Robert McKee went in the right direction with his statement “If the scene is about what the scene is about…” But great writing does not stop at avoiding to ‘write on the nose’.

We just need to go a little further.

I saw Easy Rider for the first time a long time ago. In fairness, I was never too keen on seeing it again. My recollection of it was slow, self-indulgent, and celebrating a culture I am not a part of.
Recently I studied thresholds, those sequences in movies where characters are on the move, as a metaphor of their psychological progress. I wanted to understand what this legendary road movie had to say about that.

Arthouse With A Story

Easy Rider was released in the year Nixon took office. Close to fifty years later, it is baffling how little has changed in the grand scheme of the American socio-political landscape. Easy Rider feels like an end-of-an-era movie, and today we are there again. While all hope is lost, the masses are watching Captain America and preparing to vote for Trump.

The first seven minutes of Easy Rider show what anti-heroes Billy and Wyatt (Captain America) are all about: two seemingly careless bikers who finance their freedom with the occasional drug deal.

When the opening credits roll over Steppenwolf’s Born To Be Wild, the film is already breaking new ground, as soundtracks had never consisted of existing song compilations. Against some spectacular cinematic backdrops – trademark of the movie and its cinematographer Laszlo Kovacs – the sequence launches the first minor threshold, leading us into the story.

And this may be an arthouse pic, but there is a clear visible goal: to make it to New Orleans in time for Mardi Gras.

Of course this is not the type of film that keeps you hooked because of its riveting plot. What matters lies under the surface.

No Subtext Without Serious Digging

After the hippies pick up a hitchhiker, and fill up with gas, we’re in for some serious musical sightseeing. Over The Weight by The Band, the bikers cruise through Monument Valley, where they hole up for the night.

After the beauty, fun and freedom of the riding scenes, Wyatt now seems reflective; perhaps even tormented.
Billy asks “What’s the matter?” Wyatt replies: “I’m a little tired.” Later he says “I’m just getting my thing together.” I believe that’s exactly what this movie is about.

In the non-verbal, conventional sense , what Wyatt is saying here is “I don’t really want to talk with you any further right now.” The real subtext of the scene will only transpire later in the movie, when a pattern is established.

That pattern: Wyatt is tired of this life. He is ready to make new choices. Always being on the run from society may not be the solution for him. To me this seals the first act of this film; we know the destination, and we understand the psychological challenge the hero is facing.

America Getting Its Thing Together

Easy Rider is Captain America’s quest for identity and purpose, and by association, this is a metaphor for the nation’s journey towards redemption. Metaphors are part of the deeper subtext of a story.

When Billy laughs irreverently, the hiker tells him to be ‘a trifle polite’, as “the people this place belongs to are buried right under you.” In a non-verbal sense, the hitchhiker doesn’t like Billy’s attitude.

On a broader subtextual level, this may be why the hiker has fled the city. Because it builds on the burial grounds. His remark to Billy may also be criticising the nihilist attitude of those who attack everyone and everything, but don’t have a valuable alternative to offer.

Billy has long lost any values he might have had. He now floats from one high to the next, ignorant and numb. Without Wyatt, he is nobody. Wyatt seems to be more aware. He wasn’t born to follow – tons of subtext in the music, here – and he is still hopeful for that redemption. If only he might find himself somewhere along Route 66.

Spoiler alert: he won’t.

What Subtext Really Is About

Father Henry Fonda didn’t understand what his son Peter was going on about with Easy Rider. This is not your regular Hollywood picture. Its meaning doesn’t lay bare on the surface. But it’s there for those willing to look.

A scene early in the movie sets it up. Billy (Hopper) and Captain America (Peter Fonda) invite themselves for lunch with a farmer and his large family. “My wife is catholic, you know.” Wyatt commends the rancher on the fact that he’s built a good living for himself.

The contrast between the rancher and his family, and the free-riding bikers who haven’t achieved anything tangible is stark. For Wyatt, this is a call to adventure. Perhaps it is a solution to his empty soul.

“No, I mean it, you’ve got a nice place. It’s not every man that can live off the land, you know. You do your own thing in your own time. You should be proud.”

And although Captain America is literally saying what he means, this line of dialogue provides true subtext. It is the meaning of the movie, and we are not (yet) aware of it. It will gain greater depth as the movie rolls on, and if we make an effort to look beyond merely non-verbal communication, we will slowly become aware of it.

Wyatt is ready to seek a purpose. He even considers settling. Easy Rider is the journey he goes on to figure this out.

-Karel Segers

https://ozzywood.wistia.com/medias/eo7ckdll5v?embedType=iframe&seo=false&videoFoam=true&videoWidth=1080

Karel FG Segers

Karel Segers wrote his first produced screenplay at age 17. Today he is a story analyst with experience in acquisition, development and production. He has trained students worldwide, and worked with half a dozen Academy Award nominees. Karel speaks more European languages than he has fingers on his left hand, which he is still trying to find a use for in his hometown of Sydney, Australia. The languages, not the fingers.

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At the heart of all great screen drama are Big Secrets and Bold Lies.

by Mike Jones

(continued from Part 1)

So far, so good but what we haven’t touched on yet is the other kind – those non-diegetic Secrets and Lies that are held by the audience. It is these that bring an even greater spectrum of complexity to notions of narrative subtext.

Subtext in Horror

Horror films give us the clearest insight into the power of secrets and lies held with the audience. The scares and frights of a horror film are predicated on the viewer being positioned in one of two states – either they know More than the characters know, or they know Only what the characters know.

In the later, when the monster leaps from the shadows, we jump as the character jumps in shock and surprise. In the former, by contrast, we already know the monster is around the corner waiting and we watch, biting our nails in dread and suspense, as the ignorant character – oblivious to the secret we as viewers are forced to keep – heads blindly into the danger.

