Huggin' Kissinger

Films I Saw on the Plane

2010-10-18T21:56:00.005+11:00

I'm going to take another stab at this blogging thing. I promise neither quality nor frequency.

Tonight's exercise is sharing thoughts I had on the films that played on the plane during my recent flights to/from London. Yes, let's!

These are in no particular order.

Taken

So it turns out that Liam Neeson makes a pretty convincing action anti-hero. Who knew? Now, I know that I'm a little bit late to the party on this one. Everyone saw Taken last year and everyone has already thought "wow, that was actually a bit not-shit". Well I wasn't there then! I didn't know! And it turns out that Taken is, indeed, actually a bit not-shit.

Plot: Kidnappers take girl. Father goes after kidnappers. And that's it. Neeson, however, is a good enough actor to take that fairly cliched and bare-bones plot and make us care about what happens. And director Pierre Morel, to his credit, has enough style and pace to make the whole thing a pretty cracking ride. Oh, yes.

The A-Team

Then, there was... this.

Hiding somewhere within The A-Team is the ghost of a good movie. Not a great one, necessarily, but certainly a fun way to spend two hours on a plane. It's there in sequences like the one in which the team throw themselves out of a plane while trapped inside a tank, then start firing at planes while the falling through mid-air and using the tank's gun to propel themselves towards a lake. Now, that doesn't make any goddamned sense, but it's kind of thrilling to watch.

The humour and energy present in those moments, though, is lost beneath a muddled plot and - most disappointingly - a confused and troubling morality. The character of BA Baracus (played by some wrestler or some shit) gets out of prison partway through the film and announces that he's taken a vow of non-violence. This vow is then tested and mocked for the remainder of the film, until it's "overcome" with a moment of brutality, restoring the "hero" to his former "glory". This film kind of left a bad taste in my mouth.

Cyrus

Man, was this a good film. Cyrus comes from the Duplass brothers, who specialise in getting actors to improvise to cover up the fact that they can't be fucked writing dialogue (or something). On this one they had John C Reilly, Marisa Tomei, Jonah Hill and Catherine Keener (and Matt Walsh! MATT F'ING WALSH!) lending their considerable charisma to a story about a dude (Reilly) who meets a lady (Tomei) who has a weird son (Hill) and awkwardness ensues.

Just a well acted character piece with some good laughs. Nothin' wrong with that.

Cyrus is most notable for being the first film to really convince me that Jonah Hill can act. He's obviously an energetic and funny performer, but in films like Superbad and Knocked Up he's played variations on "foul-mouthed fat guy". In Cyrus he gives a straight up well-rounded dramatic performance, and a good one at that. Well played, Hill. Well played.

Also: Bonus points for casting Matt Walsh in a fairly significant role.

Knight and Day

The most pleasant surprise of the whole bunch, and a good example of the benefits of low expectations.

I am largely apathetic about Tom Cruise and Cameron Diaz. I don't particularly love or hate either of them, and both have appeared in as many films I've liked as ones I haven't. Coupled with a pretty generic trailer, this fact meant that I was fully prepared to let Knight and Day pass me by while I lower my eyes slightly, like a charity worker who's just that little bit TOO forceful.

So I was surprised to find that Knight and Day was a fun bit of action-comedy-romance, keeping itself going with some snappy one-liners, some dynamic action sequences, a wink and a smile. This is the film that The A-Team tried to be, and it made it look easy.

Predators

There's some badasses on some planet with some badder-asses. Most players on both sides die. Adrien Brody gets to act tough, Topher Grace gets to pretend that there's a twist to his character, Lawrence Fishburne gets to deliver some exposition.

There are some well-done hunting sequences and all, but the whole exercise feels a little unnecessary. Like the studio all of a sudden remembered they had a franchise that may still turn a profit and cobbled something together out of some kid's fan fiction (which is probably exactly what happened).

Clash of the Titans

Fuck this movie. Seriously.

Date Night

I barely remember watching this. I mean, I must have, 'cause I remember thinking "I like Fey and Carell, sure, I'll watch that", then I remember the food cart coming past, which indicats that some time passed. But the whole thing is like a foggy dream. Like a conversation that you overhear but then tune out as it's not very interesting.

There were some jokes, but they were neither funny nor painfully unfunny. There were some action sequences, which were coherent, I guess. Fey and Carell had some kind of low-key chemistry.

Seriously. I'm trying to muster up some kind of opinion on this movie one way or the other, and I'm coming up empty. In fact, the only reason I know this movie even exists is that one of the buses in my neighbourhood still has an ad for it on the side. And every time I see that ad, I'm reminded of an hour and a half of my life where I could have been doing something interesting, but at least I wasn't watching fucking Clash of the Titans.

Kick Ass

This film is insane. Not in a bad way, but not necessarily in a great way, either. It certainly has its own unique tone, for which it should be commended. But I can't quite figure out what they were trying to do, or whether or not they were even clear on it themselves.

The film opens as if it's going to present the story of a regular guy who decides to become a vigilante. Okay, fine. That's a premise I'm willing to get on board with. Then the "regular guy" suddenly gets super powers (low-level ones, but still), and the shit goes totally mental.

I think I realised this film had identity issues during Big Daddy (Nicolas Cage)'s monologue; it was a more interesting story than anything that had come before it in the film. Why, then, were we spending time with all this other shit?

Still, some of the action looked great, Hit Girl was a fun character, and Nicolas Cage was more entertaining than he's been in years. So not entirely without merit.

Cold Souls

An intriguing (if Charlie Kaufman-esque) premise - actor Paul Giamatti (played by actor Paul Giamatti. He nails it) gets his soul removed to aid in his performance as Uncle Vanya, but can't get it back before it's stolen by smugglers - and a great central performance make this film compelling, but it feels dry. It lacks the spark of humour found in conceptually similar work (see: The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind) and the plot involving the soul smugglers was surprisingly (and somewhat disappointingly) routine. Good, but not great.

Brevity is the Soul of... (etc.)

2009-10-26T14:22:00.003+11:00

A quick one:

Nobody speaks using the longest or most involved wording they can think of. Almost everyone will choose the short way of expressing something.

That is, "I have a suspicion that (blank)" is the same as "I suspect that (blank)", but 99 people out of a hundred would use the latter. So, if you're shooting for natural sounding dialogue (obviously, when writing something more stylised - think David Milch and Deadwood - this doesn't really apply), you should write accordingly.

There are exceptions, of course. But if you do decide to use a longer or more complex phrasing, that's saying something specific about your character (Sorkin can get away with it in The West Wing because he's writing about speechwriters and politicians, for example), so think long and hard before you do it.

And yes, anyone who's read my writing knows that this is possibly the most hypocritical thing I could write (I do loves me some overdone dialogue). But thinking about it, typing it down and (hopefully) getting feedback is one way for me to address the issue; this blog is as much to help me as anyone else.

Movie Review: 500 Days of Summer

2009-10-21T18:53:00.005+11:00

My expectations for 500 Days of Summer, based on online reviews, were high. Perhaps unfairly so, as nothing can kill one's enjoyment of a film more than high expectations. The film gathered a lot of positive buzz in the lead-up to its Australian release date, to the point where I was expecting something intelligent, deep and thoroughly unconventional. What I got was definitely intelligent and somewhat deeper than the average romantic comedy, but ultimately a lot more conventional than its indie clothing would have you believe.

The film centres around Tom Hansen, played by Joseph Gordon Levitt (when will I hear his name and not think "Ha! It's Tommy from 3rd Rock From the Sun!"? I suspect never). Tom is a hopeless romantic who believes that one day he'll meet a girl who's just right for him. He falls for Summer Finn (Zooey Deschanel - super adorable and cute and when oh when will she be mine?), who is firmly against the idea of falling in love. Thus, conflict!

This film - more than any other I've seen recently - is one by, for and about indie hipster kids. There's no way around it. The main character's wardrobe consists entirely of variations on rumpled shirt/skinny tie/sweatervest or cardigan, the characters are often name-checking bands like The Smiths, the Pixies and Belle & Sebastian, and they bond at a karaoke function, which is an activity so lame that it's hilariously ironic. If you find that sort of thing unnecessarily and/or annoyingly twee, then this movie may not be for you. I was fine with it, finding that it gave the film a certain verisimilitude. Like it or not, there are indie hipsters in the world and they do fall in love. Might as well write movies about them.

The film's central conceit - and the reason for it having earned a reputation as being unconventional - is that it's told out of order. The title refers to a literal 500 days that our characters spend in each others' lives, and a flipping calendar at the beginning of each scene lets us know where in the timeline we are. The idea is a good one, and leads to some very effective sequences. For example, a fun-filled Ikea trip to early in the relationship is contrasted against a much more awkward one later in the relationship. It's a clever way of telling the audience exactly how far this relationship has come, conveying a lot of information in a very short space of time using very simple imagery. In short, it's good filmmaking.

