?
The third approach is “either/or.” Sometimes these are dilemmas.
Would you rather spend the rest of your life homeless or homebound?
Would your rather wake up with empathy intact but logic lost or the reverse?
Would you look at the genetic test data answering whether the child you’ve been raising is really yours?
Do you rescue the only copy of a lost Dickens novel or the ninety-year-old serial child abuser?
But these can also explore dreams.
Would you rather win a Grammy or a Nobel Prize and why?
Would you rather have a happy child or the ability to fly and why?
Would you rather have a billion dollars or create a song that people will still love and sing 1,000 years from now, and why?
Would you rather get sole credit for an app the blocks online bullying 100% or be part of a mostly anonymous team that ends world hunger?
Again, these are example questions, mostly tied to understanding the values, fears, needs, and wants of characters. You can use them as is, but making up your own versions is what will probably reveal the most about your characters.
One final suggestion. Listen to the answers (even though they come from fictional characters). This is something real-life interviewers often don’t do. It’s starkly evident when I hear questions asked that have already been answered. That is unlikely with your characters, but, when you get a “wow” response, it’s easy to be impressed and declare success. Don’t. Ask a follow-up question. Why stop digging when you strike gold?
In my non-fiction life, I’ve interviewed a range of people, from Linus Pauling to Steve Allen to Nora Roberts. I’ve had to bring my A game to them. Why not characters, too?
So this week, I’m sharing some questions that provided more of the inner lives for me. Some questions worked for some characters. Some worked for others. I hope you find some useful ones. And if these don’t fit yours? I have some approaches to forming your own questions that might work.
The first approach is providing a prompt rather than a question. “Tell me about…” has given me more wonderful responses than any other approaches, so here’s a sampling of them.
Tell me about the worst advice you ever got.
Tell me about the best advice you ever got.
Tell me about a gift that was important to you, why, and what happened to it.
Tell me about a difficult choice you’re proud of making.
Tell me how you expect you’ll be remembered and why.
Tell me about an interesting pet you’ve had (or why you’ve chosen not to have pets).
Tell me about your most life-changing experience with nature.
Note that the only answer here that would be likely to get a quick answer is the first. The others probably will develop in the process of responding. They invite exploration and most of them don’t prompt for good/bad values.
The second approach is active and focused on preparation. This reveals awareness, planning, and sometimes fight or flight responses that are surprising. It is good to set these up with limits. For instance:
You have two hours. What do you pack for a camping vacation?
or
You have a thousand dollars. How do you spend it for a wedding?
Limits for the following may vary:
How would you prepare for two weeks with no phone or Internet?
How would you prepare for a days-long dust storm?
How would you prepare for a final conversation with a loved one?
How would you prepare for police questioning after you’ve witnessed a murder?
How would you prepare when a bully from your childhood calls and says he’s coming to your house?
The third approach is “either/or.” Sometimes these are dilemmas.
Would you rather spend the rest of your life homeless or homebound?
Would your rather wake up with empathy intact but logic lost or the reverse?
Would you look at the genetic test data answering whether the child you’ve been raising is really yours?
Do you rescue the only copy of a lost Dickens novel or the ninety-year-old serial child abuser?
But these can also explore dreams.
Would you rather win a Grammy or a Nobel Prize and why?
Would you rather have a happy child or the ability to fly and why?
Would you rather have a billion dollars or create a song that people will still love and sing 1,000 years from now, and why?
Would you rather get sole credit for an app the blocks online bullying 100% or be part of a mostly anonymous team that ends world hunger?
Again, these are example questions, mostly tied to understanding the values, fears, needs, and wants of characters. You can use them as is, but making up your own versions is what will probably reveal the most about your characters.
One final suggestion. Listen to the answers (even though they come from fictional characters). This is something real-life interviewers often don’t do. It’s starkly evident when I hear questions asked that have already been answered. That is unlikely with your characters, but, when you get a “wow” response, it’s easy to be impressed and declare success. Don’t. Ask a follow-up question. Why stop digging when you strike gold?