Horror films give us the clearest insight into
the power of secrets and lies held with the audience.

Both forms are very effective and great horror films move the viewer consistently through these different positions letting them in on the secret sometimes, keeping them in ignorance at others – ensuring a complexity of thrills.

The Audience Knows – Two Forms of Subtext in Horro

From this simple basis we can extrapolate a complexity of possibilities for how and when the audience may be told a lie or given a secret to hold. As with diegetic secrets and lies, we can view a number of ways they can be perpetuated with the audience which broadly may be seen to reside in two broad forms:

• The Character knows something the Viewer does not.
• The Viewer knows something the Character does not.

The first of these is the most obvious and results in the classic reveal often situated at key turning points in the plot. Here the viewer is made aware of new information that forces them to re-evaluate what they previously knew or believed. Whilst this may seem simple it is in fact a direct orchestration and manipulation of what the viewer knows by the writer at any given point in the story’s timeline.

The writer must clearly conceive of what
the viewer doesn’t know that the characters do.

To make such reveals work the writer must clearly conceive of what the viewer doesn’t know that the characters do in order to make the reveal of the conceit plausible and authentic. Scripts that fail this test and do not properly plan or articulate the secrets and lies to the viewer in the writing process, fall foul of Deus Ex Machina where a plot twist or reveal rings as untrue or overly contrived.

Examples of Subtext where The Audience Knows

Excellent examples of this kind of conceit with the viewer can be found in virtually any Hitchcock film but more contemporary films such as The Sixth Sense also demonstrate how effective this lie can be (spoiler alert for anyone who hasn’t seen The Sixth Sense). The film’s reveal that the protagonist himself is actually dead – and indeed has been almost the whole time – is a tremendously effective ending; not because it’s a surprise but because the viewers all slap their foreheads as they realise that ‘it all makes sense’ and indeed that they perhaps should have seen it coming all along. The lie is authentic because it was carefully planned, each scene knew the truth as it was written and hid that truth carefully from the viewer as a secret.

Excellent examples of this kind of conceit with the viewer
can be found in virtually any Hitchcock film.

Such planned secrets to the audience also form the basis of complex-narrative stories such as Memento and The Usual Suspects which are films that build their entire dramatic concept on the ‘unreliable narrator’ and the grand ruse where the viewer is forced to recognise the lies they had previously accepted as truth.

The second of the two – that the viewer knows something the character does not – is consistent across all genres of screen narrative. Whether it’s at a macro level such as Titanic where the audience is fully aware of the ‘secret’ that the iceberg is coming while the characters are oblivious; or at a scene-by-scene level such as in the opening of Jaws where we have already seen the shark waiting and know the danger long before the first victim gets wet. We know the secret and we watch in horror that we cannot stop the inevitable.

We know the secret and we watch in horror
that we cannot stop the inevitable.

photo credit: wwworks

Similarly we might look at numerous scenes from Battlestar Galactica where the viewer knows which characters are in fact Cylons whilst the other characters remain oblivious. The audience is positioned to be the custodian of the secret and the drama plays out as an orchestration of not just What the viewer knows but When they know it.

Likewise in Dexter the audience knows Dexter’s secret life and so whenever we see Dexter interact in a normal way with his police colleagues we watch with a rich vein of subtext based on the dark secret we hold.

Conclusion

Whether the secrets and the lies are held between characters or with the audience the fact is that without secrets and lies your story will often be starved of subtext and tension or else be reliant on far more verbose and less effective forms of tension such as car chases, pointed guns and spectacle.

As a tool, investing your characters and your story at the planning stage with specific Secrets and Lies, that in turn have Values and Damages, will generate tangible potential for rich subtext before you even write the first scene.

-Mike Jones

(read the first part here)

Mike Jones has a diverse background in screen media crossing writing, technical production and academic research.

He is an award winning teacher, author and currently lecturer in Screen Studies at the Australian Film TV and Radio School. www.mikejones.tv

photo credits: Cameron Cassan, Zarko Drincic, Diamond Farah, tommy the pariah

If a story isn’t a den of lies then it’s likely – somewhat ironically – to be missing the essential element that will may make the experience of that story authentic and truthful.

by Mike Jones

Does that sound a bit odd? Let me explain…

The presence – or lack thereof – of secrets and lies in a story is all too often what i observe to be absent from the films and scripts of both my students and screenplays by new and inexperienced writers. Often what is otherwise cited as missing in these cases is ‘subtext. But whilst this is certainly true, subtext is also a notoriously slippery term.

Definition of Subtext

It’s relatively easy to define subtext as that which is between the lines – what is not said between characters – but which is none the less clearly present for the viewer. However, putting that idea into some sort of tangible construct as a writer engaged in a creative process is not nearly so easy. Subtext is easy to see once it’s well written but not all that easy to write.

It’s relatively easy to define subtext
as that which is between the lines

Thus what I’m proposing is an alternative way to consider narrative subtext that perhaps makes it easier to hold onto and use as a creative narrative tool rather than a slightly abstracted concept; Subtext as a set of prescribed Secrets and Lies.

photo credit: See-ming Lee 李思明 SML

Two Categories of Subtext

Secrets and Lies can exist in a story under two broad umbrellas and we might conceive of these two categories in the same way that sound design is often considered in cinema – diegetic and non-diegetic. A diegetic sound is one that comes from within the scene and belongs there, such as the sound of a car engine as we see a car drive or the sound of a gun shot when we see a gun go off, not to mention the sound of a person’s voice as we see them speak.

Conversely, a non-diegetic sound is one where the audio does not emanate from or belong to the scene; voice over narration or a musical score being the two most obvious examples.

When we apply this idea broadly to the subtext of Secrets and Lies in narrative we see a distinction between the secrets and lies held diegetically between characters and those secrets and lies held non-diegetically by the audience observing the characters.

