Nobody actually “knows-knows.” It’s full of unknown-unknowns (sounds like Donald Rumsfeld!). That’s because it is just as surreal. Most moviemakers simply look at a script and decide: “This is worth doing. I believe there’s a decent-sized audience out there for this. And I believe a few good actors will be interested in doing it.” That is the most substantial moment in the inception of a film. That’s when it begins. The years-long trek toward the completion of a feature-length motion picture begins because somebody really wants to make it.
You have probably seen a bunch of unimpressive movies. They may not have been horrible, but they weren’t great. You also saw a few great movies, movies you really loved. You’re probably thinking, “Well, I don’t think I could write that really great movie. But I’m pretty sure I can write that slightly crappy movie I saw and get some money for it. Maybe that would start my career as a screenwriter.”
’Scuse me?
First of all, if your first movie is crappy, it will most likely end your career, not start it. The stories behind what happens to perfectly good scripts on their way to becoming a movie would fill another few books. Some of those stories are contained in the remarkable memoirs written by William Goldman. He’s a great screenwriter. He has written award-winning scripts and also scripts we’ll never see and at least one that really flopped. But he was convinced, in his amazing Oscar-winning mind, that these would be great scripts. That’s just the way you have to feel. He’ll be the first and not the last person to tell you: “We work just as hard on the bad ones as we do on the good ones.”
So first, before you start writing crap, you have to know what you’re doing. Only the best singers can actually deliberately sing offkey (and often for comic effect).
This means humbling yourself to the task, understanding what “mastery” of this craft actually means, and applying your knowledge to a professional working life — even if you’re not earning any money at it. So relax. Open your eyes, your ears, and your soul. You’ll get there if you take the necessary steps.
There’s No Such Thing as a “Bad Idea,” Only a Story Poorly Told
Story ideas can be tricky things. Sometimes an idea seems great because you have the potential to surprise the audience at the end (The Sixth Sense). Sometimes an idea can be a way of telling an utterly familiar story, yet it can contain nagging anticipation (Titanic). Or sometimes an idea can be just a value; simply a human emotion, like “madness” (Repulsion) or “lost in space” (Gravity) or “you can’t win against real power” (Chinatown).
Tips
• “Don’t try to be clever.”
• “Don’t struggle to be original.”
Clever is simply a way of tricking the audience. That’s fine, but you can only do that trick once. That’s what “spoiler alerts” are about. A “one-trick” movie is simply that. And believe me, you’re welcome to try. There are many satisfying experiences from these one-trick movies. Yes, The Sixth Sense, because both Bruce Willis and the audience reach their understanding at the same moment. But it’s an amazing value in the end. The main character learns to live with the truth about himself.
But who wants to write a movie that can only be seen once?
Then there’s Psycho. Forgive me for defying the cult of adoration around this movie. Hitchcock is a genius. An absolute master of filmmaking. But where the heck did that come from? And who is the main character in that movie anyway? In my opinion Hitchcock doesn’t so much resolve that story as simply put an arbitrary surprise on the end and then wrap it up with a pipe-smoking psychiatrist. I believe that Aristotle would have called this deus ex machina. This was an actor who was lowered on a mechanical platform, imitating a god (for authority) and explaining the story to the audience because the story couldn’t explain itself.
Fundamentally, if you can’t explain the story to yourself, who else will understand it?
So many of my students say, “I’ve got it all in my head, but I can’t explain it. Just let me write a script and it’ll all be clear.”
Don’t kid yourself. Nothing’s clear until it hits the page.
Creating your story is the process of creating clarity. Every movie you’ve ever loved is clear. Its story, its main character, and its value are always crystal clear. And yet, they appear to be “original” (they’re not) and they appear to be “clever and surprising” (not really) and they are said to be “subtle” (well, sort of). But when you go out afterward with your date or your friends and discuss it you will always agree on major points of that movie. You will agree on what happened (that’s the plot) and you’ll agree on what it’s about (that’s the story). That’s because everything about it is clear.
Good movies are thoughtful works of art. They have to be well thought-out because if they weren’t, then there would be a lot of money wasted. Wouldn’t it be great if you could just get out there with a camera and a cast and a crew and just mess around until you came up with something? I did that when I was in high school using an 8mm home movie camera. It was great. And then I’d get the film back from the lab and I would scratch my head, not being able to figure out what went wrong.
I didn’t have a script. I didn’t have a main character. I didn’t have a story. Fundamentally I had a lot of exposed film, but I didn’t have anything resembling a movie. That’s how I learned. Although I went on to make some fairly abstract adolescent movies in high school (hey — it was the ’60s!) I still had a script whenever I went to make my little movies. That helped me plan my movie so I could call a friend and say, “Hey, it’ll only take a couple of hours because I only need you do this part of my script.” Rather than, “Hey, we’re going to go out with my camera today and mess around and I have no idea what we’ll be doing.”
Which makes more sense?
This struggle is shared by everyone who makes a movie or tells a story. Jim Jarmusch shares it with Sidney Lumet. David Lynch shares it with Martin Scorcese.
So, even though you’re a gifted artist, you must set out to create something that is clear and must in some way do something very important. This thing that we’re all struggling to do:
It’s gotta make sense.
Your story must be coherent, cohesive, and in its own way, make its own sense. The Sixth Sense makes its own special sense according to the rules of the living afterlife. Star Wars makes sense in its own interplanetary Federation v. Empire thing. And certainly we accept everything in Gravity even though I’m not sure you can hop from space station to space station as if they were rest stops on the interstate. But the movie made sense.
Most of all, what you’re focused on as an audience (and you will be as a screenwriter) is the struggle of your character through whatever ordeal you’re putting him/her through. That’s your initial concern. That’s the first thing that will determine if your story is working:
Before this thing is over, what will this cost the character?
In The Sixth Sense, it costs him his marriage, his relationships, his life. In Star Wars Luke Skywalker must sacrifice everything, be humiliated by Yoda, lose his hand — and still do the right thing, kill his father (I really like that one!). Yet, it all makes sense.
So, one of the first things that should occur to you is what kind of ordeal you’re going to put your character through. But how do you think that up?
One thing you have in common with your audience; the quality that you are certain to share with all of them; the only predictive factor you can rely on; that one thing that you can dependably say you share with any moviegoing audience:
You’re human.
Your story will be about a human being.