I'm a tough audience. I think most theater people are...of ANYbody, we're the most easily bored, sometimes the least willing to pay much for our tickets, and we bring, usually, a sense of "been there, done that" with us when we enter the space.
That said, I would also argue that we're more thrilled than anyone by good work, that we're the first to spot it, and that we'll think about it the longest, once we've seen it. It may be a weird mix of work and play, but we LOVE to see good work.
I've seen some good work lately. I wanted to mention three shows in particular: Black Watch, 4000 Miles, and Quick and Dirty.
The experience of these shows couldn't have been more different.
Black Watch was a HUUUUUGE hit, circling around for a return engagement at the cavernous Saint Ann's Warehouse in DUMBO. I shelled out full ticket price for K and I to see this one, because there was no alternative. And I was glad I did.
The show was loud -- so loud I covered my ears a lot of the time. It was about the Scottish Highland Regiment in Iraq, and was set both there and in a pub in Scotland. What I loved about the show was its ambition -- everything about it was loud and big and athletic and robust. It used its set and props in surprising ways, in that kind of "object play" where a pool table becomes a trojan horse (with someone cutting up through its fabric to make an entrance) becomes an army tank...where entrances and exits are full-throttle, where everything happens with the kind of velocity that keeps your adrenaline up...wholly appropriate, I thought, for a war play.
4,000 Miles was another new play, this time at Lincoln Center's LCT3 stage. I don't remember the last time I saw that meticulous a recreation of an apartment onstage...and the show, like the set, relied on the kind of watch-them-blink realism that I tend to associate with Chicago theater...although this was a New York playwright, the lovely and talented Amy Herzog. Given how true-to-life the play was, the staging made tons of sense. Amy is very, very good at letting us watch characters live in a space...hers isn't the set-up pay-off answer-the-question style in which I've been trained...there's a bit more breathing room, a bit more "this is how people are." That really came across.
Finally, last night I saw Braden Lubell's "Quick and Dirty" at a tiiiiiiiiiiny broooooooooke theater in faaaaaaaaaar Williamsburg. The set consisted of about twelve planks that had been used to create a bar, six or so bar stools, and folding chairs across the back, where all the actors sat and watched the action. Light and sound were minimal. Most scenes involved two, maybe three characters. Several of us were sitting on the floor to watch. But the acting and writing were solid and supported each other, and the simplicity of it was a good reminder that you can have a moving experience without bells, whistles, an expensive set...that ultimately, theater is about getting people in the room and telling them a good story.
I feel privileged to have seen all three productions.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Evolving Process
I've spent a very frustrating year writing and rewriting and rewriting the same first draft of a screenplay. And I've *also* spent time this year working on some projects that have come *much* more easily. While I think there's a lot to be said for discovering a play as you write it, I think I'm starting to find that, for me, there are ways to invite that "discovery" in the prewriting process, and shortcut some of the teeth-gnashing, laptop-slamming dead-ends that have characterized this year for me.
A snapshot of my evolving process:
(1) Get obsessed by some small detail or "what if."
(2) Write it out in a paragraph form.
(3) Take it to index cards. Follow, in some fashion, Blake Snyder's structure...but pretty loosely.
(4) Write a one-line-per-event beat sheet. With a play, several events probably happen in one scene.
(5) EXPAND the beat sheet, fleshing out the lines, until I have a sense of the story.
(6) (if this were a movie, I'd be showing people my work at each stage listed above...)
(7) Write a paragraph or two bio on each character. Find a picture of them. Figure out who they remind me of. Write a paragraph or so of that character speaking, to begin to hear each voice.
(8) Start writing. Try to write the first draft FAST.
(9) Have a table read...but actually don't write the last scene or so, or at least don't bring it to the reading. Ask questions about what's happened, what feels like needs to happen before the play is over. Pay close attention to when people are paying attention, and when they're dropping out. Get the smartest people you can in the room for this.
(10) Rewrite the draft based on the table read, and actually finish the play. That's the ZERO DRAFT.
(11) Sit on the play for a week. Don't work on another project, just go running and go to yoga and spend time outside and maybe go see some other plays.
(12) Reread the draft with a list of questions in hand (see past entries for good questions).
(13) Rewrite.
(14) Give the play to one person who was at the table read, and one person who hasn't seen it.