We see a distinction between the secrets and lies
held diegetically between characters and those
secrets and lies held non-diegetically by the audience

In the former, diegetic, sphere we have something one character knows that another does not, or something one character believes but the other does not. In the alternative, non-diegetic, sense we have something the audience knows that the character (or characters) do not (or vise versa).

From this simple observation we can construct all kinds of variations for introducing and manifesting secrets and lies in a narrative; be they at the macro-level of an over-arching story concept that’s predicated on a conceit (Breaking Bad and the secret that Walt is a drug dealer) or at a scene-by-scene level (Michael in The Godfather lying to Kay declaring that he didn’t have his brother-in-law killed). In either case the secrets and the lies fuel the dramatic tension.

photo credit: Raïssa Bandou

Four Kinds of Subtext

So let’s ponder the variations of diegetic secrets and lies. There are essentially 4 kinds:

Character A knows something Character B doesn’t.
Character A doesn’t know something Character B does.
Character A knows something Character B doesn’t and lies about it.
Character A says something Character B knows to be a lie.

Any one of these variations invested in a scene or story adds subtext almost innately by investing an element that is not spoken or, if it is spoken, is not true. That said, what is important from a writing perspective is for the writer to orchestrate clarity about who knows what? If you don’t know what your characters know and, just as importantly, aren’t clear about what it is they don’t know, then you have very little in the way if a toolkit to build compelling subtext beyond words and actions.

What is important from a writing perspective
is for the writer to orchestrate clarity.

When mapping out characters for a story we often think in terms of what WHAT and HOW; What does the character want and How are they going to get it. Stress is exerted by every screenwriting book and script guru doing the circuit that characters must Want something and encounter Obstacles on the way to getting what they want. This may well be true but in many ways this is also too simplistic to be really useful to screenwriters in the midst of the creative writing process.

As with most of the high profile script gurus that dominate screen narrative discourse I find such preaching fine and dandy in a retrospective way – describing how good films worked – but far less useful or functional from the front-end when you’re writing from scratch. Such analysis is focused on description from hindsight and so disconnected from in-the-trenches creative process.

Wants, obstacles and active protagonists are great
but they do not, of themselves, generate subtext.

For example, you may have the clearest What and How in the world for your character with a big obstacle and high stakes and yet still have a scene that is bland and dull and entirely lacking in subtext. Wants, obstacles and active protagonists are great but they do not, of themselves, generate subtext.

This brings us back to the usefulness of Secrets and Lies as a way to tangibly motivate the writing of scenes with more sophistication than just What and How. If you can map out not only what a character wants and how they are going to get it, but also sketch what it is they Know, what they Don’t know, what secrets they have and what lies they are willing to tell – from beat-to-beat and scene-to-scene within a script – you will have a very complex array of dramatic possibilities open to you when it comes to plotting.
photo credit: Chris Halderman

Key Ingredients of Subtext: Value and Damage

Of course this leads us to the key ingredients that character-based Secrets and Lies rely on to be effective. To make the secrets and lies work dramatically we need to add two things – i’ll call these Value and Damage . The Secret has to have Value and the Lie must cause Damage (or be capable of causing damage). This might otherwise be called dramatic stakes but thinking in these more specific terms of Value and Damage may help to make the ideas they embody more specifically targeted and tangibly useful for the writing process.

For a character’s Secret to have dramatic implications it must have Value, the knowledge they hold, or withhold, from other characters must be valuable and desirable and important. The more valuable the better, the more other characters want the secret or would be affected by the secret, the more dramatic pressure is applied to the character. What must also be remembered is that the value of a secret is in direct context of the story-world the narrative plays out in.

The more other characters want the secret
or would be affected by the secret,
the more dramatic pressure is applied to the character.

Thus, for example the location of the knock-list of secret agents is a very valuable secret for Ethan Hunt to hold in Mission Impossible, a secret with implications for international diplomacy. On a different scale altogether, but every bit as valuable in the context of the story, is Don Draper’s secret past and appropriated identity in Mad Men. This knowledge wont bring down governments but in the context of the Mad Men world the secret, none the less, has immense value in being kept or released.

photo credit: buckyishungry

In terms of Lies, it is Damage that becomes a crucial ingredient. If the lie can’t hurt anyone, if it has no fallout from being perpetuated, then it is dramatically un-useful. But if the Lie has the potential to cause damage, large scale damage commensurate with the story-world, then you will have armed your character and narrative with a potent subtext explosive. The more damage the lie can cause the more effective it will be. Of course by damage we don’t necessarily mean physical damage – though that may very well often be the case – but fallout damage in a wide variety of forms.

The more damage the lie can cause
the more effective it will be.

In Pixar’s Monsters Inc. for example the big lie is that children are utterly toxic and contact with them will kill and bring down the whole Monster World. The fallout damage for this lie is in fact positive rather than negative (the revelation that children are not toxic after all), but the damage is nonetheless big in scale as the revelation of the lie inverts the monster world and changes forever the characters in it.

Likewise, working at both personal and world scale, is the film Amadeus. The big lie maintained and perpetuated by Salieri is that Mozart’s music is mediocre and not worthy of the Emperor’s attention. The lie in this case for Salieri is to himself more than anyone else, when he in fact knows the truth of Mozart’s genius. The lie can and does inflict great damage – to the world by curtailing Mozart’s career and life, and to Salieri personally as he lives out his days in guilt and despair at his own mediocrity.

Practical Tools for Creating Subtext

What we can take away from these ideas and observations should be some very practical tools for writing character-drama; give your hero a big secret, your villain a big lie (or vise versa), arm each character with a secret to keep and a lie to tell – secrets and lies that have value and possibility for damage – and then throw events at the characters that force the secrets and lies out into the open… At the heart of all great screen drama are Big Secrets and Bold Lies – plotting therefore is the events you toss at the characters to bring out and confound their secrets and their lies.

