In Walks a Tall Dark Stranger: Character Description Do's & Don'ts

It's common, when reading an amateur screenwriter's work to see the protagonist described using what I like to call the APB method. Here the author takes the idea of visual story telling a little to literally and feels the need to describe the protagonist solely as we would see him or her--to the point where we have a definite picture in our mind of the character and could even pick him or her out of a line-up, hence the All Points Bulletin.

While this might work in literature, where the movie is in our head, in a motion picture the movie is cast with real people, who are going to have a little more trouble changing their physical appearances to fit your APB (unless we're talking about Ron Pearlman). Not only that, but you don't want to write up a character description so specific that it is going to rule out a potential star like Leonardo DiCaprio or Angelina Jolie.

The challenge becomes striking a balance between the physical and the abstract, creating a character that has a definite physical presence and persona, but could be played by anyone. The common adage is that a character description has to serve as actor bait. To craft a character description that achieves this goal there are a few things to keep in mind:

Anatomy of Suspense: An essay on Anatomy of a Murder

A courtroom drama can be told from any number of perspectives and often in combination to give a more complete view of the case.  Where 12 Angry Men gives a look into the jury room, Anatomy of a Murder (playing at the Louisville Palace Aug. 26^th at 8:00 P.M.) gives the audience a step-by-step recipe for how to defend a client who admits to the crime.  Anatomy of a Murder also gives the screenwriter a tutorial on how to build suspense.  Primarily, create conflict, provide opposition, increase the tension and maintain doubt up until the very end.

  

Anatomy of a Murder (1959) is a film from director Otto Preminger, screenwriter Wendell Mayes, and stars James Stewart as the defense attorney for a decorated soldier who admits to shooting a man. Michael Asimow, from UCLA Law School, called the film, “probably the finest pure trial movie ever made.” A big reason for that accuracy and its influence on future films is that it is based on a book written by a Michigan Supreme Court Justice John D. Voelker, under the pseudonym Robert Traver. The film walks the line of truth and ethics and holds the distinction of being one of the first movies to grapple with the graphic nature of sex and rape.

"Stay on the Road. Keep Clear of the Moors": Making the Conventional Unconventional

Horror movies, the good ones at least, are about more than what they seem. The surface story is a metaphor, usually for some social issue or some emotional aspect of human nature. David Kessler, the protagonist of John Landis’ screenplay An American Werewolf in London, is not just a man who changes into a wolf every full moon; he is a man struggling with mental illness and trying to maintain his grip on reality. He does not even change into a wolf until the second half of the second act (Landis 52-53). Up until that point he is in a hospital, trying to recover, physically and emotionally, from a brutal attack that killed his best friend. However, disturbing nightmares and visions of his dead friend cause him to question his sanity. Essentially, when he finally turns into a wolf, he is giving into his delusions and they become real and, ultimately, consume him.

On Walden Pond: A Writer Reflects

Although I am not a Louisville native (I came here for school and decided to stay), the city has both become my home and inspired me. I have spent time in local coffee shops with monikers like Quills, Heine Brothers, Highland Coffee, and the Java Brewing Co. keeping Louisville weird and crafting scenes to fill my screenplays. I must confess, I once took a meeting in a Starbucks, but I would have much preferred the warmth and quirkiness of a local joint. Though I do love my metro “grind houses”, some times the constant motion of Louisville living becomes to much for my already overburdened brain.

It's at these times when I need that essential man (and woman, I'm sure) need. No, not that need. I'm talking about solitude, like the kind Thoreau wrote about. Even though Emerson called solitude the “safeguard of mediocrity” I wouldn't be surprised if he wrote that line while looking out of a window in his summer cottage. No, Emerson was an advocate for, “a life of activity without bustle, a life of both power and repose” (Richardson and Moser 493). And, since I'm an Ohio boy, I retreat back to my homeland to enjoy my repose. Not to the rolling farmland and stunted brick buildings of my hometown in Northwestern Ohio, but to Southeastern Ohio's wild, unkempt Appalachian foothills—to my family's cabin.

The Subtext of Secrecy in: The Man Who Knew Too Much

When the subtext of secrecy works well in a film, it can create new opportunities to thicken the plot, advance the story, breathe life into a character, or add witty metaphors to the dialogue. Subtext is one of the least utilized skills in screenwriting. However, The Man Who Knew Too Much, directed by Alfred Hitchcock, is a film that makes intelligent use of the device. What is subtext? It is the underlining meaning of words or actions.  Or in this case, it is the subjacent theme of sneakiness that flows and ebbs like turbulent waters through the course of this Hitchcock film.

