Create Your Screenplay

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Understand the Elements of Your Process
Use the following seven--functions, let's call them--to lure your
basic story idea forth from its hiding place and develop it a bit
so you can have a look at it.

The time to use this phase of the creating process is during the
gestational embryonic stage when you feel you hardly know
anything, or don't know enough, about your own idea. The
following is what you do:

Trap the idea:

FOLLOWING AN ANALYTICAL FORMULA--A RECIPE FOR
FRUSTRATION AND FAILURE

by
Barry Pearson

It would be great to have a recipe or formula for writing a
successful screenplay, but the complexity of character
relationships and the intricate weave of change necessary
to create a good movie story makes formulas and recipes
virtually useless, if not downright deadening.

Formulas, act structures, plot points, turning points,
blueprints, paradigms, zig-zag charts and rules are the
Anti-Imaginers and Anti-Creators of the writing process.

Many of the formulas and systems that are "out there"
in the form of books and software and courses and
workshops attempt to logically analyze and describe the
intricate nature of movie stories and reduce them to a
paradigm or a map or a structure blueprint, or some other
connect-the-dots pattern.

It makes no difference whether the formula, paradigm,
theory, system, act structure, journey map, mythological
template, or whatever it is called, is sincere or bogus,
accurate or inaccurate, useful or useless. If a writer
depends on this type of analytical formula to write a
screenplay, the strong likelihood is that the writer will fail.

To describe it in a metaphor, it would be like a musician
depending on the mathematics of music to write a hit song.

If the writer depends on an analytical formula, chances are,
the writer will fail.

Successful screenplays, like successful songs, didn't become
successful because the writer used a certain formula or
template or structure. Screenplays, like songs, succeed
because the writer used his or her Imagination and
creativity, skillfully and powerfully.

Imagination and creativity is where the writing power and
writing success is. That's the Good News, because they are
elements that you, the writer, have total control over.

Imagination, and creativity are components of the screenplay
that can be learned by studying what you do when you create.

That's why Create Your Screenplay emphasizes your process,
and teaches you how you need to conduct that process in order
to write a successful screenplay. --©BP

"Yesterday, Larry Fynch, Sandra Chan, and Bernard Savoie became
overnight millionaires. In these days of 'easy millionaires' that's
not necessarily extraordinary. What is unusual is that all three
are under 19 years of age, and they didn't win the lottery.

"Fynch, Chan, and Savoie are the owners of Stockpikk.com, an
internet site at which prospective investors can log onto a search
engine that picks stocks to invest in. "The three youthful
entrepreneurs began developing their securities-based search
engine as a school project at Eisenhower High School in Trout Falls,
Nebraska."

Why? Well, to illustrate two unconnected ideas about screenwriting.
One idea is a futurist idea. The other is a technical tip about writing
craft.

First, the futurist idea. The bogus "news report" above isn't too far
from reality. We've all seen the pictures and read the accounts of
penurious computer wizards and entrepreneurs who made millions
and even billions of dollars starting with very few assets other than
their internet connection and a wise idea. Why does the world put
extravagant value on the services of these people?

I believe it's because these "instant millionaires" are part of a
completely new phenomenon: the Ascendancy of the Original Idea.

Internet dreamers have always claimed that the internet would
democratize the world. Yes. Probably. But it's also possible that
the Cyberspace Age will create a new elite. The Original Idea elite.
And this new elite will be rewarded beyond anyone's 20th Century
imagination.

It's already begun with real life people not so much different from
Larry, Sandra, and Bernard. Websiters everywhere have quickly
learned the value of selling ideas and information. So what do artists
in general, and writers in particular, have to sell? Original ideas,
of course. Daydreams. Tale spinning. The product of their "what-ifs."
And those who produce original ideas in any form will benefit from
the explosion of demand for the commodity they produce.

The Ascendency of the Original Idea means that even screenwriters
will eventually get respect.

Well, maybe that's going a bit too far. I should know better than to
make sweeping predictions. A wise old producer once commented
skeptically when I made a sunny prediction about future of the show
he was working on. He said, "Yeah, from your lips to God's ears."
As I recall, the good fortune I glibly forecast materialized as a
mixture of good and bad.

Which leads me to admit that we screenwriters can probably hope
for no more than a mixture of, say, respect and benign indifference.

The Ascendency of the Original Idea, on the other hand, is a sure bet.
Because of the Internet.