(15) Reread the blog, thinking of whether you're actually applying what you've learned to this play.
(16) Collect notes from reader friends, get your own, take another pass.
(17) See where you're at. Hopefully by now you've got a FIRST DRAFT.
A snapshot of my evolving process:
(1) Get obsessed by some small detail or "what if."
(2) Write it out in a paragraph form.
(3) Take it to index cards. Follow, in some fashion, Blake Snyder's structure...but pretty loosely.
(4) Write a one-line-per-event beat sheet. With a play, several events probably happen in one scene.
(5) EXPAND the beat sheet, fleshing out the lines, until I have a sense of the story.
(6) (if this were a movie, I'd be showing people my work at each stage listed above...)
(7) Write a paragraph or two bio on each character. Find a picture of them. Figure out who they remind me of. Write a paragraph or so of that character speaking, to begin to hear each voice.
(8) Start writing. Try to write the first draft FAST.
(9) Have a table read...but actually don't write the last scene or so, or at least don't bring it to the reading. Ask questions about what's happened, what feels like needs to happen before the play is over. Pay close attention to when people are paying attention, and when they're dropping out. Get the smartest people you can in the room for this.
(10) Rewrite the draft based on the table read, and actually finish the play. That's the ZERO DRAFT.
(11) Sit on the play for a week. Don't work on another project, just go running and go to yoga and spend time outside and maybe go see some other plays.
(12) Reread the draft with a list of questions in hand (see past entries for good questions).
(13) Rewrite.
(14) Give the play to one person who was at the table read, and one person who hasn't seen it.
(15) Reread the blog, thinking of whether you're actually applying what you've learned to this play.
(16) Collect notes from reader friends, get your own, take another pass.
(17) See where you're at. Hopefully by now you've got a FIRST DRAFT.
Screw the Man
What is required to write every play, of course, differs. And one of the gifts we can give ourselves, as writers, is to let each process be its own exploration, to let the play "teach us what it wants to be." Annie Baker's recent HowlRound interview was as smart as I've come to expect (which is to say, "quite,"), but there was one line that sent me flying off on a tangent: "I try to free my students from the notion that there is one way to write to play and they have to conform their impulses and ideas to this conventional watered-down half-Aristotelian half-lame-o Hollywood structure."
I want to be clear, here, that what follows is less a reaction to what Annie said or might have meant than it is a reaction to where I went with it, as I was waking up with my morning run. But here we go:
Of course, on the one hand, she's absolutely right; there are plenty of playwrights, especially young ones, who have grown up in the world of television and film and so are maybe particularly susceptible to the language and habits of those media, and who we who teach can best serve by opening up to the possibilities of a live medium, to the broad spectrum of possibilities it offers us in terms of rhythm and spectacle and music and language play. But there's a huge difference between forcing students to "conform their impulses" and empowering them with a sense of history and craft, with helping to equip them with as many tools as possible. Instinct alone won't make them playwrights. Reading widely is critical, seeing widely helps even more...but equipping students with a language to articulate what they see, giving them "rules" if only so that they can tell those rules to fuck off...that's important. Making the mistake of following the rules, and then fighting your way free of them...I'd argue that that's a critical stage in a playwright's development.
I want to be clear, here, that what follows is less a reaction to what Annie said or might have meant than it is a reaction to where I went with it, as I was waking up with my morning run. But here we go:
Of course, on the one hand, she's absolutely right; there are plenty of playwrights, especially young ones, who have grown up in the world of television and film and so are maybe particularly susceptible to the language and habits of those media, and who we who teach can best serve by opening up to the possibilities of a live medium, to the broad spectrum of possibilities it offers us in terms of rhythm and spectacle and music and language play. But there's a huge difference between forcing students to "conform their impulses" and empowering them with a sense of history and craft, with helping to equip them with as many tools as possible. Instinct alone won't make them playwrights. Reading widely is critical, seeing widely helps even more...but equipping students with a language to articulate what they see, giving them "rules" if only so that they can tell those rules to fuck off...that's important. Making the mistake of following the rules, and then fighting your way free of them...I'd argue that that's a critical stage in a playwright's development.
Speaking of Direct Address...
Which is, I suppose, the definition of a blog...
