Voice by Daniel Calvisi www.actfourscreenplays.com

Voice: The Art of Description

published in Script magazine, November 2001

All rules are made to be broken. I hate to admit that, but it’s usually true. When it comes to screenplays, generally I think it’s a good rule that the description/action portions of the script be as simple as possible; the author’s narrative voice should be “invisible,” not foregrounded. In other words, a screenwriter should not embrace poetry the way a novelist can — they should keep it simple and direct at all times — in as few words as possible. That’s a good rule of thumb, and I advise you to practice it on your own screenplay.

But then you read that script with this crazy, compelling voice that randomly breaks into commentary, offers these zany asides, and even offers obscure bits of backstory about the characters that the film audience could never hope to know. And that’s when you panic. Because none of those screenwriting “gurus” in those seminars mentioned this technique; nor did any of the many books in the Movies/Screenplays section of Barnes & Noble that you bought & inhaled mention it.

The writer’s VOICE on the page is too often overlooked as an important element in a screenplay. Why? Probably because it’s the one main element that cannot make it to the screen. The screenwriter’s unique description of the rickety old haunted hourse is replaced with the director’s visual realization of that house on film. Also, consider that there is not yet a substantial market for reading published screenplays, so the actual prose of the screenplay becomes seen as less crucial to the process. Then, of course, there’s the historical legacy of ignoring and abusing the screenwriter, but we won’t even get into that.

But, considering that every screenplay is written to be submitted to a pro Reader (Story Analyst, Assistant, Producer, Creative Executive, Manager, Agent, etc.) then it stands to reason that the author’s voice, his/her actual word choice, is very important, correct? Correct.

What It Is

But here’s where it gets tricky. A screenplay is its own literary animal. It is the blueprint for a film, in words, written in a form that is a combination of a novel and a play. But it is not a novel, nor is it a stage play. It is a hybrid of both, but occupies its own form. And because of the lack of interest in the published screenplay as mentioned above, it essentially does not exist without the corresponding film that adapts it to the screen. So who are you writing it for? First and foremost, ironically, you are writing the screenplay for the audience that will see THE FILM. You should consider them when you write — put yourself in the place of the most passionate fan of this particular genre (ideally, that’s already you) and write it for that fan. Give them what they want to see and hear. Then pray the Reader can also put themselves in the place of that audience member!

I would contend the screenplay is actually closer to the novel. In a play, the author’s voice is expressed almost totally through dialogue. Sure, there are actions (a punch, a gun firing, pouring of a shot of whiskey), but they are secondary to the dialogue. In a screenplay, as in a novel, we have the benefit of both action and dialogue. And, like the novel, the action can be written with style. But the limitation in a screenplay is that it must be written in THE PRESENT TENSE. Why? Because it is describing the movie that we see playing in our mind’s eye right now. That movie is playing in real-time as we read.

In my humble opinion, the author’s voice in a screenplay is not as important as in a novel. For the simple fact that so much can be done with the novel — the potential for waxing poetic and creating an entirely unique narrative style is unlimited. But although the screenplay is limited by verb tense and a time limit (or page limit, as one page of screenplay equals approximately one minute of screen time), this does not mean that high art cannot be achieved in a screenplay. It can. It can be beautiful and mesmerizing and passionate and able to wrap its hands around your neck and squeeze...until you are left gasping and pacing the room. It can hit you that hard.

But, in the end, its main function is to describe a film that must be cast, shot, and edited to be fully realized. The screenplay is not its own literary entity (not yet). So what’s the point of a strong, unique narrative voice?

BLOW ME AWAY

Well, in short, to blow away the Reader! To make them FEEL the movie. More practically, to make your story stand out from the thousands of others in the herd so they will want to pay YOU for the privilege of making a movie out of your words.

Let’s jump back to the novel for a minute. In a novel with a very specific narrative voice, we relish the prose; we welcome it, we bathe in it. And we know right from the beginning, sometime the first sentence, if we are in the hands of a capable, or at least interesting, narrator; and by extension this is when we first judge if the author is in command of their story.

It was about eleven o’clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills. I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them. I was neat, clean shaved and sober, and I didn’t care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars.