Authors of books for example, are not any longer at the total mercy of
presses, paper, ink, and huge publishing and distributing infrastructures.
E-publishing has already put the tools of publishing in the hands of
authors, and has put the worldwide market as close as a keystroke.

One of the biggest selling authors of all time, Stephen King, is a convert.
His latest book is available *only* on the internet. For film and television
writers, this type of revolution is still in the future, but it's not a mirage
or a fantasy. It's a technological certainty.

Someday soon, a couple of high-school kids will create a story on film or
tape, load it on a PC, advertise and distribute it over the Net, and------?

Make a million dollars? Become the next Blair Witch phenomenon?
Scare the hell out of Jack Valenti?

My second topic, more earthbound, more practical, is a writing tip
about creating the illusion of truth. (I regret to say, this idea is not
original with me. I was lucky enough to learn it early from another
writer/producer who hired me to write half-hour daytime dramas
for him.)

The story at the beginning of this article about the three youthful
millionaires attempts to create an illusion of truth. Whatever success
I had in creating that illusion rests on the technique of selecting
and using specific detail: the names and age of the characters, the
name of their company, the name of their high school and town.

(To the best of my knowledge there is no Trout Falls, Nebraska, but
there is an Eisenhower High School in Trout Falls. I know that because
I put it there. It looks a little like the High School I used to go to).

I'm not suggesting you pepper your screenplays with proper names.
I'm suggesting that you use detail to create the illusion of truth in
all its dimensions. The carefully selected location, the precise description
of clothing, the individual dialog quirk, the exact type of prop that
characterizes its owner -- these types of vivid specifics build the truth
of a good story.

And I'm betting that good stories will rule in the coming era of the
Ascendancy of the Idea. ©BP

A week and a half ago I happened to listen to a radio interview with Gail
Sheehy, who is currently on tour touting her new book about Hillary
Clinton. Sheehy made a comment concerning the relationship between
Hillary and Bill that has dogged me ever since.

But not for any obvious reasons. In fact the comment, on its surface,
appears banal. What Sheehy said about America's first couple was,
"They know everything there is to know about each other." I got to
thinking, no wonder there's no drama in the White House these days.
Hillary and Bill "know everything there is to know about each other,"
and the public knows everything there is to know about them.

If Bill and Hillary were a movie, the country would want to get out of
the theater and go home. Two characters who know everything about
each other: the worst thing for a story. Proven by the fact that successful
screenwriters typically begin with the opposite situation. They create
two very UNLIKE characters at the center of their story, a Hero and a
Bonding Character, who know very little about each other.

Wouldn't you think that Bill, caught "in flagrante delicto," ought to be
good dramatic fodder when his wife finds out? Not on the Bill and Hillary
show. Because Hillary knows that Bill always forgets to get rid of the
trash. She's expecting it. And so is the audience.

But there has to be a story there somewhere, doesn't there? Sure. The
story of Bill and Hillary happened when they knew nothing about each
other. When they first met. When through some event (and I'm not sure
what that might have been) they were forced together.

As fascinated as I am by Presidential power, and marital infidelity, the
thing that fascinates me more is the question, what is a story? "The King
died, and then the Queen died." That's not a story, I'm told. But "The King
died, and then the Queen, overcome by her grief, died of a broken heart."

That's a story. An old example. And one that suggests that a story needs
two essential elements: events related by cause, and a situation that
evokes emotion.

Some people vow that a story is always a conflict between Good and Evil.
Others swear that the paradigm is David and Goliath. Still others claim
that every story is a love story, or a journey, or a reworking of a myth,
etc., etc. There are probably hundreds, maybe thousands, of views of
what constitutes a story. Perhaps they all possess a part of the truth.

This much I know. Most screenwriters build their stories around two unlike
characters. The writer creates a desire in the audience to see these
characters "get together" in some way, which will happen at the end of
the movie, usually (the writer hopes) in an unsuspected manner.

Sometimes the two characters marry, sometimes one defeats or overcomes
the other, sometimes they agree to part--there are thousands of variations,
but, unlike Bill and Hillary, the major characters never start out "knowing
everything there is to know about each other." You don't have to look too
far to find the real life screen story in the years of the Clinton administration.

Two unlike characters? Well see, there's this President, a little bit roguish,
ladies' man, plays fast and loose with the truth, and then there's this
Prosecutor, by the name of Starr, religious guy, bit of a zealot. These
two guys are worlds apart temperamentally, and morally. They know
squat about each other, really, and the Prosecutor's out to put this President
in the tank...well, you COULD write the story, except that CNN already got
to it. Great ratings, so I'm told.