-Mike Jones

(to be continued)

Mike Jones has a diverse background in screen media crossing writing, technical production and academic research.

He is an award winning teacher, author and currently lecturer in Screen Studies at the Australian Film TV and Radio School. www.mikejones.tv

Zen may be the key to your well-being; it is the enemy of cinema.

Get your audience into the ‘now’ and your movie is dead. Storytelling for the screen is not about what is NOW but about what comes NEXT.

It is mind-boggling how many people still don’t get this. A couple of weeks ago I overheard a conversation between a major decision maker on government film financing and an eager filmmaker.

She was explaining to him what a wonderful movie she had seen. She also explained how the movie had bombed at the box office.

Wonderful style, fabulous photography. But she maintained that it was a “really good movie”.

It was “such a shame the stupid audience didn’t get it”. She didn’t literally say the last thing, but it was in the subtext.

Many writer/directors – and people outside the commercial reality of the film business – struggle with this essential aspect of storytelling for the screen. They want the audience to admire what is on the screen NOW rather than worry about what is coming NEXT.

This is exactly what sets film apart from other media. And this is exactly where disasters happen when visual art lovers meddle with movies.

Screen emotions are about ANTICIPATION.

Antipation means: hope for a good/better outcome, fear over what might happen to the hero, curiosity over how things will turn out. Nothing of this has to do with the NOW.

Once an audience starts enjoying the beautiful picture, the great music, even an amazing performance (“the actor was really in the moment”), your audience has stopped worrying about what is happening next – and you’ve lost them.

Zen is about being happy and content with what you have, NOW.

Screen story is not.

It’s rather about being UNhappy. About wanting to know, see, experience what will come next. If your audience is content about what’s on the screen NOW, there is no reason to continue watching. On the contrary, they will happily leave the theater and go home.

Once you’re finished with THE POWER OF NOW, check out THE TOOLS OF SCREENWRITING and Screenwriting: The Sequence Approach
to save your screenwriting life.

Karel FG Segers

Karel Segers wrote his first produced screenplay at age 17. Today he is a story analyst with experience in acquisition, development and production. He has trained students worldwide, and worked with half a dozen Academy Award nominees. Karel speaks more European languages than he has fingers on his left hand, which he is still trying to find a use for in his hometown of Sydney, Australia. The languages, not the fingers.

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But as you’re asking about dialogue, here are some principles that I have observed in great screenplays. And yes: more often than not when writers draw the attention to their dialogue, the story doesn’t work.

These twenty tips are not exhaustive, there are probably another ten major principles and fifty equally valid minor rules of thumb. And each has probably been breached beautifully at some point in great movies.

Feel free to add more or argue any or all of these in the comments.

1. it should never – even remotely – smell like exposition.
2. it should support the subtext, the characters’ secret objective(s).
3. its grammar should be organic and deficient, not perfect.
4. its semantics should be meticulously shaped.5. it should be composed to support the scene’s intended rhythm.
6. it should not sound theatrical unless the character or genre warrants this.
7. lines should get shorter, punchier towards the end of the scene.
8. different characters should have different ‘idiolects’.
9. long dialogue should be broken up by characters’ responses, action etc.
10. avoid talking heads: give characters ‘something to do’ while speaking.
11. strong lines mostly deliver their ‘beat’ at the very end.
12. dialogue shouldn’t open nor end scenes (the latter not a hard rule).
13. characters shouldn’t tell each other what we have already seen.
14. no parentheses unless the line doesn’t work at all without.
15. when a character asks a question, don’t answer it directly.
16. numbers should be spelled out in full.
17. characters should not say exactly what they feel (except in PP2).
18. only use in-jokes, innuendo etc. if the audience understands.
19. avoid tongue-twisters, clever dialogue or lines that stand out.
20. avoid dialogue that only great actors can deliver credibly.

The last two clearly show this is all about spec screenplays by writers who still need to prove themselves. Once you’re up there, you set your own rules. And even then, there are exceptions. Look at the dialogue in Juno. It draws so much attention to itself that some thought those first couple of minutes were borderline indigestible.

Diablo Cody got away with it.

Each principle above is a challenge in itself. That is why often at the very end of your development, when you are tantalisingly close to the final draft, a ‘dialogue pass’ helps making sure every line and every word hits the mark.

Beginning screenwriters can’t always judge whether their own dialogue really works. That’s why it is essential to have a professional do a final polish of your work before you send it out, even if the story works.

Then again, you can avoid all the hard work as tip #20 holds the easy solution to all your dialogue problems.

Just spend an extra ten million on your cast.

Karel FG Segers

Karel Segers wrote his first produced screenplay at age 17. Today he is a story analyst with experience in acquisition, development and production. He has trained students worldwide, and worked with half a dozen Academy Award nominees. Karel speaks more European languages than he has fingers on his left hand, which he is still trying to find a use for in his hometown of Sydney, Australia. The languages, not the fingers.

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Commercial common sense will tell you: yes, you should.

Robert McKee says: “Tell the truth.” (see the previous post)

McKee means: your story needs to reflect your worldview. If you contradict whatever you believe in for the sake of commerce, you will fail. During his Arthouse seminar, he gives the example of Bergman’s THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY, where Bergman forced an ending upon the story in which he didn’t really believe. The story didn’t work, McKee says. Even the great Bergman couldn’t go against his instinct.

The discussion about happy endings is not exactly the same as the discussion about arcs. Protagonists without arcs have starred in films with tremendous success (see the reference to Mystery Man on Film in the previous post).