A device, however, is not a plot, and the question raised by this technique is the same that's raised every time a film opts for non-linear storytelling: If we took all the scenes apart and rearranged them into chronological order, would they still be compelling? In other words, is the story worth all the effort that's being expended to tell it?

In the case of 500 Days of Summer, the answer is... sort of. Remove the non-linear device and the indie-rock trappings, and we're left with a fairly stock-standard romantic comedy. Boy meets girl, they experience zany antics and angst-filled conflict, boy loses girl, boy attempts to win girl back.

This, in and of itself, is no bad thing. A well done romantic comedy - and this is one - can be a very satisfying experience. But falling into such a well-worn category as the Romantic Comedy also means running the risk of falling victim to that genre's weaknesses, and 500 Days of Summer contains one of the biggest: The underdeveloped female lead.

Gordon-Levitt's Tom Hansen feels like a real person. We get to know his background, his likes and dislikes and his motivations. Deschanel's Summer, however, is a different story. She's the textbook Manic Pixie Dream Girl and we're offered no motivation for her story choices other than She Doesn't Want A Serious Relationship Because She's So Cool. In particular, a decision she makes towards the end of the film feels frustratingly under-motivated, despite the writers' attempts to explain it away.

Despite this, Deschanel does her best with the character. The two lead performances are, in fact, among the film's biggest strengths. The two actors carry the film on their shoulders, and its to their credit that the audience remains invested throughout the weak spots.

Those performances, along with some very funny dialogue and clever storytelling decisions, make 500 Days of Summer a worthwhile choice if you're after a well-made romantic comedy. While far from perfect, the film's good points outweight the bad and it definitely has something to say about the nature of relationships. Just don't go in expecting your mind to be blown and you'll be just fine.

TV Review: The West Wing, Season Four

2009-10-01T20:22:00.004+10:00

(Click to read my reviews of seasons One, Two and Three)

Season Four of The West Wing represents a huge transition for the show. In addition to being the last season worked on by showrunner/creator Aaron Sorkin, this season features the departure of series regular Rob Lowe.

Lowe - playing Deputy Communications Director Sam Seaborn - had been an integral part of the show's ensemble for the first three years of its run, and his departure halfway through Season Four leaves a gap that the show struggles to fill (which is no slight against Joshua Malina as Will Bailey, Sam's ostensible replacement; more on him later). The show's greatest strength is the relationship between its main characters and the chemistry they've developed over their years together. In particular, the quartet of Allison Janney as CJ Cregg, Richard Schiff as Toby Zeigler, Bradley Whitford as Josh Lyman and Lowe's Seaborn represent the backbone of the show, the engine which keeps the White House running, and the loss of any one of them would have deeply and irreversibly changed the dynamic of the show.

Perhaps the biggest change that occurred as a result of Lowe's departure is one of tone. The show had always maintained a deft balance between light humour and complex drama, with Sam Seaborn tending to be more involved with the former. The character's idealism, which distinguished him within the ensemble, granted him a certain youthful naiveté which lent itself to comedic stories, and Lowe himself is a gifted comic actor. The show maintained its comedic streak after his departure (except for stretches of Season Five. Sigh), but it never felt quite the same.

Another consequence of Lowe's departure was that it left the door open for the introduction of Joshua Malina Will Bailey, political operative and eventual replacement Deputy Communications Director. Malina, while filling a similar role to Lowe, brings a very different feel; nerdy and slightly awkward while still being capable, as opposed to Lowe's more charming and idealistic presence. Malina's performance is strong, with only a handful of moments in his first few episodes presenting evidence of both he and the writers' difficulty in slotting a new character into a strong, well-established ensemble. The last section of Season Four actually represents Will Bailey's strongest period on the show, before creative decisions in later seasons significantly weakened his character.

The other major departure from the show - this one at the end of Season Four rather than halfway through - is series creator Aaron Sorkin. It's impossible to over-emphasise just how big Sorkin's contribution to the show was and how much his departure is felt when viewing later episodes; Sorkin practically introduced a new style of television writing in the first four seasons of The West Wing, one that involved a lot of fast talking, intelligent dialogue, multiple storylines overlapping each other to the point of near-confusion (Sorkin-era West Wing episodes are tremendously re-watchable for this reason; you always discover something new) and a particular brand of idealistic sentimentality that borders on cheesy but never comes on too heavy. The writers of post-Season Four episodes try to recapture some of the magic; at no point do they fully succeed.

As for Season Four itself, it is consistent with the three that precede it in that it is a well written, directed and acted twenty-two episode of great television. It's not quite as tightly paced as Season Two or as subtly intelligent as Season Three, but it doesn't feature Mandy Hampton, so it's still got a leg up on Season One.

Plot-wise, the first half of Season Four deals with the Bartlet re-election campaign. This story delivers the strongest batch of episodes of the season, with 20 Hours in America, Debate Camp and Game On being amongst the best of the show's seven-year run. The only weak point amongst these episodes is the under-representation of the Bartlet team's Republican opponents; Bartlet's opponent in the presidential race, Governor Robert Richie (James Brolin, great but underused) is barely seen and generally represented as a redneck buffoon. A stronger antagonist could only have strengthened the re-election storyline.

Once the re-election is dealt with (in the fantastic two-parter Inauguration Day), the show settles back into doing more standalone episodes, or at least episodes with standalone stories happening amongst the larger narrative. Of these, Privateers and Evidence of Things Not Seen prove to be fantastic examples of the things the show always did well, combining dramatic character-driven soap opera with terrifically light-hearted comedic stories and strong work from the whole ensemble.

All of this builds up to an almost literally heart-stopping cliffhanger. I won't spoil it here, but the plot turn at the end of Season Four provides more than enough incentive to return for Season Five despite the absence of Lowe and Sorkin (whether Season Five can maintain your interest is a whole other issue. More on that next time).

Overall, Season Four of The West Wing provides more of what it had established in seasons One to Three. If you liked those, you'll like this. If you didn't, it probably won't convert you. And, in the world of perpetual life for TV shows in the world of DVD and the internet, Season Four stands as a fitting monument to Sorkin's incredible work, and another example of what TV can do so, so right when all the right elements come together.

Next, of course, comes Season Five. Oh, dear.

Let Your World Inform Your Structure

2009-08-17T20:45:00.005+10:00

One of the most difficult things to figure out in the early stages of a writing project - in my case, at least - is the structure. That is, the order in which things happen, what happens onscreen and what off, and how much time each of those things takes up in terms of the overall story (a loose definition of the word 'structure' as it relates to writing, but a serviceable enough one for this post).

Something that writers might want to take onboard when grappling with this particular obstacle is letting the world of the story inform the structure.

What made me think of this was recently watching the film Frost/Nixon. To base a film on true events presents all sorts of structural challenges (see: every biographical film ever made), but what Peter Morgan, Screenwriter Extraordinaire had in his favour was that at the core of his film was a series of interviews. The rest of the film simply fell into place around those interviews; the first act leads up to the first interview, the second act is the bulk of the interviews, the third act is the final, climactic interview.

This can be seen in series' of films. Each Harry Potter story, for example, is one school year at Hogwarts, beginning with Harry in the 'real' world and ending with the end of the Hogwarts school semester. It also works for TV shows; each of the first three seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer ends with the end of the school year at Sunnydale High (the structuring became a little muddier after that. The show also became not-as-good. Coincidence?!).

The West Wing's overall plotting was in part determined by the necessity of having elections within their fictional world, and the amount of time that would take; each season of Scrubs details a year in its characters' lives, and presents their professional progression accordingly; Slumdog Millionaire's whole story is wrapped around the rigidly planned events of a prime time game show.

In each of the above examples, while the challenges of structure aren't taken out of their writers' hands entirely, they are made immeasurably easier by taking into consideration the structures already inherent in their fictional worlds.

In my case, I'm currently working on a feature film script set in the world of suburban football. That setting easily gives me a structural outline to work with; the first act is the beginning of the football season, the second act the bulk of the season, the third act is my home team's grand final. Bam! With that out of the way, I can work on each character's individual arc within that.

This theory, of course, doesn't work with all stories. It may also be that while your fictional world does present you with structural guidelines, you have to dig a little deeper to find them.

When it does work, though, it can be hugely helpful. And if you find sitting down at your desk and Getting Writing Done as difficult as I do, you'll probably take all the help you can get.

TV Review: The West Wing, Season 3

2009-08-08T20:28:00.004+10:00

(My reviews of seasons one and two can be found here and here.)

The third season of The West Wing provides perfect examples of the shows strengths as well as its weaknesses. The writing is as engaging as ever, the performances are never less than three dimensional and the directing maintains - in many instances surpasses - the cinematic style it had established in the first two seasons.

