Schellhardt Laura. Screenwriting for Dummies

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Chapter 11

The Nontraditional Film

In This Chapter

 Taking a look at nontraditional plot structures

 Manipulating time in your screenplay

 Making beautiful musicals

ost screenwriting books will tell you that there’s only one way to struc-

ture a film — in three acts, which follow one main character chrono-

logically forward toward a grand conclusion. It’s true that this is the most

common formula in the industry, and many successful films have been forged

upon it. It’s such a popular structure, in fact, that I dedicate my entire

Chapter 16 to the subject.

However, just as life doesn’t arrive in any one pattern, neither does art. Your

film will always have a beginning, a middle, and an end, but just because your

film about a great white shark terrorizing a resort town moves steadily for-

ward in time doesn’t mean your film in which a character relives his last five

years will follow suit. Your characters and your subject matter eventually dic-

tate how your story gets told. So while it helps to familiarize yourself with the

industry standards — and I’d certainly suggest a novice screenwriter begin

with them — I’d be the last person to tell you there’s only one way to spin a

yarn.

This chapter gives you an overview of some alternative plot structures and

provides several examples from popular cinema. I also concentrate on films

that branch away from traditional realism into the world of high style. Movie

musicals and films in which time runs some way other than forward all fall

into this category.

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Breaking with Tradition — Other Ways

to Get the Job Done

In traditional story structure, writers spend the first act introducing the char-

acters and the central conflict, the second act getting to know those charac-

ters and enhancing that conflict, and the third act forcing the characters to

face the conflict resulting in great failure or great success.

If I were to draw this structure on a chalkboard, it would look like the big hill

on a roller coaster. We start on the ground and work our way up to a great

height, gaining speed and tension as we ride, and after we’ve been pushed to

our limit, we plunge laughing or screaming back to earth again. The entirety

of a three-act screenplay works toward the moment before the fall; every-

thing that comes after the fall is wrap-up. (See Chapter 16 for more on this

structure and its proven success rate.) But before you run off and pen your

screenplay, consider the Titanic.

Everyone knows the Titanic sank. There’s no great mystery to the conclusion

of a film about the Titanic. You may want to begin that film as if the audience

doesn’t know what happens and work your way toward the tragedy, or you

may want to begin your film with the ship sinking and spend the rest of the

film showing viewers how it happened. The former version follows traditional

structure; the latter version follows cyclical structure — which is one of three

nontraditional ways to construct a screenplay:

 Cyclical structure: The movie ends where it begins. The Titanic sinks in

the first scene, we flash back to see how we get there, and we watch it

sink again at the conclusion. Cyclical films suggest the what of the story

at the onset so that audiences can concentrate on the how.

Why use this structure? You want your story to feel inevitable. You want

your audience to see a moment in the first scene and understand it by

the end. You believe that people don’t actually learn from their mistakes,

but rather keep repeating them throughout their lives.

 Parallel structure: The movie follows several equally complex plotlines

simultaneously. The Hours is a good example of a movie crafted this

way. The film follows three generations of women, all of whom are

affected by suicide. Each woman’s story is fully realized, each has its

own conflicts, its own secondary characters, its own conclusion.

However, audiences learn more about these women by comparing

their lives than they would by following each woman individually.

Virtually all Robert Altman films employ parallel structure, but Short

Cuts is the clearest example. This film follows at least five plotlines.

Occasionally, the characters weave in and out of each other’s lives, but

they’re primarily connected by location. As a result, audiences feel

they’ve experienced a day in the life of an entire neighborhood.

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 Pattern structure: The movie is comprised of many scenes that exist

independently of each other, connected only by one element. If each

scene in your story takes place in a different hotel room, as in the film

Four Rooms, you have a pattern film. The idea of a hotel room, and all

that can occur there, is the element that holds the film together. The Hal

Hartley movie Flirt is pattern script. The same events occur three times

in that film — though the locations, the time frames, and even the gen-

ders of the characters change. The plot points are the pattern. How they

occur and who they occur to differ throughout. Paris Je T’aime is simi-

lar in this regard. All 18 stories take place in Paris, and each tackles the

question of romantic love.

Sometimes pattern films feel like parallel films, but here’s the difference:

Parallel films follow a few storylines from start to finish, and occasion-

ally those storylines interact. Pattern films show you glimpses of stories,

all connected by one element. The characters in those glimpses rarely

(if ever) interact, and an audience rarely (if ever) gets more than the

glimpse.

Screenwriters aren’t always strict in their adherence to any one of these

structures. Many films have moments of cyclical structure, moments where

stories run parallel to each other, and moments where patterns emerge.