Luigi Pirandello, the brilliant Italian dramatist, wrote a play called,
"Six Characters in Search of an Author." In our real life screen story it seems
that we're left with One Character in Search of an Author: Hillary Clinton.
She's a hero-type, looking for a Bonding Character--maybe one that could
put her in the White House. Now that's a story.

Picture this: it's a good many years ago, and I'm sitting at the bar in the
Beverly Hills Hotel with the Production Manager of the movie I'm rewriting
at the time (even though the movie is already shooting).

This was in the days when wannabe producers hired bellhops to walk around
the BHH Breakfast Room paging them, just for the optics of looking like
they were still hot, still cooking with one deal on top of the other. Anyway,
I foolishly commented to the P.M. that I LIKED Hollywood: the excitement,
the high rollers, the parties, and I REALLY liked being employed to write
movies.

My Production Manager scowled over the top of his beer and snarled that
he hated Hollywood. Why, I asked. There was a pause, and then he growled
one word in a tone that I'll never forget. "Mendacity," he said.

Lies. Duplicity. Fraud. Or in Winston Churchill's words, "terminological
inexactitude."

Whatever you call it, mendacity is a blowtorch under the seat of the
emotions, and emotions are the currency of drama, the human reaction
we writers struggle to invoke. Maybe we should strive to design our
scripts around concepts of lies and deceit.

Mendacity is not a tool much spoken of among the gurus who train writers,
but it's an element worth bending your mind to if you're a storyteller.

Think of the movie stories you know. Pick successful but not blockbuster or
Oscar-sweep movies. Example: two widely separated Dustin Hoffman
successes, "The Graduate," in which Ben (Hoffman) beds the wife of his
father's best friend, and then falls in love with her daughter, and "Tootsie,"
in which Michael (Hoffman) masquerades as a woman in order to nail an
acting job, then falls in love with the female star of the show. Both films
are energized by the lie the hero is living. In fact, the lie, the fraud, is
the engine of both movies.

Look at the movie "Vertigo," in which Alfred Hitchcock layers on trickery
and deceit with a trowel. "Vertigo" is still being used as a model by writers
and speakers on the art and craft of the screenplay.

No doubt that Mendacity has story power. Could it be that, as writers,
we've overlooked the "secret" to writing screenplays? I don't know. Maybe.
Personally, I'm not a seeker for the Holy Grail of screenplay writing--the
one principle, one "trick", one formula, one paradigm, one "structure" that
will open the gilded gates to writer heaven.

It's tempting, though, isn't it? When you're struggling with a concept that
feels flat, when you've created a character that won't come alive, when
you're staring a hole in the wall hungering for a Mach 3 plot that will paste
an exec to the chair. I must say I'm fascinated. I'm mendacity-curious.

Especially since the release of "The Insider," written by Eric Roth and
Michael Mann from an article by Marie Brenner ("The Man Who Knew
Too Much"). Stylistically ground-breaking, assiduously unsentimental,
"The Insider" dissects everyday corruption with rat-terrier tenacity.

The movie contains an iconic shot in which Tobacco barons stand and
swear their "belief" that nicotine is not addictive. The shot is repeated
throughout the story like an mantra of evil, until we're convinced that
lies themselves, and not deeds, are the ultimate evil.

Everything in the movie comes to be about Mendacity. The most fiery,
passionate exchange occurs when Lowell Bergman (Al Pacino) rages again
and again at Jeffrey Wigand (Russell Crowe), "I NEVER LIED TO YOU!"

The punch of that scene alone could tempt us to try using Mendacity as a
writing tool, a creative principle. But we better be careful. Playing with
Mendacity has its consequences.

What's the consequence now shadowing the makers of "The Insider?" This
fine, intellectual, passionate, courageous, crusading movie? The ironic
consequence is that its creators can not escape being judged by the standards
of their own creation.

The Word is out. For example, the scene between Mike Wallace and Lowell
Bergman in the hotel room? Never happened, according to Wallace.
The thread about Bergman engineering the Wall Street Journal to debunk
the lies about Wigand? Never happened, according to the Wall Street Journal.
The plot turn that has Bergman manipulating the pivotal Mississippi lawsuit?
Didn't happen. Etc., etc.