NYT critic Charles Isherwood's fall 2010 article about (or, should I say, against) direct address set off a mild firestorm in the blogosphere; Kris Diaz, a former fellow Ars Novan, was singled out by Isherwood, and responded to Ishwerwood on his blog. Soon after, the fabulous Joshua Conkle of Youngblood picked up the cry, Alejandro Morales over at the Public's Emerging Writers Group suggested that, to some degree, Isherwood had a point, while Chris Braak, down in Philly, points out that direct address, which has been around since the Greeks, is often preferable to the "unmotivated flying monologue" addressed to another character for no particular reason.
The debate also engendered two of the best days of discussion in my playwriting class last year. I brought in paper copies of Isherwood and Diaz's manifesta, asked my students to read them, and then started asking questions. I wanted to really get at the "generational" argument posed in some of the articles -- is this just a question of two generations inability to look at each others' means of expression? What are these arguments really getting at?
The kids didn't have an answer, and neither do I...but either way, it forced all of us to interrogate form, to think more deeply about what we do when, and why.
NYT critic Charles Isherwood's fall 2010 article about (or, should I say, against) direct address set off a mild firestorm in the blogosphere; Kris Diaz, a former fellow Ars Novan, was singled out by Isherwood, and responded to Ishwerwood on his blog. Soon after, the fabulous Joshua Conkle of Youngblood picked up the cry, Alejandro Morales over at the Public's Emerging Writers Group suggested that, to some degree, Isherwood had a point, while Chris Braak, down in Philly, points out that direct address, which has been around since the Greeks, is often preferable to the "unmotivated flying monologue" addressed to another character for no particular reason.
The debate also engendered two of the best days of discussion in my playwriting class last year. I brought in paper copies of Isherwood and Diaz's manifesta, asked my students to read them, and then started asking questions. I wanted to really get at the "generational" argument posed in some of the articles -- is this just a question of two generations inability to look at each others' means of expression? What are these arguments really getting at?
The kids didn't have an answer, and neither do I...but either way, it forced all of us to interrogate form, to think more deeply about what we do when, and why.
Teaching Shakespeare
One of the great, and honestly unexpected, delights of teaching literature to high schoolers is the opportunity to spend more time with Shakespeare. In the past two years, I taught Merchant of Venice and Hamlet...this year I'm adding Twelfth Night and Lear to the mix.
I've revisited John Barton's terrific "Playing Shakespeare" series (even bought the DVDs), spent some quality time with Harold Bloom, read up on what we do and don't actually know about the Bard himself, and watched many versions of several plays.
I hadn't spent much time with Shakespeare since I began writing -- before that, my encounters with his work came more from an actor's perspective. And I'd never had to turn around and articulate to kids what they should look for. What follows is a brief and relatively inarticulate list of things I've been seeing...much of it probably review, for any playwrights looking at the blog.
1. Shakespeare, more than most of us now, interwove two or more plots in many of his plays. Sometimes those plots themselves were pretty simple -- by interweaving them, he created some of that complexity of story and theme for which he's so revered. Lear and his daughters, yes, but ALSO Gloucester and his sons...it's the two stories together that give the play its power.
2. He really had fun with his antagonists -- they weren't just obstacles to his heroes, in fact, you'd be forgiven for seeing the bad guys as the heroes in several of his plays. Claudius gets his day in the sun. Shylock is one of the most compelling characters ever written, even when we hate him.
3. He developed character and relationship through language. Sure, we all do this -- but he took it to extremes. It's wild, the degree to which you can use verse vs. prose in his plays to mark the action, the relationships. The specificity of it, of his use of meter and broken meter to teach us how to read a scene, is staggering.
4. He knew how to use direct address, and he knew how to use spectacle...he didn't, for the most part, OVERuse them.
5. He was prolific as all hell...but it was clear that he (and, well, most of his contemporaries) didn't spend his energy creating stories from scratch...he was a scavenger who would find a story worth telling, and then figure out how to tell it in the most compelling way. He didn't use all his energy creating plot...he used it to refine, expand, challenge, entertain. To quote Dietz "a good story well told is always radical." Didn't matter if he didn't come up with the story.