Groundhog Day is a film where the main character, played by Bill Murray,

seems trapped in a never-ending cycle of events. He relives the same day at

least five times in that film. However, he’s aware of the cycle, and the film

attempts to demonstrate what it takes for him to break it. The first scene is

therefore not the same as the last, but audiences wonder throughout if it

will be. James Cameron’s version of The Titanic is essentially a flashback.

It therefore has the feeling of a cycle script, but in reality is traditional in

design. So please take note: I offer you these formulas not to suggest you

base an entire screenplay on them (though you could), but because they’re

other ways you can tell your story.

Thinking Out of Time

Most films are linear, meaning that they move chronologically forward in

time. Even movies that employ flashbacks are essentially linear. I may pause

in the course of my day to recall the hour my child was born, but my day will

pick up again when the reverie passes.

If you’ve ever wanted to retract something you’ve said or see how life may

have panned out if only you’d stayed with that certain someone, you’re in

luck. You can do that in film, if necessary. However, before you stray from

the linear path, ask yourself why your story is better told out of sequence.

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Here are some reasons you may decide to tangle with time:

 You want to highlight a pivotal decision in your character’s life by dra-

matizing the road taken as well as the road, well, not. These films

either reveal both possible storylines simultaneously, or we live one

with the character and then live the other. Sliding Doors is an example

of such a film. Audiences follow Helen, played by Gwyneth Paltrow,

through her day twice — once in which she catches the evening train

and catches her boyfriend cheating on her, and one in which she misses

the train entirely.

 You want to trace an outcome back to its inciting event. These films

present a conclusion in the first act and work backward to reveal what

led to that conclusion. Memento is a clear example of this technique.

The film’s protagonist wants to solve his wife’s murder. Unfortunately, he

suffers from short-term memory loss and must write himself memos to

keep track of the facts. The film moves backward, note by note, until he

is forced to confront the reason his wife died. Notice that the decision

to move backward is far from arbitrary. It stems from the protagonist’s

infliction, and it methodically drives an audience toward his final,

extremely personal, revelation.

 You want to analyze an event in the way an academic analyzes his-

tory. Films structured this way feel like a slide presentation or a docu-

mentary. Audiences are given all the information surrounding an event,

but they don’t necessarily receive it in order. These stories are often nar-

rated; they pause and rewind as desired, speed through events or skip

them entirely, and provide expert testimony as needed to prove a point.

Christopher Guest’s mock-umentaries, Waiting for Guffman, Best in

Show, and A Mighty Wind, work this way. Each is a pretend documen-

tary and jumps in time and between narrators quite often. Alexander

Payne’s Election is also structured in this way: One high school teacher

pits himself against a student in the upcoming school election. They

take turns trying to justify their actions to the audience, citing some

hilarious reasoning as they go.

 You want your character to be able to retract her actions and try again.

You know the expression, “Hindsight is 20-20?” Here’s your opportunity

to allow characters to relive a moment once, twice, even three times with

renewed vision. Run Lola Run works this way. Lola has 20 minutes to

find a certain sum of money for her boyfriend, before he robs a store for

the cash. Audiences see three alternative endings to this plotline, every

variation of which is based on a tiny change in her run for the money.

So how common is cinematic time twisting? As you may have guessed from

the examples, it’s fairly common, and films that succeed here keep audiences

guessing what’ll happen next.

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Bear in mind that you can confuse an audience or lose them entirely this way

as well. If you’re unclear about portions of your plot or conflicted about your

characters’ motivations, don’t try manipulating time just yet. Wait until

you’re confident in those arenas before manipulating time at all.

Map your screenplay out as if it’s linear in design. Doing so reveals the piv-

otal events in your plot and any holes therein. Again, your story will always

essentially have three acts — a beginning, middle, and end — so it can’t hurt

to see what those acts would look like if you gave them to us chronologically.

You can always reverse the events or manipulate them after that clarification.

This tip is also useful if you plan to layer another artistic medium on top of

your story — a medium such as song perhaps.

Song and Dance: The Movie Musical

Crafting a movie musical is similar to crafting any story, with one exception:

Certain portions of these films are better told in song. Let me emphasize that

last point. Song is not simply a fun way to enhance your story; in musicals,

it’s the best way certain pieces of information can be communicated. Yes, I

know, there are any number of instances where characters in musicals simply

give us information or tell us a story in a song. That’s true, but I would argue

it doesn’t make for the most compelling musical scene.

The most successful musicals are ones in which songs are a necessity, and

characters break into them for one of the following reasons:

 They’re consumed by emotion, and words alone no longer suffice.