Where the third season falls down is simply in being hamstrung by the realities of weekly television production. The absence of certain characters is conspicuous; Admiral Fitzwallace (John Amos), for example, after being a huge presence in the first two years of the show is absent from all but the last few episodes of the third, despite being referred to constantly. Other characters enter scenes to deliver information and have interactions that feel like they should be Fitzwallace scenes, and its hard not to think that his absence is due to a practicality (actor unavailability? Salary dispute? Disappearing to sleep with an Argentinian woman?) rather than a creative reason.

This isn't unusual for television, or even for the West Wing - a season two episode introduces us to Seth Gillette (played by Ed Begley Jr),a rival politican and antagonist for Toby, who is only ever in one scene (that seems to exist solely to set up his character) but referred to frequently, and that can't be intentional - but it is disappointing. When a television show is well crafted enough to completely envelop us in a fictional world and have us believe in it as much as our real world, as The West Wing is, those moments that make the viewer aware of the reality behind the show can ruin that immersive experience. Nobody wants to know how the magician performs his tricks. Or, to paraphrase a metaphor the show itself uses more than once; Nobody wants to know how the sausage is made.

Season 3 also starts slowly. The early episodes, while never being bad (The West Wing doesn't produce a bad episode until season 5, merely some that aren't quite as good as others), lack the pace and playfulness of which the show is more than capable.

Those disappointments aside, season 3 presents to us some of the finest writing of the show's seven-year run. This season, more than the first two, explores the character of President Josiah Bartlet, and exactly what it takes for him to run for - and then succeed at - the presidency. At times early in the show's run, the show occasionally makes it seem that the senior staff are the ones who got the president elected, and he's just a kindly old man that they propped up onto the world stage. Season three goes deeper than that, and the question of whether Bartlet can succeed at running for a second term comes down to whether he can reconcile the two halves of his personality; the lovable, folksy old uncle and the aggressive and formidable world class intellect.

It is this conflict which defines the season and informs its central arc. It is perfectly defined in episode 12, "The Two Bartlets", in which Toby confronts Bartlet, articulating Bartlet's inner conflict in a way that no character has before. The climactic scene between the two, in which Toby suggests that Bartlet masks his intellect with a less threatening demeanour because his father resented his intelligence, is powerful stuff as written but is elevated to the level of greatness by the performances of Richard Schiff and Martin Sheen.

Everything in season 3 from that scene onwards is richer and deeper for it having occurred, as we have a much greater insight of who Bartlet is and what it takes for him to put everything on the line and run for office.

Season 3 is also notable for how it maintains and builds upon the show's strong roster of recurring characters. An interesting contrast that exists in the show's casting is that while its regular cast is predominantly male, its most memorable recurring players are the females (think of Joey Lucas, or Ainsley Hayes). Season 3 contains perhaps the best example of this in Amy Gardiner, played by Mary-Louise Parker. Amy is initially introduced as a romantic foil for Josh, but the character's sexiness, staunch idealism and deadpan sense of humour, brought to life by Parker's consistently engaging performance, quickly make her a vital part of the show's chemistry.

It's also worth noting that the last batch of Season 3 episodes contain one of the show's most memorable male supporting players; Agent Simon Donovan, played by Mark Harmon. Donovan, a secret service agent assigned to Press Secretary CJ Cregg after she starts receiving death threats, provides the show with one of its most romantic and heartbreaking story arcs.

These last few episodes of the season also deal with a moral ambiguity not present - or at least not present to the same degree - earlier in the show's run, when Bartlet is faced with the decision of whether or not to assassinate a foreign national who is threatening American lives. He knows, as does the audience, that to do so is to cross a line that cannot be uncrossed.

The entire season feels like it is building to this storyline. It's this storyline which crystallises the some of the show's pet themes; that there's not always an easy answer. That sometimes doing the right thing feels like the wrong thing, and the line between the two is forever getting murkier. Stan Lee made it a cliche to say that With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility, but its never felt truer than when watching the last few episodes of The West Wing season 3. After these episodes the show feels a little bit darker and a little bit more mature, but while the characters sacrified some of their beliefs, they never once sacrificed their commitment.

The West Wing grew up quite a bit in Season 3. And its all the richer for it.

TV Review: The West Wing, Season Two

2009-07-13T19:46:00.003+10:00

(My review of Season One can be found here)

The second season of The West Wing, Aaron Sorkin's award-winning television show about the inner workings of the White House, is arguably the strongest of the show's seven season run. Over the course of Season Two's twenty-two episodes, the creative team behind the show emphasize and build upon what worked about Season One, while streamlining and doing away with what didn't.

The most immediately noticeable example of this is the conspicuous and unexplained departure of Mandy Hampton. The absence of Mandy, who - as I mentioned in my Season One review - was an extraneous character at the best of times, is initially jarring but ultimately does nothing to diminish the quality of Season Two. If anything, it strengthens the show, allowing the writers' focus to remain on the characters who form the show's core.

That core is essentially the same as it was in Season One - the characters of Toby, Sam, Josh and CJ, with Leo and President Bartlet serving as father figures and Charlie there to humanise the whole endeavour - but with one notable addition; Donna Moss (played by Janel Moloney), assistant to Bradley Whitford's Josh Lyman. Donna, a supporting player in Season One, is elevated to Regular status in Season Two and the show is all the more enjoyable for it. Donna's place within the ensemble is similar to Charlie's, in that she strengthens the show by humanising it. But while Charlie is there to play the Son to President Bartlet's father, Donna is there in a more playful role; it seems as if the writers and producers realised that the antagonistic and slightly sexual chemistry they were trying to build between Josh and Mandy was already there in a much more organic way between Josh and Donna, and shifted their focus accordingly.

Throughout Season Two, Sorkin and his writing staff display a complete mastery of the television form and the many devices it utilises. The opening episodes, In the Shadow of Two Gunmen parts I and II, the story of the main characters first coming together to get Bartlet elected is told in a series of flashbacks. Each flashback is vital to the story, and whilst important information is delivered in each, none feel purely expository. The flashbacks each have their own full story arcs, with a beginning, middle and end, and each move the story forward in a compelling way.

Season Two also displays some of the best cold openings that television has seen (the cold opening is the scene broadcast before the credits, usually setting up the main conflict or serving as a prologue to the episode proper). The majority of cold openings in Season Two - and this continues throughout the show's seven year run, but peaked in Season Two - are mini masterpieces, going beyond the usual few beats of set up to serve as satisfying stories in and of themselves, and often earning bigger laughs than anything else in the episode (Episode eleven, The Leadership Breakfast, which begins with Sam and Josh attempting to light the fireplace is perhaps the most pure and entertaining example of everything this show does right).

There are numerous other episodes from Season Two that deserve special mention; among these are The Stackhouse Filibuster, Galileo and Noel. While each of these episodes is especially powerful if the viewer is familiar with everything that came before them, they're probably the best examples of strong individual episodes if you're a casual viewer looking to sample the show.

Over the course of Season Two's twenty-two episodes, a subtle shift occurs as the show moves from done-in-one episodes to a more serialized type of storytelling. The story of President Bartlet's multiple sclerosis is moved from slow-boiling sublot to become the show's main focus, and the results are some of the show's best episodes. Episode 18, 17 People - which deals with Toby's reaction to finding out about the President's illness - does a tremendous job of making the audience aware of the stakes involved, and contains some of the show's strongest performances. Richard Schiff in particular deserves every accolade that comes his way for making Toby's arc in this episode utterly believable, shading the performance with surprise, sadness, rage and betrayal and ultimately making Toby more human than he's ever been before.

What stops this season short of perfection is that, by the end of its' run, the shows' flaws begin to make themselves known. These mostly deal with the (perhaps inevitable) repetitive nature of writing 22 episodes in one location with one group of characters a year, as some of the writers' favourite devices begin to feel familiar. Josh explaining a political issue to Donna as a means for the writers to explain it to the audience is one of these; an act of violence requiring a military response occurring just as characters are facing a personal crisis is another. These scenes involving the military are often the show's weakest points, as they involve characters being told things rather than characters doing things. Casting the likable John Amos as Percy Fitzwallace, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, goes some way towards making these scenes enjoyable, but there's only so far that charisma can get you when you're delivering exposition for an entire scene.

All of this is forgiven and forgotten, however, when Season Two reaches its final episode, Two Cathedrals. The episode is practically a textbook on TV episode construction and is the perfect conclusion to a batch of episode as good as this one was. It's a tall order to live up to the promise displayed by the beginning and middle of Season Two; Two Cathedrals exceeds it, and its worth watching the first two seasons solely to get to this episode.