6. He knew how to blow a play open with a well-placed juxtaposition. Why is the gravedigger scene in Hamlet so crucial? Because it gets us out of the vacuum of the castle, and reminds us that there are people other than royals and courtiers who have a stake in the story. It reminds us what the events mean to the people of Denmark. It reminds us that life, too, is fleeting...it brings in history and class in a whole new way, and quickly, and then gets us back to the task at hand. With most of those scenes in a Shakespeare play where you say "why the hell do I need that scene," imagine what the play would be like without it. Usually, the answer is "smaller. Less ambitious." Note: these are a lot of the scenes that, in contemporary theater, are most in danger of being "developed" out of the script...because they're expensive (if they require an additional actor) and tangential (if they only appear once).
7. He knew how to write a good fight scene.
8. He knew that plays could be deep but that he also had to entertain his audience...with a good sword fight...or some mistaken identities...or some double-cross-dressing...
I've revisited John Barton's terrific "Playing Shakespeare" series (even bought the DVDs), spent some quality time with Harold Bloom, read up on what we do and don't actually know about the Bard himself, and watched many versions of several plays.
I hadn't spent much time with Shakespeare since I began writing -- before that, my encounters with his work came more from an actor's perspective. And I'd never had to turn around and articulate to kids what they should look for. What follows is a brief and relatively inarticulate list of things I've been seeing...much of it probably review, for any playwrights looking at the blog.
1. Shakespeare, more than most of us now, interwove two or more plots in many of his plays. Sometimes those plots themselves were pretty simple -- by interweaving them, he created some of that complexity of story and theme for which he's so revered. Lear and his daughters, yes, but ALSO Gloucester and his sons...it's the two stories together that give the play its power.
2. He really had fun with his antagonists -- they weren't just obstacles to his heroes, in fact, you'd be forgiven for seeing the bad guys as the heroes in several of his plays. Claudius gets his day in the sun. Shylock is one of the most compelling characters ever written, even when we hate him.
3. He developed character and relationship through language. Sure, we all do this -- but he took it to extremes. It's wild, the degree to which you can use verse vs. prose in his plays to mark the action, the relationships. The specificity of it, of his use of meter and broken meter to teach us how to read a scene, is staggering.
4. He knew how to use direct address, and he knew how to use spectacle...he didn't, for the most part, OVERuse them.
5. He was prolific as all hell...but it was clear that he (and, well, most of his contemporaries) didn't spend his energy creating stories from scratch...he was a scavenger who would find a story worth telling, and then figure out how to tell it in the most compelling way. He didn't use all his energy creating plot...he used it to refine, expand, challenge, entertain. To quote Dietz "a good story well told is always radical." Didn't matter if he didn't come up with the story.
6. He knew how to blow a play open with a well-placed juxtaposition. Why is the gravedigger scene in Hamlet so crucial? Because it gets us out of the vacuum of the castle, and reminds us that there are people other than royals and courtiers who have a stake in the story. It reminds us what the events mean to the people of Denmark. It reminds us that life, too, is fleeting...it brings in history and class in a whole new way, and quickly, and then gets us back to the task at hand. With most of those scenes in a Shakespeare play where you say "why the hell do I need that scene," imagine what the play would be like without it. Usually, the answer is "smaller. Less ambitious." Note: these are a lot of the scenes that, in contemporary theater, are most in danger of being "developed" out of the script...because they're expensive (if they require an additional actor) and tangential (if they only appear once).
7. He knew how to write a good fight scene.
8. He knew that plays could be deep but that he also had to entertain his audience...with a good sword fight...or some mistaken identities...or some double-cross-dressing...
Thursday, June 16, 2011
The Emperor's Daring New Outfit
This spring, I had an optimistic stretch where I thought I'd have time to take an acting class. This is still very much on my to-do list, or my "New York bucket list"...there are all sorts of things that fall under the rubric of "I won't live here forever, so..."
In any case, I went so far as to sit in on a few classes, including one with a noted director and actor. Now, this guy's credentials are not in question. I mean, one of those "greatest living X" kind of things -- the man knows what he's talking about.
But the class was so bad that I walked out.
Bad how?
Bad as in "two egregiously mediocre students performed one of the most wooden scenes I'd ever seen, and instead of really interrogating the work, asking questions and giving notes and GETTING IN THERE, the guy just started talking. And talking. And talking. In a way that was clearly designed to eat away at the several hours of class time and protect himself from having to address the real problem at hand, which was to try to impart anything of merit to a room full of people who cared enough to pay (both their time and money) to be there." I have seen terrific teaching. This wasn't it.