Although writers with a positive world may have more success in connecting with a large audience, I believe that talented and skilled screenwriters can create stories that work, irrespective of their worldview.

First-timers will have a harder time.

Here is the dilemma: to break in, you need to write something the market wants to see. Yet you’ll have a better chance if this first spec screenplay is written from the heart. You need to tell the truth.

My advice to beginning screenwriters: see how different genres allow to make different statements about the human condition without compromising the chances of success. Horror, crime and satire are darker genres than romance, adventure or kids movies.

Finally, to illustrate McKee’s point, below is a transcript of his introduction to THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY for British television.
______________________________________

Robert McKee: I saw my first Bergman film in Detroit, Michigan when I was 15. It was The Virgin Spring, a tale of revenge for rape and murder. Next came a comedy, Smiles of a Summer Night. After that Brink of Life, a social drama set in a maternity ward, Monika: A Teenage Love Story, Hour of the Wolf, a psycho-horror film. Bergman was like a one-man film studio bringing a fresh eye to many genres and by word of mouth filling cinemas everywhere. But then in the sixties he became a creature of the critics. They treated his films as intellectual crossword puzzles and drove the audience back behind a barricade of critic-speak � symbology, metaphysics, alienation � until it was impossible to watch a Bergman film without the feeling that you were taking an exam. And that�s where he stands today, on a pedestal, intimidating, distant, watched only by a tiny circle of cineastes. I think that over the years we forgot what the early audiences instinctively knew � above all else, Ingmar Bergman was a master storyteller.

Bergman�s difficult. Not to understand, but emotionally tough. He shines light into the darkest corners of life. He asks us to empathise with complex characters who, although very human, are not particularly loveable. Then he spins his stories over an emotional rollercoaster, taking us on a quest for the truth, truth that explodes the little lies that make life comfortable. To watch a Bergman film you have to be willing to invest all your humanity, to open yourself up, to care about life so much you want to know the truth though heaven may fall. It is not intellect Bergman demands so much as courage.

Bergman�s also difficult because he explains nothing. He doesn�t force his ideas into the mouths of his characters. Like Hollywood he tells stories visually, writes naturalistic dialogue and layers his meaning in the subtext. Unlike Hollywood his films are not tales of wish fulfilment, telling seductive lies about how everything works out for the best.

1a: The Film

�for now we see through a glass, darkly:
but then face to face; now I know in part;
but then I shall know even as also I am known

Karel FG Segers

Karel Segers wrote his first produced screenplay at age 17. Today he is a story analyst with experience in acquisition, development and production. He has trained students worldwide, and worked with half a dozen Academy Award nominees. Karel speaks more European languages than he has fingers on his left hand, which he is still trying to find a use for in his hometown of Sydney, Australia. The languages, not the fingers.

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(Report by John Haly,
Thank you to Tony Chu)

Karel -a Belgian producer and script consultant – founded OZZYWOOD Films and The Story Department (which is a unique Australian blog and online resource for screen story theory). Karel headed production and programming at London’s Digital Broadcasting Company and was a film buyer for CANAL+, (Europe’s largest pay TV service). He was the host for a movie show for MTV Europe. His production credits included two short dramas, a documentary and a feature film. In post-production, he has a short animation and a feature film. As a script consultant, he has clients both in Australia and overseas. Of interest to Nafa members, he also runs regular workshops on script writing. A notable fact is that the 2007 nominees and also the winner of the Australian Writer Guild Monte Miller Award were Karel’s clients. Accordingly, if you are a script writer, you will, indeed, be well advised to pay particular attention to his views on ‘What our industry needs is a Story Revolution’.

Karel began by delving back into his personal history stating that he had started in Radio as a reporter who would phone in initial reviews of films for night radio – a far cry from the online internet reviewing of films of the contemporary culture. His first venture into a screenplay dates back to 1989, although he admits to abandoning that path because of early criticism by an established script writer. His next attempt was twelve years later, and he promptly lost the first draft.

In 2001, he moved to Australia where he co-produced a documentary and then a short film, but the last didn’t go anywhere. The next film was “Aerosol” which was dispatched to, and was selected by a few film festivals, but won no significant prizes. As a consequence, he then contemplated a change of direction and began studying and reading in an effort to get new insights as to the creative writing process.

The author at the top of his reading list was Robert McKee. McKee’s book, ‘Story’ is considered by some as the “screenwriters’ bible”. When purchasing the software for screen writing called ‘Power Structure’, he was offered at a reduced price a DVD called ‘The Hero’s 2 Journeys’ which was promoted as extremely enlightening material capable of educating writers and which revealed the template upon which the vast majority of successful stories and Hollywood blockbusters are based. Michael Hauge and Christopher Vogler’s DVD opened Karel’s eyes as it offered a unique insiders’ understanding of the ways screenplay structure, character, and theme must combine to be successful.

Karel became aware of the sad fact that there seemed to be little by the way of ‘Story Education’ available in Australia. Michael Hauge’s principles were applied in advising writers of script plays. With the aid of AFC funding, it became possible to produce a following accompanied by good results. He educated writers that the structure of writing was important, particularly from the perspective of Character. His insight centred on the question: Where does drama happen? He emphasises that it is not in the visualisation of the story, but the subtext beneath the story that good scriptwriting lies.

The fault to which many writers fall prey is that of visualising the scene as they are writing, thus thinking in terms of pictures. As it is a visual media up with which we end, we must keep in mind into what it is that a visual story latches in the minds of the audience – for example, that of ‘Desire’! The question that ought to be at the centre of your script should focus on the desires and objectives of your characters because film ‘hangs together’ with the emotions of “Desire”.

A frequent criticism of Australian films is that they have weak protagonists, (i.e. those without will power). If you give your protagonist a visible goal with a desire and will to get there, then you are more likely to engage your audience. The essence of Michael Hauge’s proposition is that you need a character who has a visible goal with a clearly defined end-point.

