Perhaps you are already a pro at using your scenic descriptions to create a tangible environment for your characters, but do you also use it to show your audience who those characters truly are?

by Margaret M. MacDonald.

Think of your home.  Is it old or new?  Bright or dark?  Cluttered or clean? What would the objects around you tell a visitor about who you are?

You may think that putting some character into your scenic description simply means mentioning the baseball trophies and family photos on the mantle, but what surrounds your characters is only a small part of the defining portrait.  Are the trophies polished to perfection or left to the cobwebs?  Are the family photos proudly displayed, or hidden behind piles of unpaid bills?

Jack is less defined by his catalogue perfect apartment than he is by his condiment based dinner.  His environment says one thing, while his actions say another.  His full apartment is a facade for a man who is really as empty on the inside as his fridge. It’s not only your character’s environment but also how they interact with it that can show us who they are.

A Day in the Life

The majority of screenplays will start your protagonist off somewhere in the course of his daily life.  It doesn’t matter if he lives in an urban apartment block or a derelict space station, the objects around him and the rhythm of his daily routine will show his character to the audience.  Consider how well defined that daily routine would be if your protagonist was obsessive compulsive.

From the start of As Good As It Gets it’s clear that Melvin Udall, a man who throws dogs down garbage chutes and spouts racist remarks without skipping a beat, has a serious problem with people.  But it’s not until we enter his apartment that we see how clinical his problem really is.  His repetitive routine indicates a certain lack of control over his own behavior.  We go from seeing Melvin as a man who deserves the disdain of his neighbors, to seeing him as a man who needs help and understanding.

Melvin, who was the monster attacking an innocent animal in the beginning of the film, is now the frightened animal himself.  Once outside of the sanctuary of his home, the strength of his cantankerous attitude is sapped and his fears of the uncontrollable transform him.  We learn as much about Melvin from his stockpile of soaps as we do from the change in his behavior from one environment to the next.

How does it Feel?

To a certain degree, your protagonist’s feelings about his environment will come out naturally in the storytelling process.  If he is unhappy or content, restless or settled, at peace or at odds with society, his actions will show either his resistance or desire to change his current world.  But how can you use the scenic description alone to portray your protagonist’s attitude?

Lester’s desire to remain in a dream state, and his clumsiness within his own bedroom indicate his discontent with his own life.

In addition to his actions, the description of his bedroom also portrays his underlying attitude.  An expensive suburban house could be described as a warm welcoming place, but this bedroom is “decorated within an inch of its life.”  This environment is presented as oppressive rather than opulent.

Even the choice to have Lester peer through wooden blinds presents the audience with an image of imprisonment.  We don’t have to see Lester behaving as if he is trapped, the scenic description alone shows us that he is.

A Hint of Who

This passage from American Beauty also contains a great example of a vivid yet succinct character description.  “Wide boyish face which is just beginning to droop around the edges” says nothing about Lester’s race, or build.  It doesn’t give us an eye color, hair color, or anything else which would limit the scope of actors who can audition for the part.  Yet, we still get a sense of not only what he looks like but also the personality behind the face.

Of course, some screenwriters choose to introduce their characters entirely as personalities rather than just with physical attributes, as Melvin is introduced in As Good As It Gets.  

Both descriptions give us a pretty clear picture of our protagonists with an economy of words and without reading like a grocery list.  Some would argue that we cannot immediately see that Melvin is “unliked, unloved” or “A huge pain in the ass to everyone he’s ever met” and that therefore his introduction violates the “show don’t tell” rule.  That ongoing debate is for another article.

Transformed Character – Transformed Environment

Your protagonist’s environment is not only a powerful tool in telling us who they are, but it can also hint at who they become.  You don’t need a musical montage showing your protagonist clearing the cobwebs off his trophies but as he is transformed by his experiences, so should his environment.

In Fight Club, Jack leaves the burning wreckage of his Ikea-filled apartment, for a run down house with no amenities.  In American Beauty, Lester claims his own corner of the house, transforming the garage into a sanctuary for bench pressing and joint smoking.  And in As Good As It Gets, Melvin finally conquers his fears.

-Margaret M. MacDonald

Margaret M. MacDonald is a production designer and award winning screenwriter.  She has lived and  worked in Los Angeles, New York and currently Sydney.  She aims to use both her writing and designing to create cinematic worlds. She also loves to discuss the past, present and future and filmmaking and isn’t afraid to disagree with you.