The class was by audition. And it was huge.
The cynicism required, on the part of the people who put together that class, floored me. FLOORED me. There were some talented people in that room. I can't imagine what they gained by being there, except "access" to someone who might, possibly, be able to pick them out of the crowd and further their careers. But I have to say, based on what I witnessed, that wasn't on this guy's radar...although he was happy to show up late and take their money.
And no, of course I won't say who or where this was. And of course I won't tell you if you guess right.
I hesitated a long time before writing this post at all...but the continuing purpose of this blog is to record, for posterity, what I learn. And sometimes we learn by counterexample.
What had to happen to create a room, a situation like that? I imagine it was something like this:
long ago, a talented artist of some acclaim realized that his terrific artistry wasn't going to keep him fed, or keep a roof over his head. A studio approached him with the possibility of teaching some talented aspiring actors. They would have to audition, so he'd have some control over the makeup of the class, and could work with some truly strong emerging artists. The grateful artist said yes -- this would fill the gap, allow him to take that fantastic project that didn't pay without starving.
Time passed. His class filled. He taught well, and the students in his class went on to good things. They mentioned him. The studio realized they had a commodity on their hands, and offered him a few more classes. He was doing well and figured "why not." He still let in all the incredible talents, but in order to make sure that each class hit its target number, he dipped a little lower in the pool. He recycled a few of the scenes he'd used before, some scenes he'd directed in full-length plays. All was well.
Time passed, the studio's rent went up, so they expanded classes a bit. The actor met a woman, thought about settling down, knew there was a long waiting list for his class and thought "what the hell." He added a little class. He was a little bit bored at this point, but he knew the scenes backward and forward, knew each road bump students would hit. He talked a little longer between scenes, let the mid-class break stretch a couple of extra minutes. No big deal.
A couple of his outside gigs really got him in the spotlight. He had way less energy, these days -- a demanding repertory opportunity had him drained, he and his wife hit a rough patch -- he was bored as hell at the studio but thank god for the steady income because you never knew when there'd be a dry spell and most of the TV shows were packing up and moving back west...besides, he could direct these scenes with his eyes closed, and the students always seemed to love his stories...he'd rather listen to his own voice than see one more woman butcher "Stella...Stella for star..."
And so it went.
What leads to this room?
Talented artists who can't make a living wage, who rely on a "teaching gig" to pay the bills when their hearts aren't in it. America doesn't pay its artists to be artists, it pays them to teach their art.
Studios willing to capitalize on a name, who aren't asking questions about pedagogy.
Desperate aspiring artists who hope, and are told, that "getting in the room" with people who might help their careers matters more than the quality of room they're in...so they pay to play.
A community that equates acting or directing actors with teaching acting...to teach acting one must be able to do the first two things, but it *is* a different skillset.
It's not that guy's fault. It's systemic.
But that day was a very sobering reminder...because, on some level, I'm a playwright who walks into a classroom every day, who is learning to teach on the job, who shows up at the table even on the days when I'd rather be writing. HOW do we, as teaching artists, remember that the classroom is an extension of our practice, that teaching too is an art, that it is every bit as worthy of our passion, preparation and attention as the skill set that we are trying, I hope, to instill in others? How do we do it every day?
In any case, I went so far as to sit in on a few classes, including one with a noted director and actor. Now, this guy's credentials are not in question. I mean, one of those "greatest living X" kind of things -- the man knows what he's talking about.
But the class was so bad that I walked out.
Bad how?
Bad as in "two egregiously mediocre students performed one of the most wooden scenes I'd ever seen, and instead of really interrogating the work, asking questions and giving notes and GETTING IN THERE, the guy just started talking. And talking. And talking. In a way that was clearly designed to eat away at the several hours of class time and protect himself from having to address the real problem at hand, which was to try to impart anything of merit to a room full of people who cared enough to pay (both their time and money) to be there." I have seen terrific teaching. This wasn't it.
The class was by audition. And it was huge.
The cynicism required, on the part of the people who put together that class, floored me. FLOORED me. There were some talented people in that room. I can't imagine what they gained by being there, except "access" to someone who might, possibly, be able to pick them out of the crowd and further their careers. But I have to say, based on what I witnessed, that wasn't on this guy's radar...although he was happy to show up late and take their money.