Saturday, July 4, 2020
Understanding Character Moments - A day in the life
Action and conflict – these are the stuff of fiction. But much can be revealed in stillness. In quiet. In what is normal in the life of one of your characters.
I love to explore typical days for characters. I’m curious about how their lives differ from mine, and how they respond to pedestrian challenges can say a lot about what will happen with all hell breaks loose.
Your setting can bring reality and meaning through a routine day. So instead of focusing on what your character does, focus on his or her environment.
The Place - Begin by describing key elements that would allow readers or an audience to put themselves, physically, in the locale. Max Adams has a mantra for scriptwriters – space, light, texture. Write them down in that order. Space needs to convey the size and shape of the room, hall, airport terminal, etc. Light specifies how the space is illuminated (Sunlight through a dirty window? Track lights? Torches?). Texture anchors the scene with at least one object (a table, a jukebox, a bicycle), described vividly.
Note –While color may be valuable, texture is essential. Rough wood, smooth chrome, velvet, and sticky stains are more evocative because even though they are perceived through the eyes, they engage the sense of touch.
Beauty and ugliness – In each locale, what is the most aesthetically pleasing element? What offends the eye? Go further, and determine what might please or irritate the other senses.
Distractions – Is there anything in the space that demands your character’s attention? (Chances are it will be something in motion. We’re built to take notice of things that move.)
Surprises – Even though your day in the life is supposed to be typical, even boring, for your character, you may find an element in a scene that surprises you. Write it down.
Associations – Since this is familiar space, it is likely to remind the character of people and events. It may even stir up emotions. Note these down. They are invaluable.
Finishing details – If the above does not sufficiently communicate, keep adding elements until it really comes across. Don’t leave a scene incomplete.
As you work through these, consider some of the less tangible elements. Are there rules that restrict behavior (like quiet in a hospital)? Is the protagonist out of place and uncomfortable? Does time play an important role (say in catching a train)? Does dress matter? Don’t hesitate to explore these scenes beyond the basics, and be sure to write down what catches your interest.
Also, make notes on anything that raises questions or prompts research. There is a reason why your muse is pointing out certain elements. Many of them are there to enhance your story.
Viktor Frankl said, "For the meaning of life differs from man to man, from day to day and from hour to hour. What matters, therefore, is not the meaning of life in general but rather the specific meaning of a person's life at a given moment."
What's true for us may be true for our characters. By looking more carefully at the mundane moments of characters's lives, glimpses of meaning may reveal themselves.
I love to explore typical days for characters. I’m curious about how their lives differ from mine, and how they respond to pedestrian challenges can say a lot about what will happen with all hell breaks loose.
Your setting can bring reality and meaning through a routine day. So instead of focusing on what your character does, focus on his or her environment.
The Place - Begin by describing key elements that would allow readers or an audience to put themselves, physically, in the locale. Max Adams has a mantra for scriptwriters – space, light, texture. Write them down in that order. Space needs to convey the size and shape of the room, hall, airport terminal, etc. Light specifies how the space is illuminated (Sunlight through a dirty window? Track lights? Torches?). Texture anchors the scene with at least one object (a table, a jukebox, a bicycle), described vividly.
Note –While color may be valuable, texture is essential. Rough wood, smooth chrome, velvet, and sticky stains are more evocative because even though they are perceived through the eyes, they engage the sense of touch.
Beauty and ugliness – In each locale, what is the most aesthetically pleasing element? What offends the eye? Go further, and determine what might please or irritate the other senses.
Distractions – Is there anything in the space that demands your character’s attention? (Chances are it will be something in motion. We’re built to take notice of things that move.)
Surprises – Even though your day in the life is supposed to be typical, even boring, for your character, you may find an element in a scene that surprises you. Write it down.
Associations – Since this is familiar space, it is likely to remind the character of people and events. It may even stir up emotions. Note these down. They are invaluable.
Finishing details – If the above does not sufficiently communicate, keep adding elements until it really comes across. Don’t leave a scene incomplete.