TV Review: The West Wing, Season One

2009-07-07T20:19:00.006+10:00

Recently I've been sitting down to re-watch The West Wing, the multiple award-winning show that lasted seven seasons (airing from 1999-2006), from beginning to end. As I did so I realised exactly how much of my life I've given over to Aaron Sorkin's most well-known creation - there are 22 episodes per season, and I've watched each episode more than once - and how much the show has influenced my own writing (if only indirectly. Sorkin and the West Wing team write much smarter than I do. And I'll bet they spell all their words correctly and everything).

Having made such a sobering realisation, I've decided to organise my thoughts about the show into a series of reviews. Seven in total, one per season, treating each as a complete body of work but being aware of how each contributes to the greater whole.

If you haven't seen the show, don't panic. I'll keep the spoilers to a minimum, flagging each one as I go and doing my best to confine them to the end of the reviews.

Which, of course, brings us to...

The West Wing, Season One

The West Wing introduces itself in as grand a fashion as a network television show can muster, boasting one of the finest pilot episodes in recent TV history. The episode accomplishes everything a pilot episode is supposed to and does so with style.

One of the trickiest things to achieve for a TV show pilot - especially one with a large ensemble cast - is introducing all of the major characters in a way that is informative yet economical. The audience needs to learn exactly who all these people are in as little time as possible. The West Wing addresses that problem head-on, making the opening sequence of its pilot a series of short scenes, showing what each main character was doing prior to their work day beginning. For example, Josh Lyman (Bradley Whitford) is asleep at his desk, shirt crumpled and hair a mess, clearly still there from the night before. It's the first time we ever see the character, yet we instantly know how much of a workaholic he is and have a good idea of his role within the ensemble. The opening sequence contains five such scenes, and after introducing each character thrusts the viewer right into the main story.

The pilot, as with the season as a whole, also does an excellent job of setting a tone unique to this show. The West Wing strikes a perfect balance between drama and comedy, mixing witty banter and hilarious set-pieces with deadly serious events and storylines with enormous dramatic weight.

The word 'dramedy' is insufficient to describe a show like this. The word is restrictive; it implies that a piece of writing is neither comedy nor drama, but this other, third thing. The creators of The West Wing, however, understand that comedy and drama are not things a story should be, but rather things a story can have.

Interestingly, in an interview with The AV Club, Tim Matheson - who played Vice President John Hoynes - said the following in regards to the show's tone:

"The funny thing about it is—and I don’t know what Aaron Sorkin says about it—but I’m convinced it was a comedy. It’s a very intellectual and cerebral comedy, but it was SportsNight in the White House."

Whilst his statement has the same inherent weakness as the bullshit label 'dramedy' - ie. that it's unnecessarily restrictive - the fact that someone so closely involved with the show calls it a comedy whilst all of the marketing calls it a drama speaks to how effortlessly the show swung between both ends of the spectrum, hitting every grey spot in between.

The show is entertaining from the beginning, but the point at which it goes from entertaining to flat-out must-watch television is Episode 3, A Proportional Response.

This episode contains the introduction of Charlie Young (Dule Hill). Charlie, the president's personal aide, acts as a humanizing figure; he's the show's 'everyman'. The West Wing, by its nature, is a show about Very Smart People debating Very Important Things using Very Big Words. Charlie is a character with whom the audience can identify. He reacts to things the way a regular viewer would, and walks the halls of the White House with a look of awe and intimidation on his face. He is exactly who we would be if thrust into this place, alongside these people.

Sorkin has a similar fondness for Hill. "What I'll always remember and love about the episode is this: It's when we first meet Dule Hill" (excerpt taken from the introduction to The West Wing Script Book).

The first season is not, of course, without its flaws. The most glaring is that the character of Mandy Hampton (Moira Kelly) constantly floats around the edges of the main story, never quite gelling with the rest of the cast and suffering for her superfluousness. In one episode she warns Toby Ziegler (Richard Schiff) that her complaint about Santa Hats clashing with Dickensian costumes might seem trivial; his response is to ask, incredulously, "that might seem trivial?". A joke is made of her role in that episode, but it's emblematic of the problem her character faced throughout the season - everything that Mandy is worried about seems trivial in contrast to the crises faces by our core cast and her scenes are the closest the show comes to unnecessary filler. Moira Kelly does fine work in the role, it should be pointed out; creating chemistry between characters/cast members is a strange kind of alchemy, not an exact science, and Mandy's lack of importance to the story can't be blamed on the actor.

In fact, all of the performances are good, while some verge on greatness. In particular, Allison Janney (as Press Secretary CJ Cregg), alongside the aforementioned Bradley Whitford and Richard Schiff are standouts. All three turning in excellent performances, sewing the seeds for what would, over the course of the next several years, become some of the most memorable and well-realised characters in television. Rob Lowe (as Deputy Communications Director Sam Seaborn) brings a lot of charm and a finely honed sense of idealism, while Martin Sheen (as The Motherfucking President) and John Spencer (as his Chief of Staff Leo McGarry) preside over the whole ensemble as dual Father Figures, bringing to those roles enough gravitas and warm-heartedness to make it work beautifully.

From the very beginning, The West Wing was defined by its ambition. Ambition in terms of its subject matter - it's essentially a hybrid of procedural and soap opera, as have been so many shows before it (ER, The Practice, etc) but it's not about anything so mundane as doctors, police or lawyers; it's about a group of the smartest and most powerful people in the world.

Ambition in terms of its writing style - no word is too big and no reference is too obscure, as the show trusts in the ability of its audience to keep up with the story even if the meaning of a specific line is lost.

Ambition in terms of its shooting style - each episode is shot like a miniature feature film, with long and complicated shots being the norm.

In the face of such admirable ambition, it's impossible not to be impressed with each moment as it passes on screen.

Ultimately, Season One is 22 episodes of a funny, smart TV show made by and about dedicated people. It's issue driven without being didactic, dramatic without being melodramatic and hilarious without being unrealistically broad. There are far worse ways to spend a few hours of your spare time than to rent/buy/borrow the DVD, and the whole thing culminates in one of television's greatest cliffhangers, guaranteeing that you'll be back for Season Two.

Thinking Inside the Box

2009-07-01T18:24:00.008+10:00

Last night I watched The Hangover (written by Jon Lucas and Scott Moore, directed by Todd Phillips). It wasn't the best comedy I've seen this year - that honour goes to I Love You Man (reviewed here) - but it was a close contest.

Neither film attempts to reinvent the wheel, but both are thoroughly enjoyable. Both possess likable leads, a compelling premise and enough hilarious one-liners and set-pieces to keep the audience laughing throughout.

Films like this make me realise that it's okay to think inside the box sometimes. That while pushing the boundaries of film/theatre/comics/novels/whatever and revolutionising the way we think about storytelling are noble, even necessary aspirations, writers aren't obligated to think so radically within every single project they approach.

Look at superhero films. In particular, look at the two most popular superhero films of last year: The Dark Knight and Iron Man. The Dark Knight (written by Christopher Nolan, Jonathan Nolan and David S. Goyer, directed by Christopher Nolan) was ground breaking, at least within the superhero genre, and it deserved all the success that came its way. Iron Man (written by Mark Fergus & Hawk Otsby and Art Marcum & Matt Holloway, directed by Jon Favreau) was a much more straightforward affair. Nothing about the plot of that film was unexpected; it centred on a selfish protagonist becoming selfless (Spider-Man, Wolverine) who was spurred into action by a surprise tragedy (Batman, Spider-Man), then goes on to confront a villain who is essentially a bigger, badder version of themselves (Hulk/Abomination, Spider-Man/Venom) but who used to be the hero's mentor (the first two Spider-Man films, Batman Begins).

Iron Man, however, approached this by-the-numbers story with three dimensional characters, energetic pacing, strong performances and exciting action. In short - like I Love You Man or The Hangover - it was a simple story, told well.

In saying all of this, the last thing I want to imply is that writers can rest on their laurels, knowing they can fall back on a few basics to carry their story through. If anything, writers working within a simple, familiar story should be working even harder. They have to stand out amongst all of the mediocre examples of their chosen genre, and to do so their execution must be as polished as it can possibly be. For every Iron Man there's a Spider-Man 3; for every Jaws a Jaws 2.

And with that, I'm going to go write my charming little romantic comedy.

Robert McKee's Story - the Seminar

2009-06-27T21:21:00.005+10:00

Last weekend, I had the rare opportunity to attend Robert McKee's three day Story seminar. It was a fascinating thing to experience, largely because McKee is a fascinating man to behold. I was enthralled, amused and surprised, and never less than two of those things at the same time.

Before attending, I did some reading on the seminar online. In Googling McKee, it quickly became apparent that he is a man held in high regard by more than one high-profile film industry personality, and that his seminar and accompanying book are considered something close to gospel by many. How much of this is a genuinely earned reputation and how much is self-generated hyperbole is unclear - McKee is obviously vocal and media savvy, and if he wants for anything it certainly isn't ego - but whatever the case, it seemed that this was man with something to say about the art of screenwriting.