And no, of course I won't say who or where this was. And of course I won't tell you if you guess right.
I hesitated a long time before writing this post at all...but the continuing purpose of this blog is to record, for posterity, what I learn. And sometimes we learn by counterexample.
What had to happen to create a room, a situation like that? I imagine it was something like this:
long ago, a talented artist of some acclaim realized that his terrific artistry wasn't going to keep him fed, or keep a roof over his head. A studio approached him with the possibility of teaching some talented aspiring actors. They would have to audition, so he'd have some control over the makeup of the class, and could work with some truly strong emerging artists. The grateful artist said yes -- this would fill the gap, allow him to take that fantastic project that didn't pay without starving.
Time passed. His class filled. He taught well, and the students in his class went on to good things. They mentioned him. The studio realized they had a commodity on their hands, and offered him a few more classes. He was doing well and figured "why not." He still let in all the incredible talents, but in order to make sure that each class hit its target number, he dipped a little lower in the pool. He recycled a few of the scenes he'd used before, some scenes he'd directed in full-length plays. All was well.
Time passed, the studio's rent went up, so they expanded classes a bit. The actor met a woman, thought about settling down, knew there was a long waiting list for his class and thought "what the hell." He added a little class. He was a little bit bored at this point, but he knew the scenes backward and forward, knew each road bump students would hit. He talked a little longer between scenes, let the mid-class break stretch a couple of extra minutes. No big deal.
A couple of his outside gigs really got him in the spotlight. He had way less energy, these days -- a demanding repertory opportunity had him drained, he and his wife hit a rough patch -- he was bored as hell at the studio but thank god for the steady income because you never knew when there'd be a dry spell and most of the TV shows were packing up and moving back west...besides, he could direct these scenes with his eyes closed, and the students always seemed to love his stories...he'd rather listen to his own voice than see one more woman butcher "Stella...Stella for star..."
And so it went.
What leads to this room?
Talented artists who can't make a living wage, who rely on a "teaching gig" to pay the bills when their hearts aren't in it. America doesn't pay its artists to be artists, it pays them to teach their art.
Studios willing to capitalize on a name, who aren't asking questions about pedagogy.
Desperate aspiring artists who hope, and are told, that "getting in the room" with people who might help their careers matters more than the quality of room they're in...so they pay to play.
A community that equates acting or directing actors with teaching acting...to teach acting one must be able to do the first two things, but it *is* a different skillset.
It's not that guy's fault. It's systemic.
But that day was a very sobering reminder...because, on some level, I'm a playwright who walks into a classroom every day, who is learning to teach on the job, who shows up at the table even on the days when I'd rather be writing. HOW do we, as teaching artists, remember that the classroom is an extension of our practice, that teaching too is an art, that it is every bit as worthy of our passion, preparation and attention as the skill set that we are trying, I hope, to instill in others? How do we do it every day?
Friday, March 18, 2011
Freaks and Geeks Bible
Is great. And it's here.
http://leethomson.myzen.co.uk/Freaks_and_Geeks/Freaks_and_Geeks_Bible.pdf
http://leethomson.myzen.co.uk/Freaks_and_Geeks/Freaks_and_Geeks_Bible.pdf
Breaking the Rom Com
If you know me, you probably know I'm obsessed by romantic comedy, and that I think the best ones fall into the "battle of the sexes" category -- movies where the two lovers are, on some level, adversaries.
Below, a formula I found, or made, or broke, for the Sex-Battle-Rom-Com. Note how closely it resembles a boxing match, with the two fighters alternating between sparring and retreating to their corners with their buddies and "coaches".
----
Sections 1-4 are the hardest, and the most important to get right, and the ones that will most distinguish your movie from others. It’s where it’s trickiest, and most crucial, to come up with something kinda new. This set-up, by the way, is for one where they’re BOTH going after something, a more war-of-the-sexes style, rather than just following ONE of them.
SECTION ONE – 10 minutes We establish what each one needs to “chase” in the movie (usually career-driven). We see that they’re ruthless, but also good people. We meet the friends/confidantes who will egg them on and help us to hear their thoughts.
1) We meet character A, see what he/she is great at and what he/she’s “major damage” is. We meet the confidante(s). Character A is presented with the major problem that needs solving.