You can find more of Margaret on Immmagination.com and on her blog Marglish.com

by Margaret M. MacDonald.

But does your scenic description flow with the rest of your script or does it sit on the page in a blocky chunk of text?  Does it contribute to the mood and feeling of your story, or does it read like the facts in a police report?  Scenic description is more than just the objects in the room or the weather outside. It is atmosphere, it is character and it is an essential part of your story.

More than the Camera’s Eye

There is a no-fail way to write your scenic description, simply write the shots.  It is true that what you put on the page should be what the camera sees, never less, and with rare exception, never more.  Sometimes the camera will focus on just one character or just one object, and sometimes an entire room or an entire planet.

Just because the shots are wider doesn’t mean your text should get longer, nor does one simple object require any less description than a whole city.  But how do you decide what to describe and when?  How do you make sure you’ve painted a full picture for your reader without the thousand words?

Follow Your Character

In 90% of your screenplay, you will be writing from the point of view of your protagonist.  As he experiences events, has encounters with other characters and walks into new settings, what the camera will focus on is what he sees.  Don’t think that this means every shot should be written as a POV, or that you have license to put as many “he sees” or “he notices” into your script.  In fact, a strong script will never use either.

If you think about entering the world of your screenplay the same way your protagonist does, and describing the world of your story as your protagonist discovers it, then the scenic description will flow smoothly along with the unfolding of your plot.

In a film like Die Hard, the set and the plot are inextricably linked.  Without the Nakatomi building there would be no seven lock vault and exploding rooftop.  But the details about the building, the obstacles it presents to McClane, and the advantages it gives him, are all revealed gradually throughout the course of the story as McClane discovers them.



As McClane enters the building for the first time, the audience does as well.  We see and experience no more than McClane does.  But words are not wasted on presenting this new setting to the audience.  It is simply beautiful, sterile, and seemingly deserted, a rather unassuming introduction for a building that becomes the center of the entire film.  Those few words still evoke a clear picture of this new setting.

This brief scene also tells us some very important story points.  The touch screen computer is a piece of technology both McClane and the guard seem at odds with.  It’s clearly high tech, which indicates there is more cutting edge technology in this building and probably a lot of money to back it up.

The touch screen computer also confirms McClane’s suspicion that his estranged wife is now using her maiden name, a fact we learn at the same time as McClane, thanks to his interaction with the setting.

Finally, as McClane moves further into the building, we see the security cameras because he has noticed them with his “experienced eye.”  We are not only clued in to the nature of the building, but also that of McClane himself.  There is no need to describe exactly how the cameras are incorporated into the decor of the building, simply that they are and that McClane still notices them.

Very little scenic description is used in this passage, but the importance of the setting still becomes apparent, and the story continues to flow uninterrupted.

Be A Mood Maker

Scenic description is also much more than what your protagonist sees.  It is also about what she experiences.  A vast ocean is freedom to a sailor, anticipation to a traveler, and purgatory to a castaway.  If you want your audience to feel what your protagonist is feeling, the tone and emotion of your description should align your reader’s perspective with that of your character’s.

Just imagine if you were a rookie FBI agent, sent in to talk to one of the most dangerous killers in a hospital for the criminally insane.  Wouldn’t every long corridor, every shadow and every distant sound, make your fear rise despite your desire to remain the consummate professional?

As we follow Clarice into the hospital, we experience a build-up of tension and fear right along with her.  She is not only being warned about Hannibal Lecture as she enters, but she is also traveling into an environment that grows more and more foreboding as she walks.  Once through the heavy steel gate everything gets “darker” and “grimmer”, sounds become more apparent and her pace quickens.

The camera never sees the photo that Chilton hands Clarice, even though it “stops her in her tracks” but the simple fact that it’s dog-eared, tells us volumes about this small prop.  Chilton has been pulling this act for quite some time, and is attempting to get an emotional response out of Clarice.  All it took was the addition of one simple word, to give us an entire history of both the photo and Chilton.

The photo, the restraints on the wall, the surrounding surveillance cameras and her encounter with the Dark Figure, are all tests of Clarice’s professional drive and ability to overcome fear. The environment is presenting warning flags and road blocks at every turn, and she must respond appropriately to continue her journey towards Hannibal’s cell.  Without this long walk into the depths of the hospital we would never experience the tension, anticipation and fear along with Clarice.