As you work through these, consider some of the less tangible elements. Are there rules that restrict behavior (like quiet in a hospital)? Is the protagonist out of place and uncomfortable? Does time play an important role (say in catching a train)? Does dress matter? Don’t hesitate to explore these scenes beyond the basics, and be sure to write down what catches your interest.
Also, make notes on anything that raises questions or prompts research. There is a reason why your muse is pointing out certain elements. Many of them are there to enhance your story.
Viktor Frankl said, "For the meaning of life differs from man to man, from day to day and from hour to hour. What matters, therefore, is not the meaning of life in general but rather the specific meaning of a person's life at a given moment."
What's true for us may be true for our characters. By looking more carefully at the mundane moments of characters's lives, glimpses of meaning may reveal themselves.
Saturday, June 27, 2020
What a Story Gains Through Losses
Loss is a big part of how stories engage us, develop the plot, and help us understand characters. In many cases, loss is inextricable from the main characters goal. For instance, Dorothy’s goal in The Wizard of Oz is to get home. Therefore, she has to have lost her home. Some stories, are driven by a whittling away of the good things in life. In The Natural, the hero has talent, health, opportunity, and a woman who adores him. He loses his innocence. He loses his health, which makes his talent irrelevant and costs him his opportunity, and, in a way, he loses himself, which is why he ends up abandoning the woman he loves.
So, let’s look at this in terms of story:
Getting back what’s lost. Here the main goal— and the story question—is about recovering something lost at the very beginning of the story. Stories about healing or revenge often turn on this. In Regarding Henry, the protagonist loses his memory and nearly dies when he’s shot, and the story is about recovering health and an identity that is better than the one he lost. Or, as with The Searchers, a beloved family member is kidnapped and must be rescued. Or, with a movie like Munich, the Black September members who killed eleven Israeli Olympic athletes are hunted down, one by one, to balance the scales of justice.
Forcing change. In Star Wars, Luke is not especially interested in taking his chances on an adventure with Obi-Wan until his regular life faces disaster. He loses his home and his family, and that frees him from what he believes are his responsibilities. But it also initiates a larger goal of seeking justice. He does not want the empire to continue to take away the normal things of life from others for its own purposes. His major loss is replaced with a new life’s focus. He has another pivotal loss when Obi-Wan is killed. It forces him into more of a leader ship role. He grows up in ways that otherwise would be unimaginable.
Creating obstacles. In scores of cowboy movies, the hero’s gun jams or runs out of bullets. With the loss of the weapon, the hero is put at a greater disadvantage. Often, this results in a fist fight (a classic roll in the ditch) or forces a new strategy. Characters lie and lose their credibility. They have to re-establish trust with others. Characters may be humiliated— as happens with the” costume party” that embarrasses the protagonist in Legally Blonde when Elle shows up dressed like a playboy bunny. Even though it wasn’t her fault, it leads to a loss of reputation and allies, which she needs to fit in.
Shifting power. The most obvious of these is when the villain steals something from the hero. A clear example is in Raiders of the Lost Ark, where Belloq takes the Ark from Indy.
Sacrifice. From the New Testament to Karras in The Exorcist to Walt Kowalski in Gran Torino, dying for others is the climax. But sacrifices can be less dramatic and still be effective. I Remember Momma is filled with modest, but affecting, sacrifices the family members make for each other.
Exchange. For an evil example, there’s Faust selling his soul for knowledge. In a positive example, Luke gives up control (and his computer’s aid) to use the Force, allowing him to destroy the Death Star.
Never really lost. Ob-Wan still has contributions to make after his demise. E.T. is resurrected (apparently). In Heaven Can Wait, Joe Pendleton not only gets to come back to life, he gets another chance to quarterback the Rams in the Super Bowl. And back in Kansas, Dorothy finds versions of all the friends she left behind in Oz.
Of course, loss doesn’t always have to be central to a powerful and entertaining story. In Marty, the title character has never had much. He isn’t good looking, doesn’t have much power, demands little respect, lacks self-confidence, and, at thirty-six, still lives with his mother. He has his butcher shop, his customers, a family that takes him for granted, and immature and feckless friends. In a way, he has never grown up, and he doesn’t have much to lose. It’s an odd coming of age story about a middle-aged man who grows up. But the emotional core is the surprising gain of a woman who cares for him, and the wonderful wrenching change recovering her after losing her requires.