In the early 1930’s Hitchcock worked with writer Charles Bennett on formulating a picture founded on the BULLDOG DRUMMOND narratives. Bulldog Drummond was a fictional British soldier who retired after the First World War. Since he was also wealthy, Drummond spent his time working as a private detective. However, when the deal for the Drummond narratives deflated, Hitchcock and Bennett kept the structure for the story, which included the kidnapping of an infant, intrigue, and spying. They reconfigured the tale, and the story later became the 1934 Hitchcock film, The Man Who Knew Too Much.

Advice from the Script Reader

If you’re reading this post, chances are you want to take your script from page to screen; you’ve sacrificed time, talent, and treasure to complete that draft, and now you’re ready to dazzle the world with your talent. You type “FADE TO BLACK.” Hit print. Bind your pages. Package them. And mail your script to the studio or the contest you believe might be interested. Now, the journey is underway. In your heart, you believe your script is the best version of itself because after you finished typing, you gave it to your Aunt or Uncle to read, and they loved it. However, would your screenwriting stand up to the scrutiny of THE SCRIPT READER?

I currently work in the independent film industry as a professional script reader, and have read my share of dramatic works over the years. Some good and others not so good. Holding an MFA in screenwriting, I know from experience that facing the blank page is no simple chore. Take my advice. Having a loving family member with little to no experience as a script reader analyze your masterpiece just can’t compare to having it scrutinized by an experienced professional—a person with a niche for craft elements who knows what producers are looking for in a spec script.

"Fortune and Glory, Kid. Fortune and Glory" : Creating Dramatic Conflict, Part I

 Every good screenplay needs conflict, but how does one define conflict? At its most basic, conflict is two opposing forces. However, in drama, it is a little more clearly defined: Conflict occurs when a character wants something badly and is having trouble getting it. The "something" desired by the character is usually an abstract concept or emotion, known as the Dramatic Need and the "trouble" is known as the Obstacle(s), which can be either external or internal. That is, Obstacles (usually known as the antagonist) can be either another character; the setting itself, think Alive or Panic Room; or a defect in the protagonist's character, like Chief Martin Brody in Jaws (he's afraid of the water) or Bill Murray's character in What about Bob? (he's afraid of everything). Whatever the case, Obstacles are relatively easy to identify because they're barriers, which, by nature, are often tangible.

Dramatic Needs, on the other hand, are a little trickier to express. For instance, You may have a character who badly wants “acceptance," but what does that look like? Abstract concepts like this are difficult to convey to the audience. There are two ways around it, though. And if used in tandem, they can give your character an attainable goal and the audience a definite sense of resolution once that goal is achieved.

Tampering with Turning Points: The Structure of Annie Hall

Woody Allen’s Annie Hall is the story of a man dealing with life after a breakup with his girlfriend. Neurotic, pessimistic comedian Alvy Singer recalls the memories of his relationship with Annie Hall in an effort to find out what caused them to part ways. Alvy is a standup comedian who is unwilling to change, yet he expects everyone else to change. He is uncompromising. So much that he attempts to mold the women in his life into what he wants in a mate. Annie Hall is an aspiring singer who is constantly willing to broaden her horizons, either on her own or at the suggestion of others. The connection between these two polar opposites creates extreme conflict. Said conflict drives the story.

An unusual script, Annie Hall features a number of scenes where Alvy Singer speaks directly to the audience. Seamless and often confusing flashback scenes occur throughout the script. One particular scene is an animation sequence. However, despite its unusual aspects, Annie Hall follows the standard three act structure of storytelling that is often confusing because of the multiple turning points, particularly those of the second act.

Zoetrope Virtual Studio: Screenwriting Contest

The Zoetrope Virtual Studio: Screenwriting Contest early deadline has just passed. Unproduced screenwriters now have until Sept. 6 to polish up that final draft they've been working on and come up with the $50 necessary to enter the contest. The grand prize is $5000 plus agent and prodco consideration--not to mention having Francis Ford Coppola and the Zoetrope staff as your judges. Check out the link for rules and regulations.

Don't worry. If you win, you'll still retain full rights to your script. And they don't mind if you've submitted your screenplay to other contests, either. They don't, however, give any sort of coverage, so if you don't win, that's fifty bucks you'll never see again. But that's the nature of risk and reward, isn't it?