Few Words Big Picture

When you write scenic description, you must be mindful not only of what the camera is seeing, but also of what your protagonist is seeing and experiencing as they move through their world.  What will he notice and when?  Will a particular object stand out to her and why?

What sort of emotional response does it generate in your protagonist and how can you get your audience to relate to that?  It doesn’t take a lot of text to effectively use your setting to enhance your story, just a few descriptive words, written in the right tone, and put in the right place on the page.

-Margaret M. MacDonald

Margaret M. MacDonald is a production designer and award winning screenwriter.  She has lived and  worked in Los Angeles, New York and currently Sydney.  She aims to use both her writing and designing to create cinematic worlds. She also loves to discuss the past, present and future and filmmaking and isn’t afraid to disagree with you.

You can find more of Margaret on Immmagination.com and on her blog Marglish.com

by Margaret M. MacDonald

Great screenwriters will gracefully focus the camera without ever writing close up or match cut. They will guide actors through subtle character changes without having to put words like angry or thoughtful into parenthenticals.

This series aims to teach screenwriters how to also create a vivid world for their story, without designing a single set.

Empty room syndrome

I have read far too many scripts that look like this.

When these writers are asked why they didn’t describe the setting, they often respond with “Well, that’s the director’s and designer’s job, not mine.” Sound familiar?

If you are also guilty of sitting your characters in empty rooms and walking them down characterless streets, you are throwing away your best opportunity to create a tangible world for your reader and therefore your future audience.

When you write scenic description you are not designing or directing. The setting for each and every one of your scenes, whether they take place in an elaborate fantasy world or an everyday office, is something you the writer have the power to create.

You are not an interior decorator, charged with the duty of selecting wall color and matching furniture sets. Scenes don’t take place in magazine perfect rooms, but rather in places that simply have a certain feeling about them, which can often be captured with a few short phrases.

And you definitely shouldn’t describe everything in the room in such excruciating detail that your reader completely forgets what is happening in the story.

Key props and set pieces should all be on the page. But rather than putting them into a chunky block of text which describes everything your character can see, objects of importance can be smoothly incorporated into the flow of your action and dialogue.

Your story designs your scenes

Setting and genre go hand in hand. Just try to imagine a horror movie without a darkened corridor, or an action film without a chase through a crowded urban street. Scenic description will also generate the tone and mood for your film, with size, color, texture and light all playing a part.

Your setting will tell us when and where your story is taking place. If you aren’t going to use a title that says “New York 1966” or “Outer Space 2020” (and you probably shouldn’t) then your set is the only indication your audience will have.

Scenic description shows us who your characters are, often before they ever even say one word. Where they live, where they work, whether or not they look at home or oddly out of place, and how they interact with their environment are all indications of personality.

Masters of scenic description use symbols and imagery to reinforce theme, and give visual weight to key turning points in the story. When written well, your scenic description can tell your story just as well as the rest of your script does.

A single room or an entire planet

In Avatar, the alien planet Pandora IS the story of the film. More than just the setting, Pandora is Jake’s ally and enemy, a source of conflict and power and another character in and of itself. Imagine if James Cameron had simply described it as “an alien planet” and left it at that. Would we have any idea of its scale and magnitude? Would we know anything about its importance in the story? Would we have any sense of time and place?

Cameron literally flies us into this new world, introducing it piece by piece. Through the use of simple phrases like “carpeted in rainforest”, “vast and forbidding” and “the color, too cyan” we can start to form a clear picture of this world, its size, its color and its overwhelming presence.

The sudden appearance of the open-pit mine is described with words like “lifeless” and compared to the hard, man-made shapes of cookie cutters and three story buildings. It stands in such stark contrast to the virgin rainforest around it, that we immediately see a clear image of the conflict on this alien planet.

Perhaps you’re thinking “But James Cameron directed Avatar so he had no reason to edit down his own scenic description” or “He had an entire fantasy world to write about, so of course he gave it a lot of time.” But consider that the “primeval landscape” and “winged creatures” in this passage later went on to become part of the elaborately designed flora and fauna that were created by a team of designers to bring Pandora to life.