The first thing that struck me about the man in person is the incredibly disciplined way in which he ran the seminar. There were no questions allowed during his lectures, although he welcomed them during the frequent breaks. Those who allowed mobile phones to ring were to be fined ten dollars, and it was made clear that a second offence would result in that person being ejected without refund. The same went for late arrivals, either at the commencement of any of the three days or upon returning from breaks (thankfully, nobody was fined or ejected). The man was there to teach, he knew that people had paid good money to learn, and he would allow nothing that may detract from that.

This was consistent with what I had expected. Everything I read of the seminar - as well as the infamous portrayal of McKee by Brian Cox in the excellent film Adaptation, written by Charlie Kaufman - had led me to believe that McKee was the quintessential Grumpy Old Man. That he was impatient, opinionated and passionate. What I had not expected was for him to be quite as funny as he was, nor did I expect the softer sides of his personality to shine through quite so brightly and frequently as they did. He speaks with great fondness of his wife and close friends, as he does of his former students. He's not shy about speaking of those students' achievements - more than once, he referenced "[blank], written by former student of mine [blank], won the [blank] award." While there was definitely an element of the aforementioned ego in these boasts, there was equally as much pride. McKee claims that he wants all of his students to go on to be successful screenwriters, and it's not at all difficult to believe him.

I won't spend too much time detailing the various topics and techniques covered in the seminar. These are readily available in the book (which, by the way, I highly recommend for those interested in writing). Of all the topics touched on, though - and there were many - the one he came back to more than any other, and that all the others related to in one way or another - was Structure. McKee continually and vigorously stressed the importance of structure in story, and decried the apparently all-too-common writing mistake of sitting down to write scenes and dialogue without having done the appropriate planning and outlining. This is, I'm ashamed to admit, a mistake of which I'm guilty, but is definitely something I intend to work on.

That is, in fact, what I took away from the weekend more than anything else. Many of the flaws that I find in my own work can, if I'm being completely honest with myself, be attributed to a lack of planning. But after hearing McKee speak about the structure of story with such knowledge and passion, there's no way I'm going to make that mistake again.

I don't regret for a moment the money and time that attending the seminar cost me. It has given me an enormous amount of fuel for thought, and I can say confidently that I will be a better writer having experienced it than I would have been had I not. If you ever get the opportunity to attend, I highly recommend it.

Review: I Love You Man

2009-06-16T22:05:00.002+10:00

I Love You Man - written by John Hamburg and Larry Levin, directed by John Hamburg - is one of those films that comes along every once in a while with absolutely no intention of breaking boundaries, pushing envelopes or revolutionizing cinema ("Sam? You just said three things that all mean the same thing."), but is content to lay a simple tale about likable people out in front of you and hope that you enjoy yourself for an hour and a half or so.

Sometimes, this results in bland romcoms ("romantic comedies". Portmanteau!) about... I don't know, Katherine Heigl or Meg Ryan or someone meeting, like, Patrick Dempsey and being all cutesy or some shit. But when you cast genuinely funny leads who share an entertaining chemistry, and tweak the formula just enough so that it feels fresh, you can create gold. Such is the case with I Love You Man.

The premise is simple: Peter Klaven (Paul Rudd, who I would probably switch orientation for) is about to get married. In trying to find a best man, he realises he doesn't have any close male friends, and sets out to find some. He's aided in this pursuit by his parents - (Jane Curtin and JK Simmons, hilarious but criminally underused) and his brother (Andy Samberg).

If you're switched on, you heard that and had the same issue that I did - if he has a brother, what the fuck is his problem with finding a best man? Thankfully, the film is about the more general issue of Peter's lack of close male friends; the best man issue is just a trigger.

The film ambles along enjoyably enough for the first 20 minutes or so, as we meet Peter's wacky family, his fiance (Rashida Jones, charming) and her circle of friends (one of whom is married to a dickish guy played to dickish perfection by Iron Man director Jon Favreau).

At the beginning of act 2, however - in what Syd Field would refer to as Plot Point 1 - Peter meets Sydney Fife (a perfectly cast Jason Segel) and the film really kicks into high gear.

Act 1 was perfectly fine, but Act 2 is entirely about the interplay between Rudd and Segel, which pays off in a big way. The two are incredibly entertaining together, and the film succeeds based solely on the two leads' chemistry. As, of course, is the case with every romantic comedy - and make no mistake, this film may be about two straight guys, but the film follows the classic romantic comedy plot structure; the two meet, flirt and bond before tension tears them apart at the end of act two and resolves in act three with big speeches and whatnot. The fact that the "romance" happens between two men is a fresh twist on the old formula, but even that concept - the "bromance" (ridiculous fucking word, I can't believe I just used it) - is, while not yet cliche, starting to feel familiar. Superbad (written by Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg, directed by Greg Mottola) and Pineapple Express (written by Rogen and Goldberg, directed by David Gordon Green) both have similar ideas at their core.

It's worth noting that the two examples just mentioned are Judd Apatow productions. While I Love You Man doesn't have anything to do with Apatow; it can't help but draw comparisons to his body of work, having cast its two leads from his regular stable of actors. To his credit, John Hamburg compares favourably to Apatow, as his film - like Apatow's - never loses sight of the believable and sympathetic relationship at the core of his fim. The jokes are that much more enjoyable when they're coming from a place of real heart and soul, and Hamburg clearly understands that.

Highly recommended if you're looking for a light hearted, enjoyable night at the movies.

Worth noting - This film contains two of my favourite things in a mainstream comedy: Ian Roberts and Matt Walsh. Both have one-line parts, continuing their streak of being the best and most prolific bit-part players in Hollywood. I swear, watching comedies these days is like playing a game of Where's Wally? (also worth looking out for, if not in this film then in other recent comedies - Joe Lo Truglio, Matt Besser, Ken Jeung, Kevin Corrigan. I should turn this into a drinking game).

Comedy Is Not A Genre

2009-05-31T16:36:00.005+10:00

Neither is Drama, for that matter.
Co

This is something I've been thinking about a lot recently, and reading Robert McKee's excellent screenwriting book Story has only served to support this notion: Comedy is not a genre.

Too often, it seems, people attempt to lump stories into one of two categories; Comedy or Drama, as if they were genres unto themselves - but they're not. Both are just tools in the writer's toolkit; stylistic approaches that one may take when working on a scene, but not mutually exclusive.

The most successful screenwriters use elements of both to varying degrees, depending on what best suits the story. All of the Coen brothers films possess comedic moments and some very funny dialogue, but you wouldn't call (for example) No Country For Old Men or Fargo comedies. Aaron Sorkin is another excellent example of a writer who freely moves between the two ends of the Comedy/Drama spectrum, filling episodes of his best-known work The West Wing with serious, dramatic stories alongside spectacularly funny dialogue and character moments. Freaks and Geeks (created by Paul Feig and Judd Apatow) is a show that steadfastly refused to characterise itself as either comedy or drama; the writers were intelligent enough to realise that if you create strong enough characters and a believable enough world, you can draw from them comedy, drama and a million shades of grey in between.

All of the shows and films I mentioned above fall into a variety of genres; political soap opera, thriller, coming-of-age story, etc., which do a lot more to define the show than simply calling them Comedy or Drama.

Even the films that one would describe as outright comedies (as opposed to the blends of comedy and drama mentioned above) all fall into genres outside of, and more specific than, simply being "a comedy". Romantic Comedies, for example, are love stores that happen to have jokes in them. Parody and Satire have their genre conventions dictated by whatever they're making fun of; Shaun of the Dead (Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg) is a comedic horror movie. Talladega Nights (Will Ferrell and Adam McKay) is a sports movie. And so on, and so forth.

The reason I'm posting this now is that I recently fell victim to this simplistic way of thinking. I sat down thinking "I'm going to write a comedy", without having the dramatic backbone to support it. I learned the hard way that anyone who tells themselves "I'm going to write a comedy" is far from ready to start writing. It's the next few words after that which will really inform your genre, which will, in turn, inform your setting, characters, obstacles, etc.

"I'm going to write a comedy in space"; okay, you're writing a sci-fi film with jokes. "I'm going to write a comedy about Wyatt Earp"; okay, you're writing a western with some jokes.

Anyway... something to think about.

You Know What, Will Smith? Suck It.

2009-05-12T23:57:00.004+10:00

or,

A Karate Kid Remake? Seriously?

Okay, so it looks like Will Smith's production company is going to be remaking The Karate Kid, with Smith's son Jaden (The Pursuit of Happyness) in the titular role, and Jackie Chan as Mr Miyagi (some details here).

Um... why?

Is this what happens when a mega-rich movie star who can do essentially whatever the hell he wants runs out of birthday gift ideas?

1. INT. CASTLE MADE OF GOLD OVERLOOKING HOLLYWOOD, EVENING

WILL SMITH and his son JADEN SMITH are eating unicorn-bacon for breakfast, when Will puts down his magic rasher and crosses his hands under his chin.