2) We meet character B, see what he/she is great at and the “major damage” is. We meet the confidante(s). Character B is presented with the major problem that needs solving.
SECTION TWO – 2-5 minutes Our couple meet (or connect, if they already know each other). They realize the other one can help them get what they want. Possibly the friends are there to see what happens. Possibly not. No matter what, though, WE have to fall in love with the idea of these characters as a couple at this point – the movie that doesn’t sell us on the idea of that at this point probably won’t work. We see the possibility of these people solving what WE have identified as their “real problem” (aside from the thing they THINK they want)
SECTION THREE – 3-5 minutes They question their own motives (internal debate) – should they really do this? Their friends either convince them, or tell them not to, in which case arguing with their friends convinces them. If there’s a bet being made or $ on the line, this is where it gets set up.
SECTION FOUR – 30-40 minutes, but HAS to escalate with each moment! They decide to go for it, and we see them start to pursue their goal full-force. AT LEAST FIVE MOMENTS THAT UP THE ANTE/OBSTACLES they create for each other. By the end of this section, we’re at a breaking point – if it weren’t for the bet/outside stakes, they’d run in the other direction. Or, if they’d come clean, they’d fall into bed. Oh! Another thing that’s true. A lot of times, movies will turn into JUST obstacles at this point, total fun and games. But these OBSTRUCTIONS and OVERCOMING THEM is actually where our characters are learning what they need to learn to actually be a good couple in the end…they’re probably learning things like patience, risk, humility, forgiveness…whatever it was they’re really LACKING, these obstructions need to somehow address. Easy as pie, right? Gulp.
1)
2)
3)
4)
5)
The last beat of this is where ONE of them makes a last-ditch attempt, against better judgment, to get the thing he/she wants (and thus “make it work”. This breaks into section 5
SECTION FIVE – 5 - 7 minutes. Something REAL happens between them. Even in the midst of their pretense, they see each other for who they really are and/or open up and communicate the truth of themselves, however obliquely. They get to see each others’ souls and they like what they see. This is the “magic section” of the movie, usually feels like they’ve entered the Garden of Eden on some level. This is the promise of what they can be together, once they put all their bullshit aside. But it can’t last. And actually, it can’t last long…we just need to see the potential.
SECTION SIX – 10 min. Back to the real world, which is gathering steam around them in a big way – things got worse in their “absence”. This is where outside forces really start to do their work. It can take several forms:
(1) the characters can start to have real second thoughts – now that they know and really like this person, how can they USE them this way?
(2) Pressure to GET THE THING THEY CAME FOR, and to HURRY (a clock, the risk of losing it
(3) a RIVAL.
No matter what, our characters need to go back to their corners, remember what they came for, and decide that it’s worth going after AT ALL COSTS, even if it costs them this person that they’ve now legitimately fallen for, even if they lose themselves in the process. They decide to “finish what they started,” but they also realize they’re gonna have to destroy what they’ve gained in the process. This section ends when they decide to do that. Their friends are definitely here, either egging them on or telling them to stop.
SECTION SEVEN – 5 min. They do whatever it is they’ve decided they have to do in order to see this thing through. And it backfires, bigtime. And whatever the “truth” is comes out. They are stripped bare in front of each other; they now BOTH know each others’ original ulterior motives, or they’ve done the ONE thing they could never do and keep the other person’s respect. It’s bad. We’re not sure there’s any way they can come back from this, either. Our couple is well and truly separated.
SECTION EIGHT – 5-7 min. Our couple separates, licking their wounds. Maybe they got the thing they were chasing, and realize how little that thing means. Or maybe they didn’t get it, and realize they should still be trying for it, and just don’t care. Their friends try to help them get past it – to no avail. Without each other, life loses all of its color (we MIGHT only be with one of the characters, at this point, if that’s how it’s structured). The character(s) try to move on with normal life, back in the normal world, but there’s been too much internal change. This ends with the decision to make one last-ditch attempt at winning the other person back.
SECTION NINE – 5 minutes. One character swings into action and tries to get the other one back. There’s usually a physical “chase” scene here, or an obstacle or two…in any case, our character has to break a sweat or execute something difficult to get into the sphere of his/her love.
SECTION TEN – CONFRONTATION. 1-3 pages. It works or it doesn’t.
SECTION ELEVEN – denoument. Celebration. Roll credits.
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