Karel recalled the Columbia University educator, Frank Daniel, who was noted for his development of the sequence paradigm of Screenwriting. Frank’s conception of a good protagonist was ‘somebody who wants something badly and has difficulty getting it.”

Karel turned to the audience to ask, ‘As a screen writer what is your primary goal?’ After a few financial and entertaining replies, someone suggested ‘to tell a story’. Karel then asked, ‘Why are you telling that story?’ Quoting Michael Hauge, his answer was two words, ‘elicit emotion’. In order to do this, there are three things with which a screen writer can play. 1. Character, 2. Desire, 3. Conflict.

The best way Karel can find to illustrate this is simply through the examples of successful films, which is what he uses when he runs his workshops. Irrespective of whether it is a Mainline or Arthouse movie, they all follow the same structure. The film ‘Die Hard’ deals with a man seeking to stop the criminals. ‘Jaws’ relates to a man’s desire to stop the Shark. Consider an Oscar winning Arthouse movie: “The Lives of Others’ where in the first half, the protagonist desires to expose the director while in the second half, he wishes to protect him.

As a screenwriter, you need to structure the desire. (Characters need structure in their desire). Your audience needs to know in the first act what that desire is. Your character also needs to resonate with the audience, exhibiting his or her human flaws. It is the flaw that holds the need of the protagonist. In ‘Die Hard, while desiring to stop the criminals, his flaw was that he was afraid to tackle the criminals who held his wife hostage. In the “The Lives of Others”, the protagonist changes his mind mid way. Audiences expect to perceive this desire, even if it is not spelled out.

As Aristotle distinguishes: a whole is that which has a beginning, a middle, and an end. In the beginning, the audience is introduced to the setting, the characters, their situation,/conflict and the goal they desire. In short, something happens, unexpectedly, which defines the story to come. To paraphrase Aristotle, ‘A beginning is that which does not itself follow anything by causal necessity, but after which something naturally is or comes to be’.

In ‘Die Hard’ the building is stopped while John McClane goes up to the highest floor to get a bird’s eye perspective and think through his options. He says to himself, ‘Think, think, think’. [KS: The exact same words are used by Woody in Toy Story 2 after Wheezy is taken away.] The initial plot point of confusion [KS: In the Hero’s Journey the ‘Mentor’ stage, ‘Refusing the Call’] shifts to the derivation of a plan and new plot point – an event followed by a reaction. Something happens, a plan evolves and the pursuit of activity begins and continues all the way to a resolution.

Karel advised that as a Script writer you should ask yourself, ‘What is the reason this story is being told?’. As for Karel himself, he was sitting here talking to us because he was strongly motivated by the desire to see a revolution in the way Australian Script writers create stories. He proclaimed, ‘Make sure there is a connection between yourself and the story you are telling. There is a requirement to want to connect to an audience.’

It is in the tribal ethos of ancient days that the storyteller tells stories relevant to their tribes. They are told not only to get the message across, but also to create such impact that the stories are repeatedly retold to subsequent generations of that tribe. It is important whether you be scriptwriters or producers or directors, that you choose the scripts that can best tell the story.

Be aware that the contemporary tribe of humanity is being conditioned by the way a story is being told in film and theatre. Be conscious of writing structure as it is entering an arena, a tribe, a society that is accustomed to perceive in a specific manner. Don’t be dismissive of the formula for telling the story in film just because you want to be ‘different’, or because your audience has been conditionally seasoned, even if they are not consciously aware of being told a story with a definite style.

Karel moved on to seek to discredit a few commonly held myths. The first one is that writers should rush out and buy specific Screen Writing Software such as ‘Final Draft’. In the first place, there are plenty of free alternatives out there for Microsoft word templates, [KS: Celtx] etc. Primarily, it initially tempts you to write in scenes, when it is the story you first need to relate. Reading scripts to get the format right as a pre-requisite encourages the visualisation of scenes when first, you should be concentrating on the story. Try watching a movie, break it down and decode it yourself rather than reading or writing a script (story first, script last).

The next myth concerns language. Some writers love flowery prose. Question yourself as to whether your objective is to write something that only reads well, or do you wish to write a story of substance? Identify: where is the story? Do you have a character with a desire? Where is the conflict in the story? This, as your primary guideline becomes the focus of the storyline.

The next myth concerns Log Lines. (A Log Line is a brief summary of the film, often providing both a synopsis of the program’s plot, and an emotional “hook” to stimulate interest). Karel confessed for a long time that he believed that the Log Line was the last thing you wrote after the script and synopsis. He is now firmly convinced the opposite is true.

If you want to know more about the importance of Log Lines go to ‘The Unknown Screen Writer’ and ‘Mystery Man on Film‘. These will help you to use correctly the Log Lines – a procedure the importance of which cannot be overestimated. These are the selling lines of your film which you must know before you start writing. Formulate a Log Line of: who is your character? What does the character want?- and- What is the obstacle(s) in his way? Try to compose your log line by writing it down as soon as possible as this keeps you in focus. That great idea that pops into your head during the writing! Does it fit into your Log Line? If not, put it aside because it has no place in your story. Keep it for your next script.

Karel then suggested that the biggest mistake people make in the attempt to sell their scripts is to dispatch them too early. Sending and then resending draft versions is the quickest way to ensure that the people reading the dispatched articles lose interest. By resending a newer, updated version of the script, you are admitting to the producer or director that you sent them a previous script that you well knew wasn’t ready.

Following on from that theme, Karel pointed out that formatting the script is not important until you have the story written. As Art Arthur said: ‘Don’t get it right, get it written!’ Once it is written in the final draft, THEN there are formatting rules to which you need to comply. It is then that those slug lines, script punctation and the absence of typos needs to be scrupulously addressed.