WILL

Yo, J-Dizzle, whatchoo want for yo' birthday?

JADEN

I dunno, Dad.

WILL

Your own private jet?

JADEN

Nah.

WILL

A tropical island?

JADEN

Nope.

WILL

Your own underground network of hobo-fighting rings?

JADEN

I already got one of those!

WILL

Come on, man. What do you really want?

Jaden jumps onto the kitchen table precociously, and strikes a martial arts pose.

JADEN

I wanna be the Karate Kid!

WILL

Cool. I can make that happen.

I mean... for fuck's sake.

On Ambiguity

2009-04-25T17:30:00.005+10:00

Ambiguity in writing can be a good thing (sort of. Or can it?). Explaining (or worse, over-explaining) every little detail of your story can lead to a lot of the information feeling forced, and your audience feeling like they're being spoon-fed unnecessary details. Leaving some room for interpretation and open-ended questions can help the audience feel more engaged, as it lets them do some of the work of interpreting a story for themselves.

But is it always a good thing? Is there a point at which some stories just become too damn ambiguous? Is it sometimes better to just put every detail of your story out there on the table?

First of all, it's important to distinguish Ambiguity from Mystery. A lot of stories leave certain questions deliberately unanswered; a good example of this is Lost. The true nature of the island is not apparent to the audience or the main characters; but this isn't what we mean when we say Ambiguity, this is simply a Mystery. The questions raised in the show will (presumably) be answered by the end (whether or not they're answered satisfactorily will, I imagine, be in the eye of the beholder). This might be disrupted by the practicalities of TV production; the show might be cancelled, for example. But the distinction to be made here is in the writers' intent, not the practical result of the show.

In saying that a story has a lot of ambiguity, as opposed to deliberate mystery, I'm referring more to something like Donnie Darko. A lot in that film is left unexplained, in a way that is clearly intentional on the part of writer-director Richard Kelly. I would argue that this is a case of too much ambiguity; while I like the movie, too much of it feels unfocused and "weird for weird's sake". Kelly also admits in his director's commentary that he himself doesn't have all the answers for what's going on, which doesn't do anything to strengthen the story in my mind.

The trouble with ambiguity is that there is no Right Amount. It's completely subjective. A movie with unanswered questions is just as likely to leave an audience member tearing their hair out with frustration as it is to be praised by another audience member for its sophistication and restraint (the above-mentioned Donnie Darko is a perfect example of just such a divisive story).

More often than not the type of ambiguity we're talking about boils down to the omission of information. When this is useful, and exactly what/how much information to omit, is something of a grey area.

A good recent example is the character of The Joker in The Dark Knight (written by David Goyer, Jonathan Nolan and Chris Nolan). It was a conscious decision on the part of the writers to not give him an origin. He just shows up and wreaks havoc. In an interview with Creative Screenwriting Magazine, Jonathan Nolan described the character as a "force of nature". There is no "why"; he wasn't abused or abandoned as a child. He just is. The Joker's lack of an origin, in contrast with Batman's very well-explored origin, actually works to support the themes and ideas of the film; Order vs Chaos, the inevitable and cyclical nature of violence, a city's descent into madness, etc.

Two examples of TV shows I've watched recently illustrate just how fine a line it can be. The episode of Skins to which I refer in this post displayed a level of ambiguity that felt, to me, like lazy writing. It was never explained how certain characters knew things, or when one character moved in with another, that sort of thing.

An episode of Deadwood that I re-watched recently had two characters in quite heated conflict. It was never properly explained what the backstory between them was; we were just expected to infer that something one character had done infuriated the other character. In this example, however, I felt that leaving out the details actually strengthened the story the writers were trying to tell. The audience felt disoriented, like they were being thrown into the middle of a conflict between two people without knowing the ins and outs. Which is exactly how the show's hero, Sheriff Bullock, felt as he entered the scene. The audience therefore immediately identifies with the main character. Mission accomplished.

There is no hard and fast rule. All that writers who are trying to learn how this sort of stuff works (like myself) can do is step outside of themselves and read their script as an unbiased audience member would. Which questions or omitted details strengthen the story? And which ones are just frustrating and distracting? Hopefully we'll know them when we see them.

Follow-Up

2009-04-12T01:28:00.003+10:00

A comment on a previous post got me thinking.

"mrmxy said...

Most of the time, coincidences are easier to swallow if they're negative; that is, if the perception is that they're not helping you (the writer). Like, if the bad guy is pointing a gun at the good guy's head and he happens to run out of bullets, you groan. But if it's opposite situation, you go "holy shit this writer is a genuis let's give him money". This is why I include gun fights in all my scripts. Even the ones set in the Stone Age."

And not just thinking about mxy's stone age gun fighters script (although that sounds awesome), but about why the point he raised about negative coincidences is so spot-on (I mentioned this in the comments for that post, but found it interesting enough to warrant its own post).

The reason why these negative coincidences work is that they Raise the Stakes. It's a universally accepted writing rule: Keep Raising the Stakes. Make things harder for your hero; put more on the line. Have Timothy Olyphant kidnap Bruce Willis' daughter just as Willis thinks he has the upper hand. That sort of thing.

In mxy's example of the villain pointing a gun at the hero's head and running out of bullets, the audience feels cheated because they've just seen the writer make things easier for the hero (and the writer him/herself). But if the hero runs out of bullets just as the villain discovers a loaded gun in the briefcase he just stole... exciting!

So if you ever find yourself skirting the edge of making things too easy for your hero, flip it. Make it harder, and the audience will be on side.

And I promise that's the last time I use an example from Die Hard 4.0.

Typing To Yourself Doesn't Count

2009-04-05T19:09:00.004+10:00

A short one:

Something really irks me about characters talking to themselves when there's clearly nobody anywhere nearby that could hear them.

An exclamation is fine. Someone can yell "Fuck!" or "Balls!" if they hit their thumb with a hammer. Humming is also fine.

But making full statements? Standing in front of the mirror saying "I don't really look like my mother, do I?"? Or the worst one, repeating the key words and phrases from something you're reading or being told? It just feels so artificial.

How Convenient

2009-04-03T13:21:00.003+11:00

Or,

More Like CRAP-ylon 5!

I've been watching Babylon 5 all morning and I noticed something that stood out to me as a mark of bad writing.

This isn't something that's specific to that show, by the way, that just happens to be the most recent time I've seen it.

The thing I'm talking about happened when two characters were talking about the budget for the ship. One character explained to the other that he'd made a request to the Senator. Literally seconds later a third character announced that the Senator was calling about the budget. It just felt too damn convenient.

Watching a moment like that, I always feel like it's something that happens when writers have too much material and try to compress it down to TV script length. "We have to lose that bit in the middle, let's just jump to the phone call..."

I understand that from a TV writing point of view, but too many of these convenient coincidences has the effect of taking me out of the story.

One effective way I've seen of writers combating this is by hanging a lantern on it (a writing term for overcoming an absurd coincidence by calling attention to the absurdity of it). A good example of this is in that episode of Buffy about the troll (written by Jane Espenson). The Bronze is being smashed up and Willow says "I wish Buffy were here!". Buffy then runs through the door. Willow adds "I wish I had a million dollars!" and nothing happens. Doing this tells the audience "yes, we know it's a bit convenient, but it's necessary to the story so we're just going to have some fun with it. Roll with it.". Then everyone just gets to keep enjoying the episode.

Ah, well.

Also: Why did sci-fi shows in the 90s feel compelled to use computer animation on all their spaceship-driven stuff? I get that it was new and shiny and exciting, but really, the models used in the original Star Wars films look more convincing than the ships in Babylon 5 (I'm also looking at you, Stargate SG-1 and later Red Dwarf). So stick with the damn models and wait until CGI is ready.

I'm the Protagonist of My Own Blog

2009-04-02T00:08:00.003+11:00

...and Life!

Today I feel like talking about screenwriting terminology, and in particular two terms which get thrown around a lot and are sometimes misused, or at least only vaguely understood: Protagonist and Antagonist.

Please keep in mind, before we go any further, that I'm far from an expert on screenwriting, and anything said here should be taken as the sleepless ramblings of an amateur, filtered through various things he's read and notes he's made on things he's enjoyed.

It should also be noted that this sort of thing is generally not to be worried about by the typical audience member. This blog is pedantic by nature.

To put it simply, the Protagonist is the person the story is about. Which is to say, their decisions and actions inform the course of the story. The protagonist wants things. The protagonist should somehow grow or change throughout the course of the story, or else the whole thing tends to feel like a waste of everyone's time. This person (or talking dog, or car, or whatever) is almost always the Main Character. Almost always, but not always. This is a distinction made difficult because the whole idea of a Main Character can be a little bit muddy; a good example is Pirates of the Caribbean (screenplay by Ted Elliott and Terry Rossio). Jack Sparrow is arguably the Main Character (he gets the coolest entrance, the funniest lines, and his head is all over the posters), but from a writing standpoint Elisabeth Swann is the protagonist. Its her actions which propel the story forward, and Sparrow simply adds colour.