When this passage was written, Cameron was just beginning to scratch the surface of the movie that Avatar would become.

So whether you are creating an entire planet or a single room, your words play a powerful role in making that world jump off the page and into your reader’s visual cortex.

Short phrases and choice adjectives will go on to become the sets, props, lighting and key details that breathe life into your script. So never hesitate to fill that page with life.

(Go to Part 2 of this article)

-Margaret M. MacDonald

Margaret M. MacDonald is a production designer and award winning screenwriter.  She has lived and  worked in Los Angeles, New York and currently Sydney.  She aims to use both her writing and designing to create cinematic worlds. She also loves to discuss the past, present and future and filmmaking and isn’t afraid to disagree with you.

You can find more of Margaret on Immmagination.com and on her blog Marglish.com

photo credit: 96dpi

by Margaret M. MacDonald

What happens when you miss an episode? Do you TiVo or DVR it? Are you going to watch it online? Perhaps you plan to buy the last season on DVD anyway, or download it on iTunes. And oh, what I wouldn’t give to get Hulu in Australia.

We have come a long way from they days wheeling the television into the dining room, so we could watch the latest episode of I Love Lucy. Now we watch television on our own personalized schedules, and we never have to miss an episode.

The plethora of ways to catch up on our viewing also means we can follow more complex stories, elaborate plot twists, and cast numbers worthy of a greek tragedy. Shows no longer need the predictable characters and reliable formula to last in a viewers memory during the week long breaks between episodes.

Shows no longer need
the predictable characters and reliable formula

The luxury of time has opened the dramatic door and television writers have run through it. Character arcs now follow an ever changing flux across season after season. Plots are so thick that you might miss an essential detail during a bathroom break.  And the further shows push away from the formulaic past, the better the writing gets.

Plots are so thick that you might miss
an essential detail during a bathroom break.

There was a time when writers feared that the tidal wave of reality television was going to wash away quality scripted shows forever. But when facing shows like Lost, Mad Men, The Wire, Modern Family, How I Met Your Mother and 30 Rock, that wave just laps at the shore. Sure, some formulas still get relied upon from time to time.

Someone was always trying to shut down the wire just as the team was on the edge of a breakthrough, and Barney Stinson will always be suited up, but for the most part, quality prevails over predictability.

Of course, there are also disadvantages to complex plots and ever increasing casts.

When I moved to Australia, I missed the last few episodes the third season of Lost, a show so needlessly complex that networks used to air catch-up episodes with extra “facts” that popped up at the bottom of the screen. When the fourth season finally aired, I didn’t actually watch it because I knew it was likely to confuse me into an aneurysm.

Lost, a show so needlessly complex that networks used to
air catch-up episodes with extra “facts”
that popped up at the bottom of the screen.

Nonetheless, there will come a day when I break down and watch it all. Why? Because one can only go so long without knowing the secrets of the Island.

That need to catch-up also points to another change that technology has brought about in boob-tube culture: watching great television is no longer a collective experience.

We used to all watch episodes on the same night, and then discuss them at the proverbial water cooler the next day. Now those discussions sound more like “What season are you up to now?” and “oh just wait, the next episode is even better.”

The collective experience is now spread out over time, usually spanning far beyond the life of the show itself. Of course, that also means that people who loved it the first time around, will likely see it again on DVD, reliving the episodes through others as they catch-up.

Discussions about those complex plot twists and ever changing characters will last longer than the one week break between episodes. Therefore, a richly layered writing style is almost a requirement to assure that shows retain their audience throughout their technologically extended lives.

A richly layered writing style is almost a requirement

Are you writing a television show right now? Have you mastered the ability to create cliffhangers between commercial breaks, and endings that leave your audience burning with desire for next week’s episode?

Have you also written a show that people will want to see over and over again, or watch entire seasons of in one sitting? Will discussions about its moments of comic genius or intricate plot twists, last for years after the show has gone of the air?

The next time you complete an episode, ask yourself “would I TiVo that?”

Margaret M. MacDonald is a production designer and award winning screenwriter. She has lived and worked in Los Angeles, New York and currently Sydney. She aims to use both her writing and designing to create cinematic worlds. She also loves to discuss the past, present and future and filmmaking and isn’t afraid to disagree with you.