Karel noted that studies of the Australian Government Feature Film Funding have shown that only about 19 out of some 419 films actually made money. He impressively expressed the point that our essential requirement was to think about the market. Again, he reiterated the need for writers to understand and act on the principles espoused in “The Hero’s Journey”.

Despite the perception that both Germans and Australians possess an inherent hero phobia, explore the successful films in our own industry, and that, in itself, will disabuse any such notion.

At this point, Jeanie opened the floor to questions. These included ones concerning the cultural differences between countries when it came to making films. This, in turn, raised the topic of our anxiety of being commercially successful. Questions about breaking the rules for film structure returned a reply of: ‘how about mastering the ‘Rules‘ first BEFORE contemplating breaking them- not the other way around.

Tony concluded the evening by thanking Karel for his contribution. Karel spoke privately to people as they approached him and eventually the evening broke up, as actors, producers and director’s networks chatted on before being kindly ejected by the Bar Staff wishing to close. Some of us spilled out onto the sidewalks to continue our conversations till the passing night drew us to the consideration that we should be homeward bound.

Karel FG Segers

Karel Segers wrote his first produced screenplay at age 17. Today he is a story analyst with experience in acquisition, development and production. He has trained students worldwide, and worked with half a dozen Academy Award nominees. Karel speaks more European languages than he has fingers on his left hand, which he is still trying to find a use for in his hometown of Sydney, Australia. The languages, not the fingers.

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From the answers I have compiled the list below, together with ten common problems from my own experience. These are not just issues with scripts of my clients, but problems occurring in many – if not most – screenplays sent to me for financing and/or production.

Script Editors’ Top Ten:

– long descriptions
– lack of practical insight
– too many characters
– too many subplots
– over-writing
– passive protagonist
– weak antagonist
– not enough obstacles
– absence of logic
– breach of genre rules

Karel’s Top Ten:

– weak protagonist
– lack of conflict
– lack of subtext
– lack of turning points
– shifting point of view
– on-the-nose dialogue
– too clever dialogue
– direction from the page
– lengthy scenes
– bad use of parentheses

Half of my list I consider structural problems. They are issues to be addressed during the story development, i.e. before you even write your screenplay draft.

If you are about to write a draft or have just written one, you might want to have a look at the screenplay checklist (Premium only) in which I focus on a number of problems that may occur in the writing of the draft.

Screenplay Checklist (Premium) >>

Karel FG Segers

Karel Segers wrote his first produced screenplay at age 17. Today he is a story analyst with experience in acquisition, development and production. He has trained students worldwide, and worked with half a dozen Academy Award nominees. Karel speaks more European languages than he has fingers on his left hand, which he is still trying to find a use for in his hometown of Sydney, Australia. The languages, not the fingers.

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What I had read was a great short novel. Brilliant prose, lively detail and sharp dialogue. But the story didn’t work because we would not care for the protagonist. This is a typical mistake: confusing a good script with a good story. Beware of the ‘good read’. Or as my best friend Chris always says: “Armaggedon was a good read too.” In the case of this Australian hopeful, the story was told from a protagonist without any clear objective. Ironically, a character close to the protagonist would have much better fitted that role without the need to significantly change the premise.

The joy of the ‘good read’ is truly a danger and one of many reasons why you don’t rely on friends for script feedback, even if they work in the film industry. I have heard of aspiring screenwriters asking advice from assistant directors, decorators production managers. Although like everybody in our industry, these people SHOULD have a notion, in reality they hardly ever do. (As a matter of fact, a lot of decision-makers don’t have a clue either.I could give you a recent example of a script where even the writer admitted ‘there was no story’. Still he got the money to develop it. Develop what? The novel? I won’t name the example or I would be dead. Fact is that the writer in question ironises about this reality when he says that

“to get your hands on delicious development money you don’t have to have a great script, it only has to be a little ‘better’ than the norm. And if you can do that with no story…good times.”

THE WISE AND THE NOT SO WISE

As somebody who takes the craft very seriously, I’m sometimes frustrated to see how people who should know better send out confusing messages. Now take this quote, which I found on a web site claiming to give story advice and tips to writers:

“As for the content of your screenplay; structure counts, usually. Have a clear Act I, II, and III. Try to hook the reader on the first page! Make the first five (or ten pages at most) be Act I, wherein you introduce all the main characters and show the reader the who, what, where, when and why of your story. Notice that I said SHOW. Telling is not so good. Film is a visual medium and you should actually be writing a FILM, not a script. Act II is the rest of the story, where you build on what you started, and it climaxes at the clear end of Act II. Act III should be five or ten (max) pages, where all loose ends are tied up and all conflicts are resolved.”

I must admit I had never heard of the Ten Minutes First Act. And the second act being “where you build on what you started“. How can you be more vague? You know what is REALLY frightening? The person talking is the director of an internationally renowned film festival. And as for: “structure counts, usually”… The festival director is probably hoping of getting the new KOYAANISQATSI.

Let me counterbalance the nonsense with a solid quote from Chris Vogler, the man behind The Writer’s Journey. This time not about the ‘big structure’ or the Journey Stages but about scenes:

“A scene is a business deal. It may not involve money but it will always involve some change in the contract between characters or in the balance of power. It’s a transaction, in which two or more people enter with one kind of deal between them, and negotiate or battle until a new deal has been cut, at which point the scene should end. It could be the reversal of a power structure. The underdog seizes power by blackmail. Or it could be the forging of a new alliance or enmity. Two people who hated each other make a new deal to work together in a threatening situation. A boy asks a girl out and she accepts or rejects his offer. Two gangsters make an alliance to rub out a rival. A mob forces a sheriff to turn a man over for lynching. The meat of the scene is the negotiation to arrive at the new deal, and when the deal is cut, the scene is over, period. “

THE POWER OF A PARADIGM SHIFT

Years ago a good friend returned from L.A. where he had attended a much hyped screenwriting seminar. The speaker made a point by asking the room who would visualise the scenes while writing. I agreed with my friend’s astonishment when he reported that only half of the writers raised their hands. What were the others thinking? What idiots to believe you can actually write movies without thinking visually???