More often than not, though, the protagonist is easy to identify. Their name is sometimes even the title of the film (Superman, Donnie Darko, Mr Nanny).

Things can also get tricky in films with large ensembles, but you can usually find a protagonist if you dig deep enough into the heart of the story.. The Royal Tenenbaums (Wes Anderson and Owen Wilson) is a film with a large ensemble cast, but there's a character whose decision making drives the narrative (Hint: It's Richie). Watchmen (David Hayter and Alex Tse) is a tricky one, although I would argue that the tag team of Rorschach and Nite Owl act as a sort of dual protagonist.

In television, the distinction becomes even less clear. There are certainly shows which identify the protagonist and place them front and centre; these are usually also marked by that person's name being the title of the show (House, Monk, Buffy the Vampire Slayer), but in television one also quite often finds shows built around large ensembles of characters.

This is why, in television more than films, we find protagonists which are groups of people with a common goal (the senior staff at the White House, the survivors of Oceanic Flight 815). But even then, the writers will tend to place a certain character front and centre for a given episode (Lost and Skins are both shows which do this explicitly), or for a given story arc (The last two seasons of The West Wing were clearly all about Josh).

Antagonists become a little trickier to identify. Basically, they're the character who, through their actions, forces the protagonist to act. The clearest example of this is that of the villain in an action-adventure story; Lex Luthor is threatening lives with his despicable plan, therefore Superman must act to stop him.

Sometimes it's a little less clear than that; Willy Wonka is the protagonist in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, as his desire for a surrogate family drives the story, and Charlie is the antagonist, as his questions force Wonka's flashbacks and drive the changes in Wonka (that's not my example. That comes straight from the screenwriter, John August, at http://johnaugust.com/archives/2005/whats-the-difference-between-hero-main-character-and-protagonist)

Now, about how this level of analysis is useful (and this is something I just recently learned):

Figuring out who your story is about will help you figure out what it's about.

I was working on a TV pilot script recently, and had to go through a process of streamlining (a nice way of saying "making it shorter"). As I went through it, I realised that everything that wasn't involving my protagonist should be the first stuff to go. His emotional arc drove the story, and the questions that he's forced to ask himself form the main themes of the script; so, I changed anything that was focusing on other characters when we really should've stuck with him. Once I identified this basic need in the script, a lot of decisions became much easier.

Another project I've been working on recently is a romantic comedy, in the form of a short webseries. The gist is the same as every romantic comedy you've ever seen; guy meets girl, they can't quite get it together. The risk we ran, though, is that we have 6 main characters (the guy and girl both have 2 friends who also feature prominently in the story). And sometimes these other characters threatened to steal the spotlight. Which is fine, in small doses, but ultimately the show feels more focused if we keep the romantic story as a central spine. So, having clearly identified the protagonist (The Guy- he wants something [the girl] and must change to win her) and the antagonist (The Girl. She is elusive and mysterious, which forces The Guy to man the fuck up) we can keep the show feeling tighter, more focused, and more on target.

And so, once again, being pedantic (and somewhat long winded) helps us all become better writers in the end!

Yay!

I'm going to bed now. It's one in the morning and I have work tomorrow.

Explain Yourself.

2009-03-30T00:57:00.002+11:00

I was recently watching an episode of Skins, a show about which I have very mixed feelings. It has likable characters, and oftentimes engaging stories and funny moments. Sometimes, however, it indulges in some very sloppy writing.

The episode I was watching was a particularly bad offender for this sort of thing. If you don't know it, the basic story was this: Michelle (the unlikable one) was visiting Jal (the dull one) who had fallen pregnant to Chris (the funny one). When Michelle knocked, Cassie (the mental one) answered the door. Michelle proceeded to ask Cassie if Chris knew that Jal was blah blah blah.

The problem was this: Up until that point in the episode, the pregnancy was a big secret. Michelle had no way of knowing that Cassie knew about it, and it's not a reasonable assumption for her to make, since she apparently knew that it was enough of a secret that the father didn't even know.

This same episode also left me very confused when Cassie and Chris were popping in and out of the same house without explanation; it hadn't been established that they were living together.

What I'm saying is... explain yourself, writers. It's not enough for YOU to know that Jal told Michelle that Cassie knew, or that Cassie had moved in with Chris, or whatever. You have to let the audience know, BEFORE a scene like the one described above happens. Otherwise, the audience is so distracted trying to put together all the puzzle pieces you've thrown everywhere that it takes them out of the story.

Another place I've seen this recently is in the film Little Miss Sunshine (another work about which I have mixed feelings). If you know the film, you'll recall a scene in which Greg Kinnear's character can't get his van started. He begins to approach a group of guys with scooters... then it cuts to him riding one of the scooters.

A cute moment, but I was left yelling at the TV "How?! What the fuck just happened? Did he buy one? Borrow one? Trade the van for it? Did he blow one of those guys for it?!"

This has made me a lot more aware of where such issues might occur in my own works. From now on, I'm going to do another read of everything I write, trying to put myself (as much as I can) in the position of a viewer, and trying to ask myself as many of the same questions as a viewer would ask. I never want to leave the kind of story or logic gap that would be so distracting as to take a viewer out of the scene.

Damn you, Skins.

Lawrence Leung's Choose Your Own Adventure!

2009-03-25T23:04:00.000+11:00

Just a short one tonight.

A friend of mine, Lawrence Leung, has produced a 6 part series for the ABC, "Lawrence Leung's Choose Your Own Adventure". It premiered tonight, and was fantastic.

It's on at 9pm every Wednesday night for the next 5 weeks, and I implore you to catch it when you get a chance. You won't be disappointed.

An Update!

2009-03-25T17:59:00.001+11:00

I have a (slightly) cleverer title for this blog-thing now. Because the world needed more puns based on theatrical storytelling devices used by the Ancient Greeks (...you know the ones I mean).

Two Jokes Doesn't Mean Twice As Funny

2009-03-25T17:48:00.001+11:00

I learned a hard truth today, ladies and gentlemen.

I was working on my TV pilot script, and sat there analyzing how- if at all- two of the jokes related to each other. Both of them had racism as their subject matter. Please note that neither were what I (or, presumably, a switched-on audience member) would consider racist; the jokes both centred on one of the characters being so oblivious that he didn't get why something he said could be interpreted as racist.

Once, this was fine. The joke comes across well enough, and it's clear (both in my mind and in feedback I've gotten from folk who've read it) that the joke is indeed on the character, not on any ethnic minorities.

Twice, however, and we get into trouble. Not because having a similarly-themed joke later in the script pushes the concept into some previously-uncharted area of prejudice; simply because it muddies things. Hear a joke once, and it's just a joke. Hear a different-but-similar joke later and we start seeing a pattern. The audience will wonder if there's any inferences that are supposed to be made about the character, or the writer, or the nature of the script.

So, one of the jokes disappeared. The script may be ever so slightly less funny (depending on one's opinion of how funny the new replacement joke is), but it's significantly clearer in tone. And no one will be wondering why the topic of racism seems to be at the forefront of one of my characters' minds.

Another lesson learned!

Blog. James Blog.

2009-03-24T20:18:00.001+11:00

I noticed a nice little piece of efficient writing last night on my third(?) viewing of Casino Royale (screenplay by Paul Haggis, Neil Purvis and Robert Wade).

The moment I'm thinking about comes when Bond is introduced to Vesper Lynd, Eva Green's character. She joins him at his booth on a long train ride. They exchange introductions, then she grabs a menu and says "What looks good?". The film then cuts to an exterior shot of the train speeding across the countryside; the next thing we see is James and Vesper at the table, a waiter clearing away their plates. She now knows the plan, and we didn't have to hear James explain things that we've already heard M explain.

So we've gone Interior/Exterior/Interior (or, in writing terms, INT./EXT./INT. More efficiency! This post now has a theme!) as a way of establishing time passing without having to show their entire conversation. Not unusual. But the addition of Vesper picking up the menu then cutting back to the waiter tells us how much time has passed (approximately, at least), adds to their characters (hers especially; the "what looks good?" is a deliberate moment of flippancy on her part as well as a bridge into the next scene) and tells us what they've been doing in the meantime.

This technique is something that sounds obvious now that I'm typing about it, but when I noticed a specific example of it done well it really got me thinking about how this sort of thing could be helpful in my work.

Fun!

For The Curious

2009-03-20T16:47:00.000+11:00

If anyone was wondering about the kind of stuff I've worked on... here's a short film I made for the Geelong Shoot-Out film festival. The festival has a great concept; you have 24 hours to make a 7 minute short film, using only in-camera editing.