But if the makers of "The Insider" succumbed to the lure of mendacity
themselves, it may not matter. Why? Because they are, after all, artists,
who are paid to make things up--aren't they?

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MAKING MOVIES WITHOUT FILM

by
Barry Pearson

Maybe you've worked on, or visited, movie sets or locations. Try to imagine
what you'd feel like if you were transported magically to a movie set or
location in the late 30's or early 40's. My guess is you'd probably feel
pretty much at home.

What? In the 30's? The 40's? That's ancient history.

Not in the movie production business. Because, fundamentally, movies
today are made the same way they were over 50 years ago. Heavy
cameras. Huge lights. Armies of workers. And trucks. And trailers.
Lots and lots of trucks and trailers.

What does that mean for us screenwriters and other movie artists? It
means we can't work competitively at our craft unless somebody
(usually some corporation) puts up a lot of money. Because the
technology of movie making hasn't changed since the early days of
the industry.

But change is out there. On the leading edges somewhere. People
are inventing. Innovating. Working in garages somewhere like
Steven Jobs and Steven Wozniak (remember them?) building
their Apple II in '76.

Before we climb out to the leading edges, a little personal history.

Back in the late eighties, before the word "digital" was on the lips
of every four-year-old in North America, I was hired to produce
and story edit 25 episodes of a dramatic anthology series created
by the Landsburg Company in Hollywood.

The shows were individual stories with different casts and independent
storylines, and were all shot on location just like little movies. Only
we didn't get to use any film. We shot with two (state-of-the-art at
that time) news cameras and a minimal crew. Instead of lots and
ots of trucks and trailers, we rode around in vans and midget RV's.

We were lucky enough to sign talented actors and directors, we told
our stories well, and the product aired all over North America, and
who knows where else.

The point? Well, there are two points, actually.

Number one: because of the two cameras and the lightness of the
crew and equipment, we were able to shoot the stories in one-quarter
the time it would have taken using a single film camera.

Now, it shouldn't take a whirl with calculus to figure out that we shot
the productions for 25% of what they would have cost if they had been
produced on film.

Imagine how the movie industry would change if movies became
4 times cheaper to produce.

Oh, what's point two?

Number two: the productions didn't LOOK like film. They were videotape.
They looked like videotape. (They also weren't "projectable" in a movie
theatre as some videotaped productions are today, but that's another
techie story).

So imagine how the movie industry would change if whole movies could
be shot on tape. (Well, they sort-of can, but that's also another story,
and maybe "the truth is also out there" about that one).

Which brings me back to the reality of today. I see change and revolution
ahead. Perhaps we're on the cusp of a technological "critical mass" that will
create a sea-change in the whole business of telling movie stories--which
is what the purpose of movies comes down to--storytelling.

Perhaps we saw a blip on the screen this year, when the much ballyhooed,
shot digitally, "Blair Witch Project" broomed into theaters near all of us.

This train of thought does have a caboose.

Are digital film makers at the leading edges of a revolution in the movie
making business? Who knows for sure? But the truth is out there.

Somewhere.©BP

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SCREENPLAY STRUCTURE--A QUICK REFERENCE

by
Barry Pearson

BONDING EVENT - the event, sequence of action, that brings the Hero and
the Bonding Character into contact and into a relationship with each other.

LOCKING EVENT - the event, sequence of action, that radically alters the
nature of the Hero/Bonding Character relationship, so that it becomes very
difficult for them to disengage from each other.

ESCALATING EVENT - the event, sequence of action, that dramatically
raises the stakes in the Hero/Bonding Character relationship. In my
seminar, I tell the writers not to be a "slave to the page count."

That said, almost every successful screenplay accomplishes typical
developments in a specific order, which just happen to fall approximately
on or near certain pages (assuming you're using standard screenplay
formatting). For the purposes of this article, I'm assuming a 100 page
screenplay. Adjust the approximate page counts if your script is longer.
The page numbers are only meant to be a rough guide, anyway.

The Guiding Principle - almost every screen story is MAINLY ABOUT ONLY
TWO CHARACTERS.

One of these is the HERO, the other is the second most dominant character,
whom I call The BONDING CHARACTER.

To oversimplify:

SETUP:
In the first 10 pages one of these two characters will be introduced and
detailed. Not all movies begin with the Hero. Many begin with the Bonding
Character.

Sometimes this Bonding Character is the villain, or the monster, or the
potential love-interest.