 They’re saying one thing, but feeling another.

 They’re thinking out loud, and music suggests their internal landscape.

Sense a pattern here? In each instance, music provides the emotional impact

of the scene. Writers rely on song to burst forth where language alone falls

short, to reveal the subtext of a scene, or to lead us into the character’s

mind. Either way, it’s working with the character to enhance a moment emo-

tionally, or it’s working against him, to reveal his true sentiments to an audi-

ence. It’s wise to consider what role music will play in your story in advance,

because it will make conversations you have with your collaborators that

much easier. Oh, yes, here’s the other part of this process that differs from

the norm: You’ll most likely be working with a lyricist and a librettist.

In film, as onstage, musical scripts generally have three collaborators: the

composer, the lyricist, and the librettist. The composer is in charge of the

music; the lyricist is in charge of the words to the songs; and the librettist is

in charge of the general story, otherwise known as the book.

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Often, these roles overlap. Stephen Sondheim wrote the music and the lyrics

for Sweeney Todd, for which Hugh Wheeler wrote the original book and John

Logan wrote the screenplay. Baz Luhrmann and Craig Pearce share credit for

the screenplay of Moulin Rouge, but the music was pulled from a variety of

different artists. Sweeney Todd was also an adaptation while Moulin Rouge

was an original piece.

A musical is simply a story with song. You’re still crafting a plot that needs to

be active, characters who require motivation, conflicts that need to be faced,

and protagonists who will fail or succeed. Music is one more element to con-

sider, and it should be a necessary addition, but the writing process is much

the same as any other.

Original musicals

Some of the most exciting original musicals include Moulin Rouge, Julie

Taymor’s Across The Universe, Singin’ in the Rain, Meet Me in St. Louis,

The Wizard of Oz, and virtually every animated Disney film to date. High

School Musical may be the most successful original musical to date. It began

as a Disney television movie in 2006, but a sequel soon followed, as well as a

successful stage-musical. A quick glance through these examples suggests

three distinct formulas for original pieces:

 An original book with acquired music

 An adapted book with original music and lyrics

 An original book with original music and lyrics

Moulin Rouge and Across the Universe take songs from popular artists and

craft them into a script. Moulin Rouge, the story of a famous showgirl and

her forbidden love affair with a young composer, includes songs by Elton

John, David Bowie, and Madonna. The entire plot of Across The Universe

was constructed around music from The Beatles. Taymor uses their songs

to walk through history, specifically the drafting of unwilling youth into the

Vietnam War. If you’re interested in writing a musical, but aren’t a composer

yourself, consider which songwriters interest you and why. You may be able

to construct an idea for a film around those artists. Because rights are

involved here, you’ll want to approach someone with the idea before writing

the screenplay, but you can sell a story this way.

The Wizard of Oz and Disney’s animated films follow the second formula.

The writers chose fictional material, adapted it into a screenplay, and collab-

orated with composers and lyricists for the music. This route is perhaps

easier to follow for the novice screenwriter. First, the story’s already there for

the taking. You have to figure out how to transfer it to film, but you’re not

responsible for devising all the plot points yourself. Second, it’s often easier

to see where to place songs when looking at someone else’s material. Finally,

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it’s easier to market these musicals because the primary material is usually

pulled from popular literature. And anything that’s easier to market is easier

to sell, which is good news for the screenwriter.

The third formula is the rarest of the three, in large part because it requires

the most intense collaborations. It’s also the one most likely to fail in process

or at the box office, because all the material is original, and several artists are

working on the product simultaneously. High School Musical, Singin’ in the

Rain, and Meet Me in St. Louis are examples of this form. All three were

immediate hits, but they were created by artists who had worked together

before in studios that had past experience with the form. In other words, they

had a lot of help, and they spoke the same creative language. If you decide to

go this route, more power to you. Make sure that you and your collaborators

have agreed on which story you’re writing and have a similar aesthetic for

the piece in mind.

Musical adaptations

Adapting a musical is by far the more common way to write one. Sweeney

Todd, Chicago, The Producers, Hairspray, Mamma Mia!, Grease, Annie —

the list of successful musical adaptations is endless. I talk in detail about

adapting one medium into another in Chapter 18, but here are a few things

to consider if you’re interested in this type of musical:

 Know the pros and cons of the original medium. If your primary source

was a Broadway show, one set-may serve several locations, or a chorus

of people play multiple roles, or grand song and dance numbers, all of

which need to be altered to make sense on-screen. Know which parts of

the original medium will be a help to you in this endeavor, and which

will be a hindrance.