I have come to fundamentally change my view on this. Did Alan Ball necessarily think visually when he wrote SIX FEET UNDER? Or AMERICAN BEAUTY? The last boasts wonderfully visual scenes but most of the script’s power lies entirely not on its visual level. We do indeed need visible elements to show character subtext, but not necessarily a visual context. Think about CRASH or more recently THE LIVES OF OTHERS. On what level do these movies make an impact?

Whether a movie works or not, is decided on an entirely different, almost abstract and non-visual level. Until a late draft, a screenwriter doesn’t always need to visualise. And you can take this right through to very visual action flicks such as DIE HARD, THE FUGITIVE or even SPIDER-MAN. Visual elements such as setting, time of day, camera angles etc. could have been easily replaced without really changing the story. They might have even worked without the eye candy but they surely wouldn’t have without the character drama underneath.

Recently I was recommended THE SEVEN HABITS OF HIGHLY SUCCESSFUL PEOPLE. Early in the book Stephen Covey speaks about the Paradigm Shift. (Beware: this Paradigm has nothing to do with Syd Field.) It’s about looking at something from a specific angle and (not) seeing what others see. I found this concept very similar to reading text vs. reading subtext. I had been reading screenplays on the surface for years before it most literally ‘clicked’ in my head; it felt as if a ‘sixth sense’ had switched on, as if I was suddenly reading with an infrared eye.

Switching on the understanding of this subtextual level is a skill writers, just like producers or directors, need to develop before they can become successful. It is just as essential as switching on your desk light at night to read.

THE LOGLINE

“A logline is a one-sentence summary of your script. It’s the short blurb in TV guides that tells you what a movie is about and helps you decide if you’re interested in seeing it. It’s the grabber that excites your interest.” (-Scriptologis.Com)

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The logline shouldn’t be confused with the tagline (marketing one-liner for the poster) or even slugline (“EXT. KAREL’S OFFICE – DAY”).

Once I believed you can only write your story’s logline when you have finished your script and even the one page synopsis. Until then, it may not even be clear what the story is about.

Here are a few good reasons why you should start thinking of the logline earlier. First of all: a good logline is a good indication that you have a story. If after a few drafts you still can’t find a logline that captures what your movie is about, you really need to think hard about the story again. Secondly: it will become an essential selling tool for your script. A strong logline will give you the confidence that you have a story: you’ll be able to pitch it with passion! In both senses the logline does pretty much what I promote about the synopsis in my consultancy services: it helps you improve AND sell the story. All that with the economy of one simple sentence.

I am currently working as a consultant on an amazing high concept story with some major story issues. It is always nerve-wrecking having to break the news that to unleash its potential, a story needs to be significantly reworked. But when I found out the writer had already written a logline expressing exactly what I believed the story should deliver, I sighed: we were on the same wavelength.

The moment you find a logline expressing your intentions, you have found an invaluable tool to stay on track. It could be the road map saving you from disaster. If the logline is selling and you stay true to it during the writing of the draft, chances are you will have a selling story.

THE $5 SCRIPT SOFTWARE: ASHAMPOO’S TEXTMAKER:

I recently had a computer scare when it looked my four year old laptop was about to die. That would have been a disaster in a few ways, not the least because I recently bought a – legitimate – OEM version of Office Standard. I lose my laptop, I lose that.

No wonder I was interested when recently I received an offer to an elegant software program called ‘Textmaker’, which does everything I use MS Word for. Only for $4.99 only. And legitimate. If you are looking for a good quality text processor, which is BTW faster than MS Word and whose license won’t expire if your computer dies, have a look here:

https://www.ashampoo.com

I believe the offers on these newsletters remain open for at least 1 purchase per customer.

BEATS VS. TURNING POINTS

While working on a step outline with one of my clients, it bothered me a number of scenes ended in the exact same way: the protagonist would respond to a situation by rejection or reluctance to respond.

None of these scenes really ended in a plot point, there was no hook nor change to the story’s direction. So I didn’t find the scenes’ ending strong enough and almost suggested to cut them altogether. Still, the point the writer was trying to make about the protagonist was a valid one: it gave us important information we would need later in the story.

The solution we came up with: keep the protagonist’s reaction as a scene beat but work towards a stronger scene ending by creating a new plot point for each in order to turn the scene, create anticipation and propel it into the next one. Not an easy task but ultimately better than cutting.

THE QUIZ

As part of a Google Adwords campaign I’ve created a quiz about the craft and – to a lesser extent – history of screenwriting. If one or two questions are a matter of opinion rather than fact, you will find the answers in The Story Dept. Twenty challenges, definitely not for beginners (and neither is this blog, apparently) but essential knowledge for whomever is serious about the craft. Anyway, if you consider yourself an expert, or at least intermediate level writer, you shouldn’t be intimidated. Click through until the very end of the quiz and you’ll land back on the OZZYWOOD web site after seeing all the right answers. Have fun!

https://ozzywood.com/quiz

Karel FG Segers

Karel Segers wrote his first produced screenplay at age 17. Today he is a story analyst with experience in acquisition, development and production. He has trained students worldwide, and worked with half a dozen Academy Award nominees. Karel speaks more European languages than he has fingers on his left hand, which he is still trying to find a use for in his hometown of Sydney, Australia. The languages, not the fingers.

Subscribe to our YouTube Channel!