BONDING EVENT:
Somewhere between pages 9 and 18 roughly, an event will occur which
brings the Hero into contact and interaction with the Bonding Character.
This event I call the BONDING EVENT.

For example, in "Witness" the Bonding Event is a murder witnessed by
the son of Rachel Lapp (Bonding Character, played by Kelly McGillis).

This event brings Rachel into contact with John Book (the Hero, played by
Harrison Ford).

THE OPPOSING/ATTACKING FORCE.
It is important to understand that the Bonding Event is typically the
culmination of a sequence of backstory events set in motion and
propelled by the evil or negative force in the story, which I call the
Opposing/Attacking Force.

This force can be a human villain, a monster or alien, a force of nature, a
cartel of evil persons -- in other words the total combination of outside
forces that the Hero has to contend with in your story..

LOCKING EVENT:
Following the Bonding Event there are a series of scenes which detail
the developing relationship between the Hero and the Bonding Character.
These scenes lead up to a second important event, the LOCKING EVENT.

This is the second major event in your screen story. It introduces a turn of circumstances that alters the relationship between the two major characters,
so that they cannot easily disengage from each other. Their desires and
their situation change in a way that forces them to stay in contact with
each other.

This applies equally to two central characters who have a hero/villain relationship(Sleeping with the Enemy, Alien), as to characters who have
a hero/ally relationship (Witness, Terminator), or a hero/love-interest
relationship (When Harry Met Sally).

This Locking Event occurs somewhere between pages 20 to 35.

ESCALATING EVENT:
Following the Locking Event there is a development that raises the
stakes for the Hero and Bonding Character, the ESCALATING EVENT.
Often this development is one which raises matters to a life-and-death
issue. This Escalating Event occurs somewhere between pages 40 to 55.

SENDING YOUR HERO TO HELL:
Following the Escalating Event there is a sequence of developments
which comprise the portion of the script wherein the Hero tries to
accommodate, adjust to, and escape from the situation of jeopardy in
which he or she finds himself or herself.

Until a moment arrives when the Hero is in such a hellish situation that
he or she starts to go on the offensive and fight back. In essence, the
Hero is driven to state of mind like Peter Finch in Network who yells,
"I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more!"

This sequence typically occupies the pages from 60 to 75 or thereabouts.

THE PLAN THAT FAILS.
Next there is a sequence of scenes in which the Hero plans to defeat
the forces opposing him. The Hero put a plan into motion and locks horns
with the opposing force or forces in an effort to defeat them. This is the
"plan-that-fails" segment of the script. This sequence will fall somewhere
around pages 75 to 85. (Again, I caution you not to be a slave to the page
count. Use page numbers very approximately).

At this point, I should mention the issue of how much screen time you
should be spending on each aspect of the storyline. Obviously if you find
your Hero being "mad as hell" at page 45, your script is out of whack.

As a sidebar, in the scripts that I see from writers, a common weakness
is that the writer has skipped either the Locking Event or the Escalating Event.
That error will throw the whole shape of the story out of balance.

THE HIDDEN WEAKNESS.
When the Hero's plan has failed and he or she looks to be utterly, finally
defeated, there is a sequence in which he or she discovers what appears to
be a hidden weakness in the opposing force or forces. This of course is a
weakness that you the writer built in when you created the Opposing/Attacking
force of your story.

THE PLAN THAT SUCCEEDS.
This revelation (when the Hero has discovered the hidden weakness of
the opposing forces) initiates the "plan-that-succeeds."

The ensuing sequence -- the one in which the Hero battles and defeats
the opposition - occupies pages 85 to 95 approximately.

THE WIN AND THE PRIZE
Following the Hero's victory, there is a final sequence in which the writer
dramatizes the Hero's new status and situation, and allows the audience
to vicariously savor the Hero's victory, even if it is bittersweet, which it
often is.

That covers pages 95-100 approximately. A parting note: You would do
well to analyze a number of your favorite movies to see if you can recognize
this structure. Try to study the nature of the features I have outlined so
that you can apply them to your own work. There is a teeming variety in the
way writers have used this typical structure, and it does not always jump
out at you when you watch a movie purely for enjoyment.

Send a blank email to:
.cys@fastfacts.net
and find out
.HOW TO BEAT THE SECRET TESTS AND
UNOFFICIAL SCREENINGS THAT READERS USE
TO REJECT YOUR SCREENPLAY
.(P.S. You'll also get a free subscription to the
CREATE YOUR SCREENPLAY Newsletter)