This film won us Best Comedy, Best Script, Best Direction (Caleb McKenney) and Best Actor (Me).

Enjoy!

Building An Empire

2009-03-20T14:40:00.001+11:00

Or,

This Record Store Sure Is Well-Staffed!

I watched Empire Records for the first time the other day (yeah, I know. I'm not a real child of the nineties. Shut up).

I noticed two things about the type of film it is that would have been tremendously helpful to the screenwriter, Carol Heikkinen, and would be worth keeping in mind if one were ever writing something similar in future.

The first is that the film, with very little exception, takes place entirely in the record store itself. What this does is make it incredibly easy to introduce characters. If a scene were taking place, for example, in a couples' apartment in the middle of the night and you wanted to introduce a third character to the scene, you need to think about his/her introduction. Why are they there? Why this time of night? Is it urgent?

Empire Records taking place (almost) entirely within the titular record store means that you can just have characters show up for work. Why is Berko here all of a sudden? Well, he works here. There. Explained. Move on with the story.

The setting being a retail business lends itself particularly well to this; a record store also needs customers. There. New characters. Antagonists, even (like Warren)!

Keeping the film in this setting also lends the story an intimacy, and keeps the audience in the moment. There may have been opportunities to cut away from the store (to check in with Mitchell Beck, for example, before he visits), but that would have disrupted the intimacy and immediacy. The only exception that comes immediately to mind is when Lucas visits Atlantic City and loses the money, which is an incredibly important scene. It's our inciting incident.

The second thing I noticed is the compressed timeframe. The film (with one exception; again, Lucas' trip to Atlantic City) takes place entirely within one day. This has the result of making little things seem more important; that is, reducing the timeframe raises the stakes.

For example, AJ's resolution to tell Corey how he feels about her by 1:37 (I may've gotten that time wrong) takes on enormous significance that it wouldn't have had if the film had taken place over the course of a week.

Worth noting: Other films to fall into this little subgenre of One Crazy Day (...or Night) are Can't Hardly Wait and Superbad. I know there's a lot more, that's just off the top of my head.

I plan to keep both of these realisations in mind on whatever I might be working on in future. I expect them to be helpful.

-Dan

On Adaptation II, or With A Name Like Harvey Milk, He Couldn't Be Made Up

2009-03-14T17:34:00.001+11:00

A little while back the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences handed out their annual awards, The Oscars. A few moments before Mickey Rourke was thoroughly robbed, the screenwriting awards were handed out. The Oscar for Best Writing, Screenplay Based on Material Previously Produced or Published (commonly known as Best Adapted Screenplay) went (deservedly) to Slumdog Millionaire, by Simon Beaufoy while Best Writing, Screenplay Written Directly for the Screen (commonly known as Best Original Screenplay) went to Milk, by Dustin Lance Black.

You've hurt me deep down yet again, Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.

Something feels weird here. Surely writing a screenplay based on the life of somebody real counts as adapting a screenplay from existing material. If we look at the other nominees in the Original Screenplay category- Frozen River, Happy-Go-Lucky, In Bruges and Wall-E- we see films whose screenplays were conjured from thin air, sourced from nothing but the imaginations of their writers. The screenplay for Milk, however, required Dustin Lance Black to sit down with research material; documentaries, interviews, articles, etc, and adapt the information he found there into a screenplay.

The key to this seeming balls-up on the Academy's behalf is in the full names of the awards given- "Best Writing, Screenplay Based on Material Previously Produced or Published" seems to specify that to qualify, a screenplay needs to be based on an existing work (like a book, as was the case with Slumdog or its fellow nominees The Reader and The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, or a play, like Frost/Nixon or Doubt). A biopic (like Milk) apparently gets to fall right through this loophole and land squarely in the category of Original Screenplay.

Which, of course, is bullshit. The process of adapting a person's life into a screenplay is much closer to that of adapting a book than it is to that of writing something completely original (like Wall-E. I loved Wall-E.). It's not like Dustin Lance Black was in the shower or on the toilet one day and shouted "Eureka! A gay politician with a stupid name! That's my ticket to success!" before dropping a doody then rushing to his typewriter.

Please note that I'm not knocking Black, or his screenplay. I'm just arguing the categorisation.

Things would be different if I ran the Oscars, I tell ya'.

I Call Bullshit

2009-03-13T15:48:00.001+11:00

I was driving past the Melbourne Eye and Ear Hospital the other day. The sign read "Eye and Ear Hospital- Caring In Every Sense".

I count two, at most.

On Adaptation, or The Citizen Kane of Blog Posts

2009-03-13T15:18:00.002+11:00

Watchmen (the film) was released last week. You may've heard.

Now, adapting Watchmen (the graphic novel) is an ambitious task. It's one of the most widely revered graphic novels (comic books? Sequential novels? Oh, that's right, nobody actually cares) of all time, to say nothing of the fact that original writer Alan Moore is vocally and vehemently opposed to any film adaptations of his work. Yet director Zack Snyder and screenwriters David Hayter and Alex Tse set themselves that very task. Ballsy?! Yes. Foolhardy?! Perhaps. Really nerdy?! Most definitely.

Sidenote: I am beyond sick and tired of Watchmen being referred to as the Citizen Kane of comic books. I can't pinpoint exactly why, outside of it just seeming like a lazy way to heap praise onto something. "This is delicious! It truly is the Citizen Kane of nectarines!" "Ratchet and Clank: Up Your Arsenal is surely the Citizen Kane of platform video games!"

I saw the film on Sunday night (two for one tickets! The benefits of being a Village Movie Club member! Shit yeah.). For the record, I liked it.

Ultimately, though, I think that the movie's fidelity to the comic is both its greatest strength and its greatest weakness. A strength, because staying true to the comic gives the movie so much of what makes it a worthwhile endeavour; the depth of character, the moral ambiguity and the intellectual approach to what is, at its heart, a murder mystery with superheroes (I can imagine that's how Snyder pitched it to a studio. "It's a murder mystery... WITH SUPERHEROES! Give me money now," without mentioning the attempted rape or the glowing blue penis).

The weakness in sticking so close to the book is one of pacing. The movie plays out exactly as the book does. There are significantly fewer sequences, of course (those familiar with the book might miss the pirate story, "Tales of the Black Freighter", or the scenes involving characters standing around at a newsstand), but what events are shown unfold exactly the same way as they do in the book. Which leads us to an extended stretch of the film where nothing happens to further the main story, but characters stand around at a funeral remembering their most character-defining moments shared with the dead man. In the comic, this worked fine- comics are a medium built on short 20-to-30 page instalments, and so stories naturally unfold in chunks (This is the issue where the characters have flashbacks about The Comedian. This is the issue where Dr Manhattan stands around on Mars and remembers shit. And so on). In a movie, though, this storytelling style just leaves us feeling like we're taking a long time to get anywhere at all.

The difficulty is that any alternatives would present all new issues. To tell the story in a more chronological fashion- that is, to take the flashbacks and put them at the start, presenting in the same order in which they happened- would lead to a front-loaded film where LOTS happens in the first half hour followed by an Act 2 that slows right down. Learning about all the horrible things the Comedian did in order, right at the start of the film, would also (I suspect) make his character far less interesting.

So, yes, Watchmen is an imperfect adaptation. It was always going to be; the very things that make it such a great comic book (or graphic novel or story-pictures-book or some shit) make it an awkward film. Does this mean it wasn't worth adapting at all? I'd say no. We're still left with a film that is entertaining, if flawed; a film which stands as a response to the recent wave of superhero films the way the original work did to superhero comics.

Presenting superheroes as flawed, mentally unbalanced and ultimately ineffectual was, at the time of the book's publication, a brand new angle. In comics, it no longer is. In films, though, the time seems right for just such an approach. So I applaud Snyder, Hayter and Tse for taking on the task, and doing as good a job as anyone could have expected.

Hello, Internet.

2009-03-13T15:11:00.000+11:00

So, I have a blog now.

I mainly plan to use it to talk about writing. I'm sure all sorts of other things will crop up, but I'll always come back to writing sooner or later. Mostly film and TV, since that seems to be what I spend the majority of my time talking about.

Please note that I'm not positioning myself as any sort of authority on the subject; there are excellent blogs by working writers out there which are great places for advice and insight (janeespenson.com and johnaugust.com are two such blogs. I highly recommend them). This is just a place for a guy with an interest to share thoughts on the art/craft/analysis of writing.

Now, instead of having conversations about what was right about the script for Shaun of the Dead (characters, pacing, set up/pay off) and what was wrong with the script for Spiderman 3 (everything) with bored colleagues and eye rolling friends, I can have them... WITH THE INTERNET!

Beware, internet. Beware.

Let's get started.

D-MAN OUT!

...I probably won't end each post with that.