So, lives, treasures, opportunities, reputation, and loved ones can be lost. So can innocence, self-confidence, influence, health, sanity, allies, and power. But whatever is lost (even if only apparently) can reveal who your characters really are, make audiences love them or worry about them, provide insights about important themes, surprise, and engage. As long as you include one element — whatever is lost, no matter how intrinsically vital or frivolous, must be deeply meaningful to your characters. Otherwise, the audience won’t care
So, let’s look at this in terms of story:
Getting back what’s lost. Here the main goal— and the story question—is about recovering something lost at the very beginning of the story. Stories about healing or revenge often turn on this. In Regarding Henry, the protagonist loses his memory and nearly dies when he’s shot, and the story is about recovering health and an identity that is better than the one he lost. Or, as with The Searchers, a beloved family member is kidnapped and must be rescued. Or, with a movie like Munich, the Black September members who killed eleven Israeli Olympic athletes are hunted down, one by one, to balance the scales of justice.
Forcing change. In Star Wars, Luke is not especially interested in taking his chances on an adventure with Obi-Wan until his regular life faces disaster. He loses his home and his family, and that frees him from what he believes are his responsibilities. But it also initiates a larger goal of seeking justice. He does not want the empire to continue to take away the normal things of life from others for its own purposes. His major loss is replaced with a new life’s focus. He has another pivotal loss when Obi-Wan is killed. It forces him into more of a leader ship role. He grows up in ways that otherwise would be unimaginable.
Creating obstacles. In scores of cowboy movies, the hero’s gun jams or runs out of bullets. With the loss of the weapon, the hero is put at a greater disadvantage. Often, this results in a fist fight (a classic roll in the ditch) or forces a new strategy. Characters lie and lose their credibility. They have to re-establish trust with others. Characters may be humiliated— as happens with the” costume party” that embarrasses the protagonist in Legally Blonde when Elle shows up dressed like a playboy bunny. Even though it wasn’t her fault, it leads to a loss of reputation and allies, which she needs to fit in.
Shifting power. The most obvious of these is when the villain steals something from the hero. A clear example is in Raiders of the Lost Ark, where Belloq takes the Ark from Indy.
Sacrifice. From the New Testament to Karras in The Exorcist to Walt Kowalski in Gran Torino, dying for others is the climax. But sacrifices can be less dramatic and still be effective. I Remember Momma is filled with modest, but affecting, sacrifices the family members make for each other.
Exchange. For an evil example, there’s Faust selling his soul for knowledge. In a positive example, Luke gives up control (and his computer’s aid) to use the Force, allowing him to destroy the Death Star.
Never really lost. Ob-Wan still has contributions to make after his demise. E.T. is resurrected (apparently). In Heaven Can Wait, Joe Pendleton not only gets to come back to life, he gets another chance to quarterback the Rams in the Super Bowl. And back in Kansas, Dorothy finds versions of all the friends she left behind in Oz.
Of course, loss doesn’t always have to be central to a powerful and entertaining story. In Marty, the title character has never had much. He isn’t good looking, doesn’t have much power, demands little respect, lacks self-confidence, and, at thirty-six, still lives with his mother. He has his butcher shop, his customers, a family that takes him for granted, and immature and feckless friends. In a way, he has never grown up, and he doesn’t have much to lose. It’s an odd coming of age story about a middle-aged man who grows up. But the emotional core is the surprising gain of a woman who cares for him, and the wonderful wrenching change recovering her after losing her requires.
So, lives, treasures, opportunities, reputation, and loved ones can be lost. So can innocence, self-confidence, influence, health, sanity, allies, and power. But whatever is lost (even if only apparently) can reveal who your characters really are, make audiences love them or worry about them, provide insights about important themes, surprise, and engage. As long as you include one element — whatever is lost, no matter how intrinsically vital or frivolous, must be deeply meaningful to your characters. Otherwise, the audience won’t care
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