Now that’s an opening paragraph! This is from Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep (copyright © Raymond Chandler 1939); my pick for the greatest American crime novel. Look at how much we learn in that one paragraph, how this character is set up, and how the style seeps through. Our narrator Phillip Marlowe defines his speech by what is not happening, which nicely sets up the tone of dread and nihilism of this dark, hard-boiled milieu. The sun is not shining; and in mentioning that he’s neat, clean-shaved and sober and he doesn’t care who knows it, he implies that he is usually not in such a presentable condition. He is a man of details, as shown by his description of his garb. He uses stylish descriptions, calling the rain ‘hard.’ And finally he shows us that he is interested in money and he is pursuing a case which involves a whole lot of it, so we get a sense of motivations and goals.

Now, in a screenplay, the writer must focus on SHOWING, not telling — so as to describe for the Reader the actual film that is playing. The writer must show what is there, not what isn’t there. It is always best to show character through actions, rather than just through a character’s dialogue. So in introducing a character, the screenwriter would do best to show them doing an action that is indicative of their character at the beginning of the film (or the start of their arc).

In THE VERDICT, Paul Newman’s washed-up lawyer is introduced playing a pinball machine in a seedy bar in the middle of the day (this is the credit sequence, before he is shown offering his business card to a grieving widow at her husband’s funeral).

In THE COLOR OF MONEY, Tom Cruise is introduced in a bar playing a kids’ video game as behind him a match of high-stakes billiards takes place. He won’t accept a challenge to play pool until his video game is finished. Even though, as we soon see, he can beat anyone in the room with his well-honed cue stick.

We understand these characters instantly, through their actions: Paul Newman is a has-been, a drunk who has given up on his career. Tom Cruise is a child, who’d rather play a video game than win big money playing pool. Is it any coincidence that these character traits directly relate to the main dramatic conflict of their journeys? As we later realize, Paul Newman’s deadbeat lawyer will be forced to go up against an entire room full of high-priced, Ivy league-educated lawyers. And Tom Cruise’s grinning pool hall pickup gamer will be forced to “grow up” as he is faced with the best competition players in the world.

The Real Deal

Sometimes, it’s just one word or phrase that makes the description. From AMERICAN HISTORY X, by David McKenna:

TIGHT ON DEREK VINYARD. The young man has a shaved head, a trimmed goatee, and a SWASTIKA on his right tit -- the center of the symbol crossed perfectly at the nipple.

McKenna calls a man’s chest a ‘tit.’ It gives an edge, an intensity, a ‘street’ feel to this young man. And you notice he puts swastika in CAPS, because it’s such a strong image and it immediately and dramatically introduces the themes of white supremacism and hatred that will permeate the story.

Although dialogue is key, a strong voice is found primarily in the description/ action portion of the screenplay. (Which is not to say that dialogue is not important; it is, but that’s probably the realm of a separate long-winded essay.) Let’s consider some more lines of description, from Wes Anderson and Owen Wilson’s RUSHMORE:

Mr Fischer holds up a hand mirror so Gordon can see the back. Gordon nods.

Max comes in rolling a Japanese ten-speed at his side.

The phrase “rolling a Japanese ten-speed at his side” adds so much more color than flat blocking like “Max walks in with his bike next to him,” or leaving out the bike with simply “Max walks in.” The reference to the Japanese ten-speed says “this is a kid” and “remember when you had a Fuji ten-speed?” It’s a connection the author makes with you.

Max looks across the yard at MAGNUS BUCHAN, the burly foreign-exchange student from Scotland. He is seventeen. He has a straw in his mouth, and he shoots a small blowdart at a little kid’s neck.

Half of Buchan’s ear was blown off in a hunting accident.

We never know from watching the film how Buchan’s ear became deformed. But in mentioning it to the reader in a line of what amounts to commentary (normally a “no-no,”), the authors clue us in to this character’s motivations and emotional makeup. We not only see him shooting a blowdart at a little kid, but we now know why he does this kind of thing. He’s an angry bully. An interesting one. A unique one. Not because he shoots a blowdart at a helpless victim (although that’s certainly more interesting than, say, punching a kid in the arm), but because half of his ear (not his whole ear, half) was blown off in a hunting accident. Personally, if I were to write that line, I probably would have written the cause of his deformity as an accident with fireworks. But that would have been wrong. The hunting accident makes us picture a domineering father, a macho insecure factor, maybe an abusive home, etc. All that when we watch the film we SEE Buchan represents due to the actor’s performance. But on paper the actor is not present, so the writers compensate with compelling prose. The words fill in for the performance.