 Know which characters you want to keep, and which you can lose.

You may convert an entire chorus into one on-screen role. The original

piece may have two villains while your film may have only one. You may

eliminate entire secondary characters in fiction so that audiences can

concentrate on the main story in the two hours allotted them. However

you do it, make sure that you know which characters interest you, and

which get in the way.

 Be familiar enough with the original plot to know which three to five

events will become the skeleton of your film. You don’t need to use

more than that, though many writers do. If you can narrow your focus

down to five events, you can rearrange their order until the screenplay

version reveals itself to you.

 Let the music be your guide. You don’t need to script every scene in

the original if you’ve accurately captured the quality of the show. The

Broadway version of Sweeney Todd, for example, begins with a chorus

of ghosts telling us about the life of the protagonist. It then deposits us

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on the boat, which carries Sweeney himself back to London. The film

version skips that introductory song and opens with the boat. This alter-

ation works because the film becomes the tale of Sweeney Todd; we

don’t need a choral rendition of the plot in advance.

 Allow the music to tell you what that quality of the film should be. The

dark corruption of Chicago stands in stark contrast to the technicolor

mania of Grease, not simply because the subject matter demands it. The

music conveys that difference before any words are even spoken.

In order to adapt material into a musical, you must first own the rights. I go

over the process of acquiring rights in Chapter 18, but it’s important to con-

sider it in advance. If you’re adapting a stage musical for the screen (as in

Chicago or Grease), you’ll need control of the primary source. If you have an

original story but would like to enhance it with songs by contemporary

artists (as in Moulin Rouge), you’ll need to acquire rights for each song.

While the process can be a complicated one, consider it now. You don’t want

to script a musical you won’t be legally allowed to market.

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Musical techniques for nonmusical projects

Whether you’re writing a musical or not, con-

sidering its structure may help craft the project

you are working on. Here are three techniques

I borrow from musicals on a regular basis when

writing screenplays with songs or without:

 Write to a soundtrack. Find songs that

reflect the pace and feel of your larger

scenes and write them with that song play-

ing in the background. You won’t include

these songs in those scenes, necessarily,

but often the quality of each one finds its

way into your work as you write.

 Choose musical themes for your charac-

ters. In musicals, each character is often

underscored with their own riff. This choice

is meant to immediately convey personality

and intention. You should know what your

characters themes would be, whether you

use them in the script or not.

 Consider crafting any grand activity, long

speech, or extended silence in the same

way you’d write a song. Each moment is its

own story, and each moment can’t be con-

veyed any other way. The best songs are

the ones characters have no choice but to

sing. Your nonsung moments should feel the

same way.

 Borrow the traditions. Musicals are tradi-

tionally broken down into male and female

solos, boy numbers and girl numbers, dance

breaks, the show-stopping song, choral

moments, and reprises. Does your script

have this variety? Do you include private

moments for the lead roles? Are they

balanced out with crowd scenes? Do you

have sequences of pure activity and story-

stopping speeches?

Just because most musicals structure them-

selves a certain way, doesn’t mean you can’t

use the techniques to inspire your high-octane

political thriller or your off-beat romantic

comedy. Every form teaches you something

about the others.

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Chapter 12

Maintaining an Audience’s Trust

In This Chapter

 Remaining true to an audience and the work

 Tackling difficult material with integrity

 Understanding audience expectations

inema is fast becoming a medium in which any visual effect is both tech-

nologically and financially possible. Its audience also extends beyond

that of other mediums, reaching millions of people every year. These ele-

ments in combination make film an incredibly exciting art form but a poten-

tially dangerous one as well.

Why dangerous? Perhaps you’ve heard the saying “With power comes

responsibility” or a variation of it. Nowhere is that sentiment more applicable

than in film, and the responsibility falls to the screenwriter first. Every time

you begin a project, the resulting work may affect children, adolescents, and

adults from differing cultures and educational backgrounds. What you write

may be seen, heard, and, quite possibly, believed by those viewers. And your

name’s on the material.

So before you toss a script out there, take another look through it. Have you

written a responsible script? If you’re not sure, read this chapter, which

explores what a writer’s duties may or may not be and how to shape a work

so that it remains true to the subject and to its audience.

Screenwriting and Ethics

Because film is so accessible, so much like a window to the world, it’s easy to

assume that screenwriters should strive above all to create the illusion of real-

ity. In other words, the more real the action appears, the more successful the

script seems to be. Yet in truth, the screenwriter’s objective isn’t always simply

to mirror reality, nor should it be. The screenwriter’s job isn’t to re-create life

but to design it. The difference between these tasks is subtle but vast.

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