You can find more of Margaret on Immmagination.com and on her blog Marglish.com

photo credits: mr.skeleton, RubyGoes, John Morton, redjar, celine | www.cheljacinto.tumblr.com

by Margaret M. MacDonald

To sum up Syd’s point (which is not easy to do from a two and a half hour lecture) he was essentially saying that the influx of digital technology in our lives, our constant access to information, the inundation of sound and image and the literal ease with which films can now be made, has altered the way in which we tell stories through film. As our world has gone from analogue to digital, so too has our thinking.

As our world has gone from analogue to digital,
so too has our thinking.

One need only look at a news station like CNN to see this. Television news was once presented by a reporter behind a desk, occasionally supported by images, interviews and video clips. Now we are not only watching one or several reporters, but we are presented with captions to each story, sub-captions that repeat points about the story, a constant news ticker reporting other stories, and time and temperature all on the same screen at the same time. Yet we can watch these channels, take in everything we need to know and ignore the rest.

Film has changed, too

As Syd Field said, you can see this change in film as well. Storytelling is far less linear, we jump around in time, are given bits and pieces of character background in sound and imagery, and only put together the full puzzle once the story has come to its climax. But because our brains are so well adjusted to the information rich digital world, we will retain what we need to know and ignore the rest. In the end, the story will still be clear, even if it began at its middle.

Because our brains are so well adjusted
to the information rich digital world,
we will retain what we need to know and ignore the rest.

Unfortunately, I think Syd’s point was not as clear to the audience as he might have intended. I heard many people walk away from the lecture discussing advancements in filmmaking technology, digital imagery and the capabilities it has allowed for, but very few people were talking about storytelling.  Flashbacks, intercut scenes, voice overs, and dreamt or remembered images are nothing new in film, even if they occur with more frequency today.

It’s true that before cameras could literally go everywhere and a set could be conjured by computer, filmmakers had little choice but to prop a tripod up in front of a table and have their characters discuss their feelings over cocktails. But that is not only how filmmakers had to tell stories, it is how an audience expected to be told that story. We were still sitting behind the fourth wall and would have been rather shaken had one of our fedora wearing heros broken through it.

Capability and consciousness

Today there is no wall. Our stories are told to us in film like the news is relayed on CNN, one big picture with a constant ticker of information around its periphery. We jump around in time, layer realities on top of each other, switch between the character’s conscious and subconscious experiences, and even interact with our stories through internet forums and DVD extras. This is not only because technology has made it possible, but also because these new possibilities have engrained themselves into our brains, our cultures and our storytelling. Our change in capability has created a change in consciousness.

So why didn’t this message resonate with a room full of filmmakers?

Perhaps because we cannot see what is ticking away in our own brains. We tell stories not only the way we are capable of telling them, but also in the way we expect to experience them as an audience. We have taken the tools of technology, absorbed the capabilities they have given us, used them to share our stories and we have probably done it all without even realizing it.

If screenwriting has changed, it’s because screenwriters have changed with their times and their cultures. So what does this mean for the future of storytelling in film? To me, it means that as we continue to grow, evolve and change with our times, so too will our storytelling.

Great. Now what?

How do we apply those evolutions to the practical process of screenwriting?

If the screenplay is a blueprint for a film, how then do we make that blueprint say “protagonist’s subconscious”, “memories” or “parallel events”? The technology with which films are made has changed, so perhaps we need to alter the blueprints of film accordingly. Only then can our films be built upon a solid structure.

As modern filmmakers continue to develop and utilize new technology, and modern audiences continue to demand stories that appeal to our wi-fi sensibilities, we the modern screenwriters need figure out how to write modern stories.

So perhaps Syd’s next lecture could suggest a new set of tools for the digital generation of screenwriters. After all, who better to write the next chapter in the history of filmmaking, than the writers themselves?

Margaret M. MacDonald is a production designer and award winning screenwriter.  She has lived and  worked in Los Angeles, New York and currently Sydney.  She aims to use both her writing and designing to create cinematic worlds. She also loves to discuss the past, present and future and filmmaking and isn’t afraid to disagree with you.

You can find more of Margaret on Immmagination.com and on her blog Marglish.com

Later this month The Story Department will feature an exlusive interview with Syd Field, in which he speaks frankly about how he became the world’s first story guru and how Robert McKee borrows freely from the ideas Syd launched.