Can’t Be Taught

Honestly, I don’t believe voice really can be taught. It’s an instinct, it’s a feeling, and it’s very hard to put one’s finger on. I don’t know exactly why the above script segments work for me, but they do. They just work. I don’t know why The Big Sleep reads like a punch in the gut; it just does. It works.

Voice is the icing on the cake;
the cake being a strong foundation of
structure, plot, and character.

Structure, character, and dialogue get much more focus; perhaps they are more ‘tangible,’ if you will. But the voice — word choice, blocking of text amidst white space, CAPPING of text and underlining — is always harder to peg. It really falls under the category of style, and thus I think of it as the ICING ON THE CAKE. It’s the final layer to hone, once the Story Map and the structure is in place, and everything is (almost) tight as a drum.

It is absolutely necessary for a spec script to employ a compelling and unique narrative voice if it is to gain attention.

It’s said of writing that “the devil is in the detail.” True, but the detail needs to work. It can’t just be a lot of detail. You can’t just pile on the adjectives, and worse, the adverbs. Bad writers make that mistake. Here’s a sample from an unknown novel (can’t for the life of me remember how this ended up on my doorstep) by an anonymous writer (better they stay that way):

Jon’s incredibly weakened legs were not of much use, so he went back to dragging himself in Amanda’s direction while the incredible pain in his arms, shoulders, and back threatened to slam him back into unconsciousness.

It took the resilient Secret Service agent over fifteen minutes to crawl a distance of only ten feet. Even though he didn’t want to, Jon was forced to keep stopping every couple of seconds to catch his breath. He probably had cracked one, if not several, ribs in the tumble down the mountain. Nevertheless, he was alive and if Crystal was too, then they both had won, so far.

[later...]

Jon Drake’s eyes snapped wide open as a searing bolt of pain spat him back into consciousness. His entire body ached. The pain ebbed away and then another wave came back crashing in. He couldn’t remember ever being in such pain.

Paging Mr. B. Oring? Hmm, let’s make a list — reporting, explaining, generic word choice, repetition, clichés, flat voice, minutiae, overwritten descriptions...the list of flaws goes on. It’s pulp, trash, need we say more? The point is, detail does NOT equal compelling prose.

Here’s a dramatic struggle from Andrew Kevin Walker’s 8MM that reads better. Notice the verbage and the use of the ellipsis:

INT. SECOND FLOOR HALLWAY — DAY

Welles turns...

Machine charges down the hall, screaming with rage, BOWIE KNIFE raised to kill...

Welles brings his gun up, but Machine’s upon him, stabbing...

Welles catches Machine’s hand, stops the knife. Machine grips Welles’ gun hand, shoving him back...

Welles is SLAMMED against the wall, grappling, gun hand pinned. Welles’ GUN GOES OFF, once... twice...

BLOWING HOLES in the ceiling. Machine grunts, pushing the knife forward... closer to Welles’ face... closer...

Welles struggles, overpowered. The tip of the horrible knife is inches away...

Welles bends his knees, crouching, trying to gain distance from the blade...

Machine pulls Welles’ gun hand lower, brings it against the swinging LAUNDRY CHUTE DOOR built into the wall, begins twisting Welles’ hand back, trying to pry the gun loose...

Welles looks out the corner of his eyes to his gun...

Welles turns his gun hand, slowing struggling to aim the gun towards the knife, but it’s awful close to his face...

The knife’s shaking, less than an inch from Welles’ cheek...

Welles shuts his eyes and turns his head, letting out a CRY, FIRES his gun...

The bullet BLASTS Machine’s knife, knocks it away!

Machine recoils for a millisecond, but brings his now free hand to Welles’ throat, choking him. Welles’ face reddens, bleeding from bullet fragments...

Welles tries to pry Machine’s fingers from his throat.

Machine works on Welles’ gun hand with violent, renewed effort — SLAMS Welles’ hand against the laundry chute...

SLAMS it... SLAMS it... till Welles DROPS the GUN...

The gun can be HEARD CLATTERING down the chute.

Boy, that Welles is having a bad day, huh? I guess it goes to show, ya never trust a man named MACHINE.

Okay, let’s all take a deep breath for the big finale...

Voice. The tough thing is you know it when you see it. There’s no way to teach it. It either works or it doesn’t. Three act structure focused on an active protagonist — now that’s always going to work — might not be your cup of tea, but it will work as a story. But writing a western in the tone of a grizzled plainsman? Could be a major misfire. But then again, it could blow me away. Rules were made to be